The Outlaw's Kiss (an Old West Romance) (Wild West Brides)

by Karin, Anya

  “What news! And here I was thinking my little operation was the only one actually producing. You know, those two – or I suppose it’s actually just Eustace who owns the claim – have been saying things about me pretending to have a crew, or some such nonsense, to fake my claim’s production. I’m not entirely sure what advantage that would give me, but nonetheless, I’m happy to know I’m not the only one. Also, that makes it quite clear what Mr. Star is doing here with Welshmen.”

  The two men laughed, and I smiled politely, though I have to admit I wasn’t paying much attention to their conversation. My mind was firmly stuck on Eustace and the Captain, and on what Mr. Swearengen told me before we left. Did he know? Did he somehow intuit that it was them, and also knew we had the next claim over, and assumed we might pass them on the road?

  I couldn’t imagine. But then my mind flitted back to Mr. Swearengen perched on his balcony, watching like a vulture waiting for a meal, as my Eli went to jail. I never believed the man played all his cards at once, but his cunning also escaped me at first.

  Cards on the table? Not much New York left in you, is there?

  “Come on, Clara!” Father called. “Mr. Star is waiting!”

  “I’m right behind you,” I answered as he and Mr. Clark rode ahead. I had too much to think about to follow too closely. I walked beside my horse, slowly making my way up the hill and to the camp. By the time I arrived, the two were already in heavy planning with Mr. Star, and my father was pacing back and forth excitedly.

  “How soon can we start?”

  Mr. Star chuckled at my father’s eagerness. “It’ll be some time still. We’ve got to wait on the next shipment of dynamite and equipment by rail. It’ll come through Yankton in a week, which corresponds with...”

  “With what, Mr. Star?” I made myself known right after tying my horse.

  “Well, with Mr. Masterson’s trial.” He swallowed visibly. “Oh, that reminds me. I mean, not that, exactly, but.” He shook his head and patted his pockets. “I forgot that I had this. Here.”

  He stuck his arm out, offering me a note scrawled on a square of paper no bigger than my palm. But, both sides were covered with very neat, tiny letters.

  “Dear Clara,

  I hope this finds you well. I’m sure it will, as it should get to you only a few days after my unfortunate incident. My friend Seth has told me in no uncertain terms that regardless of our friendship, he’s going to transport me to Yankton. Of course, he’s skillfully avoided saying he’s taking me there ‘for trial’. He’s a crafty man. He’s also forgiven me for almost taking his head off with that punch.

  The problem as it stands is that he doesn’t know who levied the claim against me. The accusation was delivered late at night, via post. Someone wanted to keep their identity secret enough to take the bother of sending a note through the mail instead of just telling him their suspicions. To me, this says there aren’t any suspicions worth mentioning at all.”

  Chewing my lip between my teeth and, I’m afraid, rudely ignoring the conversation around me, I continued to read.

  “To my mind, there’s no question as to who made this accusation, which is the same way it probably stands for most in the camp. However, at issue is that no one in particular cares. Though I call many people in Deadwood my friends, very few actually are. Seth is one, Mr. Star another. Though Al Swearengen is a dangerous man, he’s the sort of dangerous that can be trusted not to act unpredictably. He’ll always do what suits his interest, no matter anything else. Al serves Al. But you can also be sure that if he decides helping you is some way beneficial, he’ll do it without fail.

  I’m running out of both space, and lead with which to write. I made you a promise. I told you something I’ve never told anyone, ever in my life. That I wouldn’t leave you; that I wouldn’t let anything happen to me without coming back for you. If you’re not sitting down, you may want to do so. I’d hate for you to take a spill in the middle of a gold claim, and drift on off down the creek, or to fall in the midst of a horse-trough.”

  Taking his advice, I found a suitable stump, and sat. Elis handwriting grew very small, so that I had to squint to make out all the letters.

  “I WILL come for you, Clara. Make no mistake about it. Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to do, I’ll not exit this life until I taste your lips again. I want to take you to Texas and show you that sunset I talked about. Dusk over the Palo Duro. Remember that. Hold me to it. I’d tell you to destroy this, but I know you won’t, so instead, just hide it very well. Remember what I said.

