Backpacks and Betrayals (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  The woman spun away into the street, staring down at the robber, who was writhing in pain. The sheriff ran forward. A man came out of the bank and kicked the robber’s pistol away.

  Behind Connor, the folks inside the cafe rushed out, craning their necks. Shop doors all along the street opened. The sheriff shouted orders.

  Slowly, Connor holstered his Colt, only vaguely aware of the crush of people around him slapping his back, asking questions. He watched the woman. The pretty young woman who’d had a gun to her head and not flinched once.

  Blood oozed down her fine porcelain cheek, spotted the collar of her white blouse and spread in dark streaks over her pink shawl. Townsfolk gathered around her, talking in low voices, touching her arm, her shoulder. She stood straight and tall, not needing their sympathy, it seemed.

  But they hadn’t seen into her eyes, as Connor had. They didn’t know what she felt, as he knew.

  Connor took a step toward her. He needed to get closer. Needed to make sure she was all right. Needed to—

  She whirled, wrestling away from the well-intentioned townsfolk, and yanked the shawl from her shoulders. Horrified, she stared at it, then searched the crowd until she spotted Connor.

  He stopped cold in his tracks.

  The crowd parted as the woman batted her way toward him.

  “You!” She stopped in front of Connor and waved her shawl. “Look what you’ve done!”

  Stunned, Connor just stared, conscious of the people crowding around them both.

  “You’ve ruined it! You’ve ruined my shawl! You horrid, thoughtless man!”

  Connor shrugged. “Look, lady, I—”

  “Oh!” She drew back her fist and drove it into his stomach.

  A little woof slipped through his lips as he leaned forward slightly, pressing his palm to his belly.

  He drew himself up straight, glared down at her and lifted one eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

  She burst into tears.

  ***

  They weren’t little tears. They were the kind of tears men hated. Big, gut-wrenching sobs. The ones nothing could be done about. The kind that just had to run their course. And in the meantime, all a man could do was stand there feeling stupid and useless.

  Connor hated it when women cried.

  Usually.

  His gut tightened and started aching.

  “Lady, I didn’t mean to...”

  Words failed him. Connor pulled on his neck. What could he say, anyway? He didn’t even know what the devil was wrong with her.

  Three women with big hats and bigger hips bumped him aside and surrounded the woman, sheltering her, clucking sympathetically. He should have been glad, but somehow it bothered him.

  A path opened in the crowd and Sheriff Parker waded through. Tall and thin, he wore a mustache and a sour face.

  “You do this, mister?” he asked Connor, squinting and nodding toward the bank.

  Over the heads of the crowd Connor saw a half-dozen men helping the wounded robbers to their feet, herding them down the street.

  “Sure did,” one of the men from the Cattleman Cafe said. He slapped Connor’s back. “Finest shooting I’ve seen in these here parts, that’s for dang sure.”

  “Took care of the whole gang,” another man said. “Single-handed.”

  “The man’s a hero,” the cafe owner declared, her voice shrilling above the others.

  Heads nodded and praise echoed through the crowd.

  “You’ve got this all wrong,” Connor said, and waved his hands. “I’m no—”

  “Sure you are!” She gave Connor a solid whack on the arm. “You come on back to the Cattleman anytime and have yourself any meal you want. On the house.”

  The sheriff eyed Connor for a long moment, apparently not happy with what had gone on in the streets of his town.

  A man stepped forward and the crowd went silent. Tall and muscular, with a square jaw and big shoulders, he was probably around thirty years old, Connor guessed. A man who worked hard for a living.

  “My name’s Heath Wheeler,” he said, and extended his hand to Connor. “Thanks for what you did. If I’d had my gun on me, I’d have helped you out.”

  Connor shook Heath’s hand. “Could have used the help.”

  “Didn’t look like it to me,” Heath said. He turned to the sheriff. “I saw the whole thing. This man came out of the cafe, saw what was happening and took care of those robbers. You ought to be thanking him for what he did.”

  Sheriff Parker eyed Connor for another moment, then pulled on his bushy mustache. “Guess that’s the end of it.”

  “The end of it?” a voice called out. “This calls for a celebration!”

