Clanton's Woman

by Patricia Knoll

“Sorry. It just slipped out.”

  “Pay attention. Your ancestor, Wyatt, a deputy sheriff of Pima County, had been in a local saloon, where he spent a great deal of his time—”

  “Like most men of the West,” she added innocently. “After all, as my ancestor Wyatt said, there were no Young Men’s Christian Associations in the Wild West. Saloons were their social clubs.”

  Jack considered her for a few seconds. “Point taken. However, we’re not going to get through this if you keep interrupting.”

  “Excuse me,” she said humbly.

  “When Marshal White saw Wyatt coming to help, he grabbed Curly Bill’s pistol. It went off and shot Marshal White. Wyatt ‘buffaloed’ Curly Bill by cracking him on the head with the handle of a pistol he had borrowed from a bystander. White lived long enough to absolve Curly Bill of blame, but Bill was mad at Wyatt for pistol-whipping him and embarrassing him in front of the town. That was the second incident between the Earps and the group that was known as the ‘cowboys’.”

  “The term ‘cowboy’ was a derogatory one at that time. They were called that because they rustled cows,” Mallory added in a pedantic tone. Jack lifted an eyebrow at her and she grinned as she said, “What happened next?”

  “Not long after that, Wyatt resigned as deputy sheriff because two friends of his were running against each other for sheriff and he didn’t want to take sides.”

  “Oh, is that the election in which your ancestor, Ike Clanton, stuffed the ballot box in the San Simon Valley so that the man he supported would win?”

  Jack stopped to consider that one, looking up into the dusky sky as if pulling the answer from outer space. After a moment, he said, “Yeah, I guess it was. So?”

  “So, what do you think of that?”

  Jack arranged his face into an expression of comical modesty and said, “We Clantons have always been a very civic-minded bunch of folks.”

  Exasperated, Mallory pointed her finger at him. “There were one hundred fraudulent ballots in the box.”

  Jack stopped on the corner across from the Crystal Palace and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe one hundred was as high as old Ike could count. He wasn’t the brightest member of the family.”

  Mallory rolled her eyes at him and said, “No kidding.” She tugged on his arm. “Let’s keep going.”

  They walked on, nodding to people as they passed, discussing and arguing over the roles each of their respective ancestors had in the series of confrontations that had taken place throughout 1881. Jack argued that while the Clantons and the McLowerys may have occasionally skipped along on the wrong side of the law, they weren’t much worse than many people who lived and worked in the area at that time. In its earliest days, Tombstone had been part of Pima County, but was too far away from Tucson for law enforcement to be effective. Many locals had simply taken advantage of the situation.

  Mallory argued back that they were still guilty of breaking the law. She even convinced Jack to admit that Virgil Earp had been an excellent town marshal for Tombstone, maintaining law and order and enforcing local ordinances throughout his term.

  They both admitted that their respective ancestors had been opportunists—the Earps as investors in gambling operations and speculators in mines, and the Clantons as “liberators” of cattle whose ownership they considered to be questionable.

  As they walked and talked, Mallory occasionally thought of the scholarly discussions she’d once tried to have with Charles on matters of history.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Jack gave her a shrewd look and said, “Where did you learn so much about the history of this area? In college?”

  Her lips twisted ruefully. “I guess you could say that. My ex-husband is a professor of history. I was his research assistant.”

  “That was him on the phone the other day.”

  “That’s right.” She grimaced. Charles had called twice more since that day. Each time, he had been full of unctuous concern. He had even offered to give her money if her “little shop” ran into financial troubles. Mallory was mystified about the reason for these calls. She certainly hadn’t encouraged them.

  Jack frowned and shook his head. “I’ve studied in this field, too, and I don’t recall hearing of a professor named Earp…”

  “That’s my name, remember? I took it back when my divorce was final. His name is Garrison.”

  Jack stopped so suddenly his upper body bent forward, then back. His head snapped around and he said, “Not Charles Garrison.”