  -Eli Masterson”

  He was right about the sitting down. A heady swoon overtook me, but I soon caught myself and straightened up. The men were so embroiled in their discussion of mine-carts that they hadn’t noticed, and for that I was grateful. Briefly, it struck me how strange it was that he bothered signing both his first and last name, but my emotions had no room for silly giggling.

  “I promise you, too, Eli,” I said under my breath, well out of earshot. “I won’t forget. We’ll see that sunset. I promise.”

  Eleven

  September 25, 1878

  Deadwood, Dakota Territory

  The next day passed with little incident except for Sheriff Bullock dropping by just after father left. He wanted an appointment for supper. I was at first incredulous, but he insisted it was to discuss something of a business matter, which put my hair to standing on end. He refused to say any more.

  After his visit, I whiled away the day with another ice-block delivery, and a set of reports that came from the bank in Yankton where Father had evidently been sending the gold he found at the claim for deposit. The sum was substantial, but nothing compared to the amount needed to save the bank.

  About noon-time, I took a short luncheon. Somehow, I didn’t notice that I made a ham biscuit just like Eli had done until I bit into it, and the sweet flavor of the meat and the butter crossed my lips and caressed my tongue. Just as soon as I tasted it, I remembered the way Eli’s lips felt against mine, the way he held my neck so gently in his hand, cradling me in his arms. The feeling of his warmth, his easy smile, and the smell of leather and work upon him, I had to stop myself and think about something, anything, else.

  My sandwich lay there with one bite removed for the rest of the day. Each time I looked at it, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. The memories I had when I gazed at that little hunk of cold bread and ham and butter, sent me back to a few days ago when the entire world seemed right.

  It also reminded me of how horribly wrong it went in one strike of a hammer.

  But, I knew that becoming despondent wasn’t going to do one spot of good for me, Eli, or anyone else. I had to be strong, like Eli. I needed to keep a straight face, not panic, keep my wits.

  In a way, I needed to be more cunning, like Mr. Swearengen than up-front and brave like Eli. I got the idea that Mr. Swearengen’s mind was rather like the herd of bison we’d passed on the trail between Yankton and Deadwood. If you look at them from the top, it seems like a placid sea of fur, moving as one, ever forward. Looking underneath, at their legs and the dust they kick up, and the mess of shredded grass and whatever else they’ve trampled underfoot – that’s the real story. On the surface, you’d never be able to read a single one of his thoughts, or his emotions, if indeed he has anything as inconvenient as emotions.

  Underneath though? Turmoil and strife.

  By half past three, I was dressed in a very decent set of clothing – purple gown with blue sleeve accents and lace hand covers, my nicest stockings and the only pair of walking boots I had that weren’t caked with filth. I even picked out the hat and jewelry I wanted to wear to meet Mr. Bullock.

  Of course, there was still the matter of three-and-a-half hours separating me from supper. I thought about going to town for some air and to stretch my legs, but decided against it. Rather than either get my good boots dirty, or be inconvenienced by finding others, I instead took my exercise up and down the stretch of road b
etween our house and the beginning of the buildings that marked Deadwood proper.

  Immediately after stepping out, I was struck with an odd smell of smoke hanging heavy in the air. It had an acrid bite, a rather unpleasant, sharp sting to it that I wasn’t familiar with. Rather than the smell of a fire, it seemed the smell of something being burned, possibly something that didn’t normally catch fire, but in light of other things rattling around in my head, I put it out of my mind.

  Not for a moment did I believe that Eli had anything to do with any Indian raids, but what stuck uncomfortably in me was that even for his distasteful appearance and uncouth manners, Eustace had never lied completely. Mr. Bullock did indeed have a vice for women, and Davis Clark had a less-successful gold claim than he let on initially. At the same time, he never told the whole truth, as far as I could tell. Mr. Clark’s gold claim did certainly have gold in it, and Seth wasn’t a slave to his lusts, as Mr. Rawls let on.

