The marshal ignored her question and looked over at the prisoner. “I’ll be back, Smythe.”
With that, she was ushered out of the temporary jail, but Marshal Justiss didn’t let her walk across the road. He swept her up in his arms and carried her over to the wagon and the waiting Irishman.
“Well, I’d about given up on ye, lass.”
“I’m not a child,” Pearl grumbled as she was deftly passed from one man to the other.
They both ignored her. Damn them.
Reilly set her on the wagon’s bench, vaulted up onto the seat beside her, and grabbed the reins.
“Remember what I said, Reilly.”
The marshal’s warning tone was not lost on Pearl.
She ignored the lawman and turned to the dark-haired man beside her. “What aren’t you supposed to tell me?”
His snort of laughter eased the tension in between her shoulder blades. “Not a thing, lass,” he said with a grin. “Not a thing.”
* * *
Smythe stared through the bars of his cell. Why didn’t the marshal want Pearl to know her property had been purchased by proxy?
“How long could it possibly take to wire the Chronicle and Mr. Jones?”
Bloody hell. He’d never cheated anyone in his entire life. The last man who accused him of doing so had met him at dawn over pistols.
Hands clasped behind his back, he began to pace the width of the tiny room that held him prisoner. The straw in the corner moved again. Digging deep, he summoned the will to ignore it.
The fifth time across the cell confirmed his worst fear. The marshal had no intention of coming back to speak to him until the man was good and ready.
“Damnation!”
“You sound funny.”
Smythe started at the voice. He hadn’t heard anyone approach. “Who’s there?”
“Name’s Mick,” a youthful voice answered. “Mick O’Toole.”
Relieved to have someone to talk to other than the barn rats, Smythe walked to the door. “Step closer so I can see you.”
The shuffling of feet across hard-packed dirt sounded oddly loud in the stillness of the afternoon. He guessed the stable owner kept to the front of the building. Voices carried back every so often. Was the owner afraid of the prisoner being held in the back?
He nearly laughed aloud. Imagine anyone being afraid of him! Pearl certainly hadn’t been afraid. Her mocking gaze had cut his pride to shreds.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
The tension in Smythe’s shoulders eased. “I’m from Boston.”
“Isn’t that by New York City?” the freckle-faced boy asked.
“Well, it is on the same side of the country.”
“Oh.” The boy’s brow furrowed. “Why did you shoot at Pearl?”
Smythe’s temper shot straight to boil. “Damnation, I didn’t shoot at anyone!”
The young man’s eyes bugged out, but he stood his ground.
“Where did you hear that I shot Pearl?”
The boy looked away and toed at the floor with his boot. “ ’Round town.”
Smythe could feel his anger waning by degrees. In its place, acute loneliness rushed through him. He had no one out here to help him, to believe in him. Hell, he had no one back home either. No, that wasn’t true. He had Runyon, his mother, and one cousin. A pasty-faced excuse for a man on his mother’s side of the family he’d only just remembered and hadn’t thought of in years because his cousin lived in England.
A dark and ugly thought prodded him, but he refused to let it take hold. He’d have more than enough time to think about his cousin later.
“Mister?”
Smythe forced his mind to concentrate on the present and how he planned to talk his way out of trouble this time. It had always been the two of them, him and his brother Michael. His brother had been his constant companion. His brother. His friend.
“What?”
“I didn’t exactly hear that you shot Pearl.”
“Exactly what did you hear?”
The boy looked over his shoulder, then stepped right up to the cell door. “She shot your hat off.”
Smythe agreed. “She certainly did.”
Mick’s eyes glazed over, and he grabbed hold of the bars.
“Did she shoot your toes off?”
Smythe grunted. “Damn near.”
“Oh.” Disappointment bowed the young boy’s shoulders. He stepped back. “Then I guess the last part isn’t true either.”
“Are you going to make me ask?” Smythe wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue the current line of questioning.