  “I see you’ve heard of him.”

  “I took a class from him once. Whatever made you marry that pompous windbag?”

  Mallory rubbed the toe of one boot against the heel of the other and looked off into the distance, wishing that she’d never brought it up. She couldn’t imagine what had possessed her except that for the first time since they’d met, she’d felt relaxed with Jack. She didn’t want to talk about her marriage. Even though a year had passed, she still felt foolish, and there were some parts of the wound Charles had left that were still raw.

  “Mallory,” Jack prompted. His voice had gone from a light, teasing tone to the no-nonsense command she’d heard so often before.

  “That’s personal, Jack, and—”

  “You brought it up,” he broke in, echoing her own thoughts.

  She stared at him for a few seconds. Oh, well. She might as well tell him. He would find out eventually simply because he was so persistent.

  “Youthful idiocy,” she sighed. “Hero worship. I don’t know.”

  She could tell that Jack wasn’t satisfied with that answer, but he only said, “He must be twelve years older than you are.”

  “More like fifteen.” Mallory reached up with both hands and tossed her hair back over her shoulders, then looked into Jack’s eyes. He wanted to ask more. She could see it. She could feel it in the force of his powerful will as he met her gaze. He wanted to ask about her life with Charles, but she didn’t want to tell him.

  The reluctance must have been obvious, because Jack studied her for a few more seconds, then said, “Come on. Our tour isn’t finished.”

  She gave him a grateful look as he continued.

  “The events that happened here weren’t the end of it,” Jack was saying, and Mallory looked up to see that they had stopped before the O.K. Corral. “In fact, the famous gunfight didn’t even happen in the corral, but in a small lot next to it. If they’d all taken time to cool off, nothing would have happened.”

  She nodded and looked up at the tall wooden gates of the corral. “What a sad waste.”

  Jack snorted. “Yeah, but the Clantons got the worst of it.”

  “I know. Billy Clanton was killed and he was only nineteen—sadly misguided into a life of crime and he died because of it.”

  Jack startled her by grasping her elbow and sliding his hand down her arm. Grabbing her other hand, he pulled her around to face him. His eyes were full of amusement when he said, “Now there you go, starting up the old argument all over again.”

  “You didn’t think I was going to actually admit that my forebears might have been wrong, did you?”

  “Possibly that would have been too much to expect.”

  Mallory relaxed into a smile. Her hands were warm in his. She felt oddly safe and secure. “Does this mean neither of us won the argument?”

  “I’d call it a draw,” he admitted.

  She pursed her lips consideringly and gave him a sly look from beneath her lashes. “So you won’t be buying me dinner?”

  His gaze was focused on her lips. “Well, what do you know? I guess I did win and I have to pay off.”

  Mallory smiled at him, letting the pleasure run through her. She didn’t know where her sudden flirtatiousness had come from—a long-buried tendency toward recklessness, perhaps—or why she’d been so frightened of this feeling of attraction. He was tough and pushy, but he wasn’t going to force anything on her. “So let’s go,” she said.

  Jack took he
r hand and led her over one block to the Bella Union Restaurant, where he bought her a steak and they shared a bottle of wine. They continued their discussion but they didn’t stick to that one topic. Before long, he brought the subject around to old legends and hidden treasures and she found herself talking once again about Lying Jude Bluestone’s stolen money and her belief that it was still somewhere in the Chiricahua Mountains.

  The minute she broached the subject, Jack’s eyes began to glow with interest. He poured more red wine into her glass and said, “Why do you think it’s still there? That all happened in 1895. Besides, most people believe the deputy sheriff found it and got rich on it.”

  Mallory took a sip of the wine and settled back into her chair. In spite of its rather elegant name, the Bella Union was homey, not fancy, and the food had been good. She glanced around at the other diners and wondered how many of them were locals as she and Jack were and how many were visitors. Most people who came to Tombstone were interested in the history of the feud between her and Jack’s famous relatives. Few of them realized that the entire area was rich in history.

