When he came out, she had managed to fry a steak and some potatoes and make a pan of cornbread. She slid it all onto a plate.
“Looks good.” He gave her an encouraging smile as he cut into the meat. “Uh-oh.”
She whirled away from the stove. “What’s the matter?”
He was poking at the rare meat with a look of distaste. “Sweetie, I’ve seen steers hurt worse than this get well.”
“That’s the way I like it,” she said.
He frowned at her. “I like mine well done, almost burnt, actually. You see, my old lady wasn’t much of a cook either, so I feel right at home with you.”
“That’s not a respectful way to speak of the dead.”
“Mom wouldn’t mind.” For a long moment he seemed to disappear inside himself. Then he looked up and seemed to see her searching look and shrugged. “Do you reckon you could put a little more fire under this meat?”
“And ruin a perfectly good steak?”
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.” He got up from the table, grabbed the plate, took it over, and put the steak in the skillet.
“You can see,” she pointed out, “that we could never make it as a couple.”
“Why, because we like our steak two different ways? The other night, we were in perfect harmony.”
“You are a rotten cad to keep bringing that up.”
“I thought we might make a fresh start.” He busied himself at the stove.
She thought about it a minute. “With a bank robber? I don’t think so.”
“Well, actually”—he turned the steak over—“it was Snake Hudson’s crime. I was just a stupid hombre who blundered into it.”
“You expect me to believe that?” She sat down at the table and looked over the weekly paper.
“Didn’t you blunder into it, too? If I could, you could, too.”
“I didn’t blunder into it,” she said pointedly. “A certain someone tricked me into it. I was trying to be obliging by holding the horses.”
He grinned at her. “A likely story, the jury would say.” He brought the pan to the table and flipped the meat onto the plate. “So now I’m here, and I’m respectable, even if I’m not rich. Maybe if you’d be content to be my wife, I’d be content to be the sheriff here from now on.”
“I don’t believe that,” she snapped. “You’re just hiding out until the heat is off, then you’ll be back to your old criminal ways. Good God.” She glared down at the charred steak. “You’ve burnt it up.”
He cut into it and put a bite in his mouth. “Yum, just the way I like it. You want a bite?”
“Of those ashes? You must be joking.” She began to eat some of the fried potatoes. “Snake was no friend of yours.”
“I reckon I know that now.”
She looked at him wolfing down the charred steak. “You must have been really drunk that night in the poker game. Even a blind man could have seen he and the dealer were in cahoots. I spotted those marked cards a mile away.”
“Hmm.” He shrugged. “Well, I reckon I need to stay out of card games.”
“Or keep your snoot out of the liquor bottle. By the way, Dixie was in on it. I think she gets part of the pot.”
He winced, then grinned. “Ouch, that really hurts. I thought I’d given that girl such a good time, she wouldn’t do that to me.”
She threw down her fork. “Is there a woman anywhere you haven’t been in the hay with?”
“It wasn’t hay, sweetie, she had a perfectly good bed.”
“You know what I mean, you—you libertine.”
“Now, Lark, I ain’t educated. You know I don’t know what a big word like that means.”
“It means you’ve got to act like a stallion around any mare in heat.”
He finished his food and pushed his plate back with satisfaction. “Can I help it if ladies find me irresistible?”
“Here’s one who doesn’t, and I’m going to prove it to you.” Lark got up and strode to the bedroom. When she closed the door, that’s when she discovered the lock had been removed.
Chapter Thirteen
“Why, you!” She flung open the door and glared at him.
“What?”
“You know damned well what. Well, it won’t do you any good, mister. I’m putting a chair under the door.”
He stood up. “Now, Lark, sweetie, do you really think that’s necessary? If we’d just sit and talk this over—”
“No.” She shook her head. “You charming rascal, you could talk a cow out of her calf, or a dog off a meat wagon. I’ll not listen to anything you have to say. Go sleep on the couch.” With that, she slammed the door shut.