“She aimed and nicked your…er…”
The boy’s face flushed scarlet before he looked away.
“Manly parts?” Smythe suggested wryly.
Mick’s head whipped back around. “So that part really is true?”
Smythe let out a breath. What was the sense in lying to the boy? By now it would be all over the town that a wisp of a woman had gotten the better of him with a Winchester and a band of girls protecting her back. He couldn’t sound more like a man from back East, could he?
Despite the churning in his gut, he had to give credit where credit was due. “If I hadn’t hit the dirt, I’d have had to take up embroidery or some other feminine pursuit.”
The grin Mick flashed was filled with laughter. And so it should be. “Miss Pearl is a special lady.”
“Do tell.”
Mick’s face lost all expression before settling into a grim mask. “She saved her girls, holding off O’Toole’s gang until help arrived.”
Smythe leaned against the door, willing to listen, maybe even gain a glimpse of the woman who faced him down, a glance beneath the stiff-necked pride and inhospitable exterior. Nodding to the boy, he waited.
“She got out of her sick bed, busted ribs and all, to send my new pa, the marshal, and my uncle after the outlaw’s gang when they kidnapped my ma, Emma, and me.”
Slowly, stumbling over his words at first, Mick relayed a story that filled Smythe with horror.
“She sounds invincible.”
Mick shrugged. “She’s a mite stubborn and has a mean streak in her when her friends are threatened.”
Smythe had heard of outlaw gangs and the lawlessness of the West, but thought most of the stories simply that. Stories. “Isn’t O’Toole your name?”
Mick hung his head. “It used to be…my new pa is going to change that.”
Interesting news, but he had more important things to discuss, answers to be found. “Did this O’Toole break Pearl’s ribs and bruise her face?”
Mick nodded.
Smythe’s guts roiled and began to burn as he thought of the delicate woman being beaten. He asked, “Where is he now?”
Without missing a beat, Mick answered, “Dead.”
For a split second, Smythe wished the man alive so he could put a bullet through the bastard’s black heart. At least he knew what had happened to the dark-haired beauty. A surge of protectiveness swirled through him, calming the churning in his stomach. He’d worry about where the feelings came from later. Right now he needed to find out where the marshal was.
“Have you seen the marshal?”
The boy had turned to leave, but stopped and looked over his shoulder. “He’s over at Swenson’s.”
“Swenson’s?”
“Boarding house. His temporary office is in a storeroom in the back.”
Mick was almost through the doorway before Smythe could ask, “Did something happen to the other jail and the marshal’s office?”
“Sure did.” Mick snickered. “Got blown up.”
Smythe was almost afraid to ask. “Was anyone inside at the time?”
“No, but my new pa and uncle thought Marshal Justiss was inside.”
Smythe digested this latest bit of news. It certainly sounded as if the town of Emerson, Colorado, was far too uncivilized for the likes of him. Maybe he should go back East.
The
docks in Boston Harbor were far safer and much more familiar. Besides, Runyon was sure to have news for him soon, and then his reasons for wanting to be this far from home would no longer exist.
He had one last question. “Was O’Toole’s gang behind that too?”
Mick’s gaze darkened, and he nodded. “Well, I’ve got to be going on home now.” The boy waved and was gone.
A soft whicker sounded through the still afternoon, the sound and smell of the horses oddly comforting. Smythe retraced his steps, walking over to the wall farthest from the pile of straw, and sat on the floor. Leaning his head back against the ancient plank walls, he closed his eyes.
It seemed that he would have more time to consider his faults, his failings, and possible suspects in his brother’s murder. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do, and it seemed no one would be coming to let him out of jail any time soon.
* * *
Aloysius Stanton slammed his fist on the cherry desktop. Dark red port sloshed against the sides of the crystalline glass, but didn’t spill over.
“I want to know where Smythe is!”
The man standing in front of the desk wrung the hat in his hands. “I’ve got my best man on it, Mr. Stanton.”