  Jack knew, though, and she was enjoying talking it over with him. She was surprised at how relaxed and at ease she felt. “I’ve done more research on it than just about anybody else. It’s true that George Early, the deputy sheriff, went after Jude and came back empty-handed, and then seemed to be flush with money soon afterward. However, he explained all that when he said he’d come into a recent inheritance.”

  Jack had removed his hat and placed it on an empty chair so that she had a full view of his face. A troubled frown creased his forehead. “Not many people believed that story.”

  “They didn’t bother to look into the family records back in Missouri where George had come from. Although he was an orphan, he had a greataunt in St. Joseph who remembered him in her will.”

  “People believe what they want to believe, Mallory,” he said in a dry tone. “George had a letter from the lawyer, which he showed around town, but people didn’t believe him.”

  Mallory sat forward. “You know the whole story, then?”

  “Some of it,” he hedged. “You didn’t finish what you were saying.” He poured more wine into her glass. “Why do you think Jude’s stolen treasure is still in the mountains?”

  Mallory picked up the glass and sipped the liquid. It was beginning to make her feel just a bit lightheaded. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. She smiled at Jack and leaned farther across the table to say in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve got George Early’s journal.”

  The wine bottle slipped from Jack’s fingers and thumped to the tabletop. He righted it quickly without looking at it. His eyes were fixed on her. “His journal? George Early’s journal?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Where…? How…?”

  Mallory giggled, then covered her mouth. She had drunk too much wine. She wasn’t a giggling sort of woman.

  Jack was staring at her transfixed. Really, he was turning out to be a wonderful audience.

  “In his exalted position as an Arizona history authority, Charles is often asked to authenticate documents that turn up unexpectedly. The journal was in a box of papers that came from the estate of a lady in Graham County, who passed away when she was one hundred and three years old. She had received the things from her father, who had been sheriff when George set out after Jude Bluestone.”

  Jack went very still. He was staring at her, through her, with an expression she couldn’t quite read. It was a combination of amazement and hope. “Well, I’ll be darned. That’s where it was.”

  Mallory tilted her head and regarded him curiously. While it was gratifying to have an interested audience, she thought he seemed particularly intrigued by the news. “You mean the journal?”

  He didn’t answer her question, didn’t even seem to hear it. He remained motionless for several seconds as if all his strength was concentrated on what was going on in his mind. His hands were still clasped around the wine bottle, the knuckles turning white.

  After a while, his eyes cleared and focused on her. “So how did you end up with it?”

  Taken aback by that moment of intensity, Mallory took a few seconds to gather her thoughts. “Charles couldn’t verify its authenticity. In fact, he said it was a fake because the dates mentioned in it didn’t match up with the times George was known to be looking for Jude.” She shrugged as she sat back. “So, since the lady had no heirs and no one seemed to want the thing, I got it.”

  “So why do you think it’s genuine?”

  Mallory gave him a self-deprecating smile. This was the tricky part, where she tended to lose credibility. Oh, well, at least Jack wasn’t a scoffer as Charles had been. Jack might accept her explanation. Still, she couldn’t help lifting her chin and daring him to laugh at her. “I have a feeling.”

  His eyes widened. “You have a feeling?”

  “Don’t ask me to explain.” She waved her hand at him as if to blow off his objections, should he have any. “I’m convinced it’s genuine. So much so that I plan to go into the mountains and look for the treasure myself as soon as I can leave Sammi alone in the shop.”

  Jack drew back and gave her a skeptical look. “You’d do this on the basis of a feeling?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Taking an awful lot on faith, aren’t you? You don’t seem like an impulsive woman.”

  “Maybe not, but you know yourself that I’m a lucky one. Remember when I beat you at poker?”