  Connor shook his head. “No. I told you—”

  “Don’t be so modest.” A short, thin man in a rumpled suit caught Connor’s hand and pumped it hard. “Name’s Ike Canter, and I’m proud to know you. Come on over to the saloon. I want to buy you a drink.”

  “We all do!” another man shouted.

  A cheer went up as the crowd headed down the street, sweeping Connor along with them. He stole a glance over his shoulder at the women huddled on the boardwalk.

  “Is that woman all right?” he asked.

  “Oh, don’t pay her no mind,” Ike said. “She’s fine. She’s always fine.”

  Connor moved along with the men, but couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder once more.

  A dozen men flanked Connor as he walked through the bat-wing doors of the Foxtail Saloon. Like the other saloons he’d been in, this one had gaming tables, and a bar with a mirror and shelves of glasses behind it.

  The bartender offered a round on the house, and Ike Canter proposed a toast to Connor. More men filtered inside and raised their glasses. Ike told the story of the shoot-out.

  Connor leaned on his elbow at the bar as Heath Wheeler ambled over.

  “You sure livened up this place,” Heath said. “You’re a hero, just for that.”

  Connor grinned and sipped his beer.

  “Staying or passing through?” Heath asked.

  “Staying,” Connor said.

  “Is that your sorrel outside the cafe?” Heath asked. When Connor nodded, he said, “I’ll take care of him for you. I run the livery stable.”

  “Much obliged,” Connor said.

  “I’ll drop your gear off at the hotel,” Heath said. He drained his glass and shouldered his way out of the saloon.

  A few minutes later Sheriff Parker walked in. He ordered a whiskey and stood off to the side. Connor felt the lawman’s gaze on him.

  Typical. Connor took a long swallow of beer. He’d gotten that reaction more than once.

  After another hour the crowd was still going strong, the story of the shoot-out started to stretch, and Connor had had enough.

  As he eased his way toward the swinging doors, several men slapped his back and called out words of praise for his bravery. Ike Canter started the story again and nobody seemed to mind.

  The streets of Sterling looked pretty ordinary when Connor stepped onto the boardwalk. Nobody shot at anybody. Carriages and wagons rumbled down the street, women carried baskets and pulled children along, while men and ranch hands went about their business.

  Connor spotted the Sterling Hotel down the block. As he headed toward it, most everyone he passed nodded pleasantly, some introduced themselves, and several more made a point of thanking him for what he’d done to stop the shoot-out and the bank robbery.

  Finally, Connor ducked inside the hotel. The lobby held a gold velvet circular sofa and two chairs; gold framed pictures hung on the walls. The place looked a little worn, but clean and respectable.

  “I need a room,” Connor said, and leaned his elbow on the registration desk.

  The young man behind the counter swiped his thick dark bangs off his face. His eyes widened and his mouth sagged open. “You’re that Mr. Wade, aren’t you? The man who stopped the bank robbery?”

  Connor nodded, a little surprised that
his name had been spread all over town so quickly.

  “Golly...” The clerk’s smile broadened. “My name’s Johnny Davenport, sir. Proud to meet you, Mr. Wade, real proud. I heard about what you did over at the bank. How you shot all of them noaccount robbers, and how you saved Miss Elizabeth.”

  Connor looked up sharply. “Elizabeth?”

  “Miss Elizabeth Hill,” Johnny said. “Yes siree, that was some fancy shooting, no two ways about it.”

  Connor took a step back as the young man launched into the bank robbery story, looking up at him with awestruck eyes. But Connor didn’t hear a word Johnny said.

  The woman at the shoot-out was Elizabeth Hill? Elizabeth Hill. The woman he’d traveled weeks to find. He’d stumbled on her and hadn’t realized it.

  A little smile tugged at Connor’s mouth. Elizabeth Hill. The woman who would change his life.

  Whether she wanted to or not.

  I hope you enjoyed this Haley Randolph mystery and the sneak peek at Fatal Luck and The Last Bride in Texas. Many more books and novellas are available. You’re cordially invited to check them out!

  To learn more about my romance novels go to www.JudithStacy.com.

  More information about my mystery series is available at DorothyHowellNovels.com, where you can sign up for my newsletter, and there’s always a contest going on. Join my Dorothy Howell Novels Facebook page and follow me on Twitter @DHowellNovels.