Ropin' the Moon

by Deborah Camp

  Ropin’ the Moon

  A Romantic Novel set in the Old West

  By Deborah Camp

  © 2019 by Deborah Camp

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Other Books by Deborah Camp

  The new marshal . . .

  He had tumbleweed in his blood, moving from one town to the next. Traveling to where there was trouble, he was hired to tame wild places with a fast draw and an iron will.

  Lacy knew that Dalton wouldn’t be around long and she shouldn’t be tempted by him. But like the moon, his pull on her was a natural, powerful force that she was helpless to resist.

  “The man who’s always looking for trouble hopes he won’t find it.”

  ~Cowboy Saying

  Acknowledgments

  Cover design by Janet Drye

  Editor: Joyce Anglin

  Copyeditor: Pat Wade

  I’m beholden to Barbara Lowenstein and Associates for their professional guidance.

  Tremendous gratitude to the readers, reviewers, and bloggers who reach out to me and inspire me to continue writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  Visit Deborah’s website at www.deborah-camp.com

  Join her readers group and receive a free ebook!

  If you enjoy this novel, please leave a review of it on Amazon and Goodreads as a courtesy to other interested readers. Thanks!

  Ropin’ the Moon

  Far Creek, Kansas – October, 1869

  Chapter 1

  She noticed him right off.

  He was hard to miss, astride a high-stepping buckskin gelding with black socks and flowing mane. The stranger’s black and silver gun belt with a silver handled six shooter glinted in the sunlight. Horseshoes and clover leafs adorned his heavily tooled saddle where a rifle hung from a sling in easy reach.

  With a spine as straight as a ruler and shoulders squared with confidence, he cut a dashing figure as he made his way down the main street of Far Creek. The slack way he held the reins and the liquid movement of his body in rhythm with the big gelding’s gait lent him a masculine grace. Curling, raven black hair grew over his shirt collar and a day or two’s growth of whiskers darkened the lower half of his face. Dressed in dark trousers, pale gray shirt, and a black leather vest, he looked fresh as a daisy, but his mount was lathered, giving evidence that he’d been riding for a spell.

  As he rode past the hotel, he swung his half-lidded gaze toward her and it stayed there for several seconds that seemed like minutes. Normally, Lacy Tyrell would have looked away from a stranger’s brazen attention, but she didn’t this time. Couldn’t. She stared right back at him until the corners of his wide mouth tipped up in a droll smile. He lifted one black-gloved hand and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat in a flirty salute before he rode on past the hotel.

  Lacy released her breath in a whoosh, only then realizing that it had been trapped in her burning lungs. Who in blazes was that?

  Bobbie Sue Brand came to her side, fanning her flushed face. She flung her long braid over her shoulder. “Lordy, I’m working up a sweat here. It’s hot for October.”

  Lacy smiled to herself because she’d at first thought that Bobbie Sue was referring to the sight of the handsome stranger. She glanced at the hotel’s chambermaid, then at the puddle of horse hairs, burs, and trail dust near their feet. Stepping aside, she let Bobbie Sue sweep the debris out into the street.

  “Better enjoy these final few nice days,” Lacy commented. “Before we know it, winter will be here and we’ll all be shivering.” She cleared her throat and placed the two-sided sign on the sidewalk outside the Holland Hotel. It read in black letters edged in gold, Bath-rooms. Stable on premises. Dutch Visser, Proprietor.

  “How was the social yesterday after church?” Bobbie Sue asked, leaning on the broom.

  “It was fun. There were sack races and horseshoe tossing contests. You should have come with me.”

  “Who did you share your picnic lunch with?” Bobbie Sue’s eyes glinted with interest. “Whit Whittier?” She’d left the front door open to allow in the fresher air.

  “Heavens, no! I can’t tolerate that braggart. He’s hung around Trey Pullman and Sam Louder so much that he talks and acts just like them.” Lacy wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I invited Forrest Cole to join me.”

  Bobbie