  By the time I stopped wandering to and fro on the road that powerful, sour smell stung my nose, and the sun had begun to droop nearer the horizon.

  I gathered my things, making sure to include my notebook in the belongings I tucked into my handbag, and made my way to town. Once I passed the laundry hanging and swaying in the breeze, I realized that the smell from earlier was back.

  What is that? I wrinkled my nose. The nearer I got to the center of town the stronger it became.

  “Clara! Miss James, I was just heading your way.”

  “Oh,” I smiled and gave a brief curtsy. “Much obliged Mr. Bullock. I mean Seth,” I smiled, catching my mistake.

  Of course, he took my hand and kissed it politely before taking my arm and leading me back to the inn. “The menu tonight is,” he drew his lips together and cocked an eyebrow. “What is the menu tonight?” He turned to the old woman who seemed never to move from where she stood behind the stove day in and day out. Then he remembered that she wasn’t able to hear from that distance, rose, and stood beside her. “Nettie? What’s cooking? Miss James and I are starved.”

  “What?” She said as she turned with an outstretched spoon that Seth only just avoided. “Oh, Mr. Bullock. What do you want?”

  He could hardly keep from laughing, and to my embarrassment, I was having trouble as well.

  “Oh, Miss Nettie, watch that spoon,” he laughed and dodged again. “I asked what was on for supper.” He slowly and carefully enunciated each word, speaking much louder than I’d ever heard him before.

  “What?” She leaned closer.

  He was shouting. “Supper!” Finally he pointed at the pot and pantomimed eating.

  “Oh, why didn’t you just ask? Chicken, rice, dumplings and cobbler. Cain’t you just wait until I bring it to find out what it is?”

  He patted her gently on the shoulder, thanking her loudly, though I’m sure she didn’t hear that, either. I was red-faced when he returned to the table.

  “Suppose we’re having chicken and dumplings then. Nettie’s a real peach. A Georgia one. She came this way with someone who didn’t survive very long. She gets her room and board paid for by working here. For all her being deaf as a barn-door, she’s one of the best cooks I’ve had the pleasure of encountering.”

  I took a sniff of the air. The spices smelled so good it overwhelmed even the pungent aroma of cowboy that filled the inn. “It is wonderful.” As I did my stomach growled audibly. “Oh, goodness!” I said, blushing. “Must be the promise of such deliciousness.”

  “Happens to the best of us,” Seth said. He pulled his chair up closer and leaned forward. His face grew suddenly serious, but just as he was about to speak, thick, soupy, delicious liquid dropped from a spoon held high up and plopped in his bowl.

  Seth set back with a start.

  “Figgered you got right up on me to ask about it, so I’d do you the same courtesy,” Nettie said. She had already poured mine and deposited a roll beside either of our plates, and turned to the next table before he was able to respond.

  For a moment, his face lightened up before going sour again. “Look, Clara,” he said. “I don’t want to ruin a good meal, but there’s something you need to know.”

  Thousands of horrible scenarios immediately played out in my mind.

  “That smell,” I said absently.

  Seth shook his head. “I haven’t a clue what it is. Though it is decidedly awful.”

  A snickering voice from behind us interrupted the sheriff, who turned dagger eyes to whoever spoke. “You,” he snarled. “Lot of nerve you’ve got. Don’t think I don’t know what you did.”

  “What I did? Why sheriff, whatever are you talking about?” The man snorted.

  My stomach tied itself in a knot. I turned my head just enough to see who it was sitting behind me, as though I didn’t already know. Trying my best to keep from any dramatics, I faced the table and stared directly at my food which became very unappetizing.

  “We’ll see about that,” Seth said, pushing his chair back from the table and stepping around me. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help myself. Seeing the sheriff with his hands on Eustace Rawls’s lapels was far more exciting than it should have been.

  Watching the round man with the brown stains on his jowls squirm was deeply satisfying. Until, that is, he chose to speak again.