“I don’t want your best man on it, Lincoln.” Stanton paused, then bent forward until he was leaning across the desk, inches from the other man’s face. “I want you to find him.”
“But he’s on his way out West.”
“Then I suggest you be on your way as well.”
Slapping the hat on his head, Lincoln drew in a breath. “I’ve a business to run—”
Stanton cut him off, “I will make it more than worth your while.” Withdrawing a billfold from the inside pocket of his coat he pulled out a handful of notes and began to count them.
The other man stared at the paper. “Are those national bank notes or U.S. notes?”
Stanton stopped counting and sneered. “U.S. notes.”
Lincoln began to shake his head and opened his mouth to protest, but Stanton had expected the man’s reaction and was prepared.
Not everyone trusted paper money or banks that had a way of closing their doors without ever making good on the money invested in them. Shoving the notes back into his billfold, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled a key out of his waistcoat pocket, and fitted it to the lock.
Lincoln’s eyes bugged out when a hefty bag of jingling coins slammed against the desktop. “I trust this will suffice.”
Stanton had the satisfaction of seeing Lincoln nod and lick his lips in anticipation of handling the coins. At last, a man who understood the beauty of money. “Take it. There will be another five hundred when you deliver my cousin’s body.”
Lincoln snatched the proffered bag and nodded eagerly. “I’ll send a wire the moment I reach Colorado Territory.”
Stanton narrowed his gaze at the man. “Don’t bother. Send a wire when you’re on your way back to Boston with his body.”
The other man hesitated yet again. “But that will take weeks. Besides, I don’t think he’ll keep.”
Stanton spun on his heel and paced in front of the picture window. “Proof that he’s dead then.”
“What kind of proof?”
“My cousin has a signet ring, the head of a hawk and a carved letter S.”
“That’s it?”
Stanton laughed. “Not hardly. I’ll want a duly witnessed statement from a physician or lawyer attesting to his demise.”
“Done.”
“See that it is,” Stanton ground out. “To my satisfaction, or I will see to it that you never do business in this town again.”
Chapter Six
“Are yer feet cold?”
Pearl tilted her head to one side and considered the man beside her. “Not really.”
Reilly looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. He slowed the wagon and handed her the reins. Without missing a beat, he started unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
The look in the man’s eyes was comical. “I’d thought you’d appreciate wrapping yer feet in me shirt.”
Pearl felt her cheeks flush. Embarrassed to the bone, she glanced down at her dusty pink toes.
“Lass?”
The question had her looking up at the kind-hearted fellow. “Your shirt will get dirty.”
He laughed. “It’s already got the sweat of a solid day’s work on it. Ye may not want to wrap your sweet feet in it.”
Once the words were said, the Irishman’s face turned beet red. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Embarrassed by him and for him, she laid a hand on his arm, deciding to let the comment about having sweet feet be forgotten and focus on the thought behind the offer. “If you don’t mind, my feet are a bit on the chilly side.”
“Well then.” Reilly finished unbuttoning his shirt, peeled it off, and pushed the sleeves of his long red underwear shirt up to his elbows. He suddenly seemed overly warm.
“Thank you, John.” Pearl meant the words in the spirit the gesture was offered. Flaherty’s ranch foreman was kind. He’d never hurt a soul, and he’d protect those he called friend to his last breath. “Are you certain you have the time to accompany me? I’ll understand if you have to get back to the ranch.”
Reilly flashed her a grin, filled with joy. “Well, sure and the master’s a hard man, but he’d not want me to leave ye here on yer own when yer feelin’ poorly.”
Pearl wrapped the body-warmed cloth about her feet, grateful for the man’s heat. The chill eased from her toes and a delicious warmth took its place. “Mmmm.”
“How did yer talk go?”
She frowned. “Marshal Justiss cut me off before I could ask Mr. Smythe about the proxy.”
“What proxy?”
“Exactly my question, but the hard-headed marshal wouldn’t let the man answer. He was too concerned with me getting home and you not missing your dinner.”