  Jack shook his head and signaled the waitress for coffee. “Luck at cards and luck at finding bank robbery money that’s been lost for more than one hundred years are two very different things. There’s no guarantee that you’ll get lucky.”

  Mallory lifted her hands, palm up. “There’s no guarantee I won’t.”

  “Do you know your way around the Chiricahuas?”

  “No, not really,” she admitted, though she hated to. This was the part of her plan that wasn’t very well thought out. “I intend to hire a guide.”

  Jack’s wide mouth split in a grin. “Are you sure you want to do that? The more people who know, the more who’ll follow you into the mountains and dog your every step until you find the money.”

  “You think they’ll conk me on the head and take it away?”

  “It’s been known to happen. Do you have a map?”

  “The journal has details telling which way Jude went into the mountains, how George followed him, although the exact location is vague…”

  “But no big black X saying ‘dig here’?”

  Mallory pushed her coffee away, untouched, shoved the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows, and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. She was still feeling a bit light-headed, but her mind was clear enough to understand what he was saying. At this moment, he sounded very much like Charles.

  “I don’t have the whole thing thought out yet. I’m not sure what I’ll do after I get as far as George’s journal can take me.”

  “Honey, that much is obvious.”

  “You think I can’t do it?”

  Alerted by her aggressive tone, Jack held up his hand. “I didn’t say that, but you’ve got to have a guide who will—”

  “Hello, Jack, Miss Earp,” a man’s voice greeted them. They’d been so engrossed in their discussion, they hadn’t noticed his approach. Now Mallory recognized Dan Wilkers, the other man who’d been at the poker game the night she met Jack. With him was a woman whom he introduced as his wife, Susan.

  Jack stood up immediately, moved his chair closer to hers, set his hat on a nearby empty table, and hitched up two more chairs. The evening dinner crowd was thinning out, so they pretty much had the place to themselves. Jack invited the other couple to join them for coffee and the subject of Lying Jude’s treasure was forgotten.

  It was just as well, Mallory decided. She’d said enough about it, and while she had no reason to distrust Jack, she knew her plan wasn’t foolproof and she didn’t
want to invite scorn. Her heart ached to think that that was one of the saddest legacies of her marriage. Even after all this time, she avoided even the possibility that someone she cared about would mock her ideas and opinions.

  Surprised by that thought and acknowledging that she did care about him, she watched Jack and listened as he talked to his friends about local happenings. He made a point of drawing her into the conversation and of discussing things of interest to everyone at the table. At no time was there any doubt that he was the host. He had a way of assuming command that was both intriguing and compelling.

  She learned that Dan was something of an expert on local history with a special interest in mysteries and disappearances. However, Jack didn’t mention Lying Jude, and neither did she. Mallory couldn’t help comparing Jack to Charles because her ex-husband was the last man with whom she’d spent an evening out. It hadn’t been like this, though. Jack was a fascinating companion. He had held up his end of their debate over their families without resorting to sarcasm or scorn. It gave her an unusually giddy feeling of relief to know she had held her own in their discussion and that her opinion had value. Jack might not agree with her, but he listened.

  They parted from Dan and Susan outside the restaurant. Mallory turned toward her shop and the tiny apartment over it, but Jack took her hand and drew her back.

  “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  “What?”

  His grin flashed in the dim light. “You’ll see.”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where is it?”

  He tugged her down the boardwalk and she had to scramble to keep up. “Wait and see.”

  “Are you doing a cryptic, Gary Cooper routine?”

  They had reached his truck. Jack pulled the door open and helped her inside. “Don’t knock Coop. He was a real cowboy, and besides, one Hollywood starlet said that before his marriage, he was the best lover she ever had.”

  He slammed the door on Mallory’s sputtering protest and trotted around to his own side. When he climbed in and started the engine, Mallory gave him a dark look. She was at a loss for a reply. Trust him to twist her words and change the atmosphere between them to one she didn’t welcome—or at least one she told herself she didn’t welcome.