  “I don’t know about all this, Sheriff Bullock.” He snorted between his words. “You might be in for a nasty surprise soon. Wait, what’s that smell?” Eustace twisted in the sheriff’s hands and lifted his nose to the air, sniffing. “Smells acrid, don’t it? Kinda like somethin’ familiar, huh? Can’t think of what though, can you, sheriff? You got any idea, Cap’n?”

  “Nope,” Ernie said before returning to his biscuit.

  “You’re going to pay for this, Rawls,” Seth growled. “I’m sure this is your doing too, whatever it is.”

  Suddenly, a huge crash outside released the tension in the room.

  And then I heard the hooves. Hooves like a roll of thunder.

  “What’s that, sheriff?” Rawls grinned, his vile lips pulling back over his brown teeth. “Mightn’t the town’s law man check out a disturbance like that?”

  Sheriff Bullock’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Everybody stays in here,” he shouted, with his eyes still fixed on Eustace’s. “Stay in your seats or get down. Whatever happens, don’t go outside. You hear?”

  Of course, by the time he finished and dropped Eustace unceremoniously into this chair, almost everyone had cleared out of the inn and into the street, excepting Nettie, who went right on stirring the stuff in her pot.

  I followed Mr. Bullock to the door, but as soon as he saw the torches, the horses and the brandished guns of the Sioux, he shoved me back through the door.

  “Clara!” He shouted. “Whatever you do, don’t go out there. Do you understand?”

  A war cry pierced the night, followed directly by another massive crack.

  “Where did they get dynamite?” Someone beside him turned and yelled. “How did them Sioux get dynamite? We can’t even get it for the claims!”

  Seth shook his head and shoved the man back. “Clara,” he said again. “Answer me. Whatever you do, you stay –”

  “Clara?” I recognized Itan’s voice, though was surprised to hear him struggle with saying my name.

  My eyes got as wide as they’d ever been. A huge, shirtless man with tanned-buckskin trousers, cleared his path by waving a repeating rifle over his head and charging through the loosely-packed crowd. One man tried to pull him down from his horse, but received a sharp kick in the face for his trouble.

  “Itan?” I said with a hollow, helpless voice. “Is that you?”

  “Clara, you are brave, or were before. Tell me where is my brother.”

  The rampaging braves threw ropes around the balcony of a small bar a ways down the street from the Gem and pulled what seemed like half the building down before throwing torches into the wreckage.

  Seth’s chest was heaving as he stared back and forth betwe
en Itan and me, mouth agape.

  “Clara! No time! These savages will kill him. Tell me where is Eli!”

  I balked. The sheriff watched my face. By instinct, my trembling fingers went inside my handbag and clutched the note Eli had sent via Mr. Star. I don’t know why I grabbed it, for comfort I suppose. His words, something his hands had touched, I thought, acted as an anchor.

  “Itan,” I stammered, “I-”

  “Now! Tell me where he is! My braves will tear the town apart, no matter what I do. If we get my brother, we leave!”

  “I can’t.” I looked at Seth, studying his face for some idea what I should do, but he was just as surprised as I was. “Itan, I just can’t.”

  “You know him?” Was the first thing Seth managed to say.

  Another building fell, another fire went up.

  “Now, Clara,” Itan insisted. “I don’t want to hurt people. My braves are less kind. Where is the jail?” He kicked another man away from his steed, but almost everyone was just standing around in shock, looking back and forth with vacant expressions.

  “No time!”

  “O – okay, okay,” I said, steadying myself. Seth put his hand up to stop me. “Down the road,” I shouted over the noise. “Down the road and left, second building!”

  Itan ducked his head. “Philamayeye, Clara. Every bit as brave as them,” he tilted his head to his warriors. “Eli is a lucky man.”

  A second later, he rushed off, shouting instructions to his band which were immediately followed. They disappeared from sight, and then a huge explosion seemed to rock the entire world.

  Seth snatched the letter out of my hand. “He wrote this? Clara, answer me,” he demanded. “Eli wrote this and sent it to you?”

  All I could do was open my mouth and close it over and over again. There were no words.

  No words. Just confusion and fear.

  There was only smoke and fire, and the sulfurous smell of dynamite.

  Twelve