“Hey,” he yelled from the other side, “you didn’t give me a blanket or a pillow.”
“Make do without either!” she shouted, and then she put a stout chair under the doorknob.
She heard him get up and come to the bedroom door, sighing loud enough for her to hear. “I’ll probably be shiverin’ all night on that horsehair settee.”
“Go sleep in the stable with Magnolia. She’d probably be glad to have another jackass for company.”
He put his face against the door. “Aw, Lark, sweetie, please. I really do care about you.”
“No, you don’t. You’re only trying to keep me from telling what I know.”
“I’ve already admitted I’m a rascal, what more do you want?”
She ignored him and began her bedtime ritual. She put on her favorite old faded nightgown that was oversized, ragged, and comfortable. Then she tied up her hair all over in little rags so it would be wavy in the morning. Lastly, she began to cream her face with white hog lard.
“Lark?” Lavado called from the other side of the door. “You in bed yet?”
“No.” She shouted back as she rubbed the lard liberally all over her face. “But I’m getting there.”
“It’s cruel of you to tease me like this. I can just imagine how you look, all soft and pretty, perfume and lace.”
“Yep, that’s exactly what I look like, all right. It would make you loco with desire to see me.” She stared into the mirror over the bureau and blinked at the ghastly mess staring back at her. “Eat your heart out, cowboy, but you aren’t gettin’ any tonight.”
“Aw, sweetie—”
“Don’t you ‘sweetie’ me. Have you no shame? You’ve taken a position as a lawman in a tiny, trusting town. What are you waiting for, the new bank to get set up so you can rob it?”
“Reckon that might be a fine idea.”
“Oh, land’s sake, you’re terrible.” She double-checked to make sure the chair under the door was secure. “Go to bed, Larado. This door will not open until tomorrow.”
“It ought to be against the law to tease a man—especially a Texan.” He sounded as if his face was right against the door.
“You’re a fine one to talk about the law,” she snapped as she blew out the lamp. “I reckon I might wire the U.S. Marshal tomorrow and tell him where you are.”
“You do that, you little wildcat. And while you’re at it, remember they’ll take you away too.”
“It would almost be worth it to toss your butt in jail. Now shut up. You are not going to talk your way into my bed.”
He banged on the door. “Your bed? Listen, you little vixen, that’s my bed.”
“It’s mine now. Good night.”
He put his ear against the door and heard the distinct sound of the springs creaking as she got into bed. In his mind, he saw her lying there in a sheer, pretty nightgown that begged him to rip it off. Her hair would be spread across the pillow like silken black gold, and she would smell of some faint flower scent. Just the image made him gasp for air. Tentatively, he tried the knob. The door didn’t move.
From the other side of the door came vindictive laughter. “Did you think I was lying about the chair? Now yell ‘calf rope,’ you coyote, and go sleep on the couch.”
“Calf rope” was the Texas version of giving up, which a real Texan would n
ever do—but tonight, there didn’t seem to be any alternatives. With a sigh, Larado blew out the lamp and retreated to the horsehair settee. It was as hard and unrelenting as an old maid’s heart. By morning, he’d be so stove up, he’d be limping.
Sure enough, he was. He felt so stiff, he could barely get his boots on. He limped down to the corner café where some of the men were having coffee. They exchanged glances and winks as he joined them.
“Well, havin’ a hard night, Sheriff?”
“Mattress none too good?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped.
“Even if you’re honeymooning,” Paco said, “you shouldn’t do it so much that you can’t get out of bed in the morning.”
The men at the table laughed and nudged each other.
Larado rolled his eyes. “If you only knew.”
The men all gathered closer. “Yes?”
“A gentleman never tells. You hombres know that.”
They all sighed and leaned back in their chairs.
Little Jimmy had just walked up. “Tell what?”
Larado frowned. “You’ll find out when you’re older.” He turned back to the men “What you hombres been talkin’ about?”