Reilly’s grin was swift and lethal. “Well, now, I’m sure he has his reasons. Ye shouldn’t try to come between the marshal and his job, lass. It’ll just make it harder for the man.”
Pearl stared off into the distance. A lone hawk soared through the clear sky, reminding her of Ben, a man alone. “Has something else happened that I don’t know about?”
Reilly looked over his shoulder to make sure his horse had enough lead where he’d tied the beast to the wagon, then looked back at the road ahead of them. “Not that I know of.”
A pair of birds swept past them, chirping at one another while they danced upon the air, their dark wings flashing a bit of white reflected by the last rays of the sun. Pearl breathed deeply, drawing in clean fresh air, untainted like the air in the stable. To be that free, with no cares or worries, would be heaven.
But Davidson Smythe is not free, her conscience poked at her. She grimaced.
“Are ye in pain?”
Pearl tore her gaze away from the birds and focused on the man beside her. Heat radiated from every inch of him, though he sat with his large frame a respectable distance from hers. She admired that about John Reilly. He was a big man who never used his size or strength to intimidate her.
Her husband had.
“Lass?”
Pearl gathered her scattered thoughts. That was the second time in one day thoughts of her past had distracted her. She must have too much time on her hands if her mind wandered so often back to the past.
She laid her hand on Reilly’s arm and smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
The muscles of his arm leapt beneath her fingers, then stilled. Reilly didn’t look in her direction. He snapped the reins, urging the horse to go faster. The wagon bumped along at a much quicker pace. Pearl pulled her hand back and settled her hands in her lap. Her touch obviously upset him. The why didn’t matter; after all the man had done for her, she owed him an apology.
“I’m sorry.”
Reilly did not raise his gaze from the spot he’
d focused on, the back of her horse’s neck. “Let it go. ’Tis been some time since a woman as lovely as yerself has put herself in me care.”
Taking in his clenched jaw and lowered brows, Pearl was startled to notice how striking a man he was. Why then had all of the eligible women in Emerson ignored John Reilly? Just because he seemed to prefer melting into the background, not standing out, didn’t mean he was not worthy of their regard.
“Have you no sweetheart?”
The reins snapped again, urging the horse even faster. At this rate, her bottom would be bruised from banging against the bench seat.
Her questions unnerved him, and Pearl knew she shouldn’t prod him further, but he had helped her more than once, as had three other men in their community. When no one else would heed Marshal Turner’s call to form a posse to go after O’Toole and his gang, Seamus Flaherty, John Reilly, and a handful of Flaherty’s ranch hands had ridden out to face the outlaw and his gang. Marshal Ben Justiss had arrived to back them up, his posse of teenage boys headed by young Mick O’Toole.
She owed her life to the man beside her, as well as the others. Reilly had been silent for so long, Pearl wondered if he’d heard her. She stared at his profile, silently urging him to look at her, if nothing else.
Finally Reilly let out a gusty sigh. “Can ye not let it go, lass?”
Pearl thought about it for a moment then answered honestly. “No.”
“Yer like a burr beneath a man’s saddle.”
She chuckled at his description. “How flattering.”
“Ye get beneath a man’s skin like a splinter.”
This time she laughed, and then gasped, wrapping her arms about her waist when the pain stole her breath. She’d been holding up so well until that moment.
Reilly slowed the horse and pulled to a stop, gently drawing her up onto his lap.
Shock held her immobile, the ache in her ribs momentarily forgotten.
Reilly’s gaze met hers. Desire, stark and strong, flared in the depths of his dark brown eyes, before a look of concern stared back at her. “Rest against me. Ye don’t want yer ribs to shift. Ye might puncture something important and bleed to death.” He flicked the reins and they started to move.
The picture his words painted was all too clear. Her stomach roiled. Dear Lord, she hadn’t thought of that possibility. Where would her girls be then? Once their home was gone, would anyone step forward to take care of them?
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