Old Bill ran his tongue across the opening in his gapped teeth. “Money. I been puttin’ a little in telegraph stock and now I’m thinkin’ about that new gadget, the telephone.”
The blacksmith snorted. “Telephones! Dang-fool toy, if you ask me. I told Bill he was wasting his money—better put it in the new bank and save it.”
“Hey,” one of the men said. “I understand the new banker is arrivin’ on the train from St. Louis today.”
Larado sipped his coffee and nodded. “I heard that. He got a family?”
“Just a wife,” Abner Snootley said. “She’s said to be a real looker—lots of class.”
Old Bill grinned. “And what would you expect from a banker? Boy howdy, finally having a bank in town will really help this town grow.”
Paco looked toward Larado. “More work for the sheriff,” he said, “having to worry about holdups.”
“Aw, with our sheriff and his reputation across Texas, nobody would dare try to rob a bank in Rusty Spur,” little Jimmy said.
The others agreed that this was true.
About that time, Magnolia came wandering down the street in her pink hat. When she saw Larado sitting in the café, she stopped, threw back her head, and brayed. It startled two men and caused them to spill their coffee.
“That is the damndest sound,” the blacksmith complained. “Like a cross between a whore enjoyin’ it and a cat bein’ killed.”
“Watch your mouth,” Larado snapped. “There’s a boy here.”
Jimmy wandered over to the counter, out of earshot.
The scrawny feed store owner snorted at the blacksmith. “Don’t kid nobody,” he challenged. “You ain’t heard a whore moan since before the War of Yankee Aggression.”
“You mean the War of Southern Rebellion,” corrected the blacksmith, who was from Maine. “Anyway—have too.”
“Gentlemen,” Larado soothed, “this ain’t the time to refight the Civil War. We’re all Texans now.”
Every man took off his Stetson and held it over his heart.
“Ain’t it the truth?” said old Bill reverently.
“Remember the Alamo!” they all shouted in unison.
Paco looked out the window. “Hey, lookee, Sheriff, there goes your bride, sí.”
All heads turned and watched wistfully as Lark minced along the street toward her millinery shop. She wore a bright yellow dress and her little bustle waggled enticingly.
Larado thought about what he was not getting and sighed.
All the men in the café sighed, too.
“Gosh,” Bill said, “Sheriff, you’re one lucky hombre.”
Larado stifled a groan when he moved and his sore back hurt. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The train bearing the new banker and his wife was to arrive at high noon. There was a lot of excitement around town with the mayor, the sheriff, and almost everyone else in town going to meet the train. The Odd Fellows’ little band would be there to play, and the ladies of the town had planned to serve tea and cookies on the platform. The summer day was hot as hell with the lid off, as only it can be in Texas.
Larado would try again to reconcile with his bride. He stuck his head in the door of her shop. “Hey, Lark, the train’s due in in fifteen minutes. It would look good if you was standin’ by my side to welcome the new banker from St. Louie.”
“I’m not too worried about your looking good.” She kept her voice icy.
“Okay, but consider this. He’s got a fancy wife, and I reckon she’ll be buyin’ lots of hats and other trinkets.”
“In that case, you’re right—I do need to show up and be part of the welcoming committee.”
“Oh, by the way, I just locked Magnolia up. Old Abner Snootley and his wife think it don’t make our town look too good to have a burro wearin’ a hat, wanderin’ the streets, and leavin’ her, er, little callin’ cards everywhere.”
Lark sighed. “She’s smart, and she’s learned to open the gate with her teeth. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
In the distance, the whistle of a train drifted across the Texas plains. Larado pulled out his gold pocket watch and checked it. “Sounds like she’ll be right on time.”
Lark looked out her front window. People were coming from all directions, gesturing and shouting to each other. This was indeed going to be an exciting day in the little town. She checked a mirror and pulled a wisp of dark hair back into her bun. “All right, I’m ready to go.”
He tried to take her arm, but she pulled away from him. “Don’t use this as a excuse to molest me,” she snapped.
“I was tryin’ to be a gentleman,” Larado said.
“Ha! You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Whatever you say, sweetie.” He followed her out the door. Little heat waves drifted up from the street as they walked down to the depot. A large crowd had gathered on the platform for the arrival of the train. Dogs barked and ran up and down, boys chased each other and yelled. The mayor attempted to look dignified, but it was difficult since sweat poured down his face, which already seemed scarlet from a too-tight collar. Lark took out a dainty hankie and wiped her damp face, remembering the old joke about the soldier who had spent years in west Texas. It was said that when he died and went to hell it was so cold by comparison, he sent back to earth for some blankets.
The big black engine blew smoke as it slowed, coming toward the station. Bertha Snootley held an armful of straggly wildflowers. When Lark gave her a questioning look, the lady sniffed disdainfully. “Can’t find any nice flowers to present to the banker’s wife with that dirty little beast eating every bloom in sight.”
The train pulled into the station, blowing smoke and coal dust. The bandleader held up his baton and the crowd grew quiet with anticipation. The portly train conductor, full of his own importance, stepped off the train. “Rusty Spur!” he shouted. “All off for Rusty Spur!”
There was a moment of breathless silence, broken only by the hissing of steam from the locomotive. Then a well-dressed, balding, fat man stepped from the train. To Lark, he looked vaguely familiar. He turned to help his wife down, and Mrs. Snootley stepped forward and thrust the big bouquet of flowers into the lady’s arm. It was so big, her face could not be seen. The Odd Fellows band struck up a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” playing loudly, if not too well. The banker’s wife held the big bouquet of flowers close to her face and began to sneeze. She sneezed and sneezed as the mayor tried to say words of welcome to the arriving couple. At that moment, someone mercifully reached out and took the offending bouquet.
Lark gasped. She turned and looked at Larado, but his face had gone as white as fresh milk. There was no mistake. The newly arrived couple was the former banker from Buck Shot, and his wife wa
s none other than Dixie.
For a moment Lark teetered, and Larado reached out and caught her arm to keep her from fainting.
Oh my God, Lark thought. What are the chances of this happening? Will they recognize us?
She only caught the end of the mayor’s speech. “…and so we welcome you to our growing town.”
At this, the band began to play so loudly that the mayor had to shout, “Allow me to introduce the town council—and oh, this is our sheriff and his lovely wife.”
The crowd was pushing them forward. The banker’s wife looked as ashen as Lark felt. However, Larado stepped forward, shaking the man’s pudgy hand. “Welcome, Banker Barclay and your missus. This is my wife L—Lacey.”
The fat banker shook hands with Larado silently, but his homely face furrowed as if trying to place him. The blonde, wearing a demure, dark blue dress, seemed to recover nicely as Lark took her hand. It was damp and trembling. “So good to meet you,” she said.
“Uh, likewise, I’m sure.” Lark’s hand was trembling too, and she wasn’t sure what to do. Certainly, Dixie recognized them both, but she gave no sign. On the other hand, the banker’s plump face wrinkled in thought.
“Haven’t we met someplace before?”
“Well, now,” Larado shrugged, “I’ve got a brother that looks like me, but don’t know if he’s ever been to St. Louie.”
The mayor signaled for the band to stop playing. “Banker Barclay, we’re right proud to have you in our town. You come along now. We’ve got a suite for you at the best hotel in town—”
“The only hotel in town,” Mrs. Bottoms corrected as she came forward.
“I’m sure,” said the mayor, “that soon we’ll have lots of hotels. We’re a growing community, and with your new bank, things can only get better.”
The banker smiled and nodded. “I’m sure all the cattlemen and farmers in the county have been looking for a safe place to keep their money, and that’ll be my bank.”
Dixie was looking about in distaste as if disappointed in the town. Maybe after St. Louis, Lark thought, Rusty Spur was too tame for the whore turned banker’s bride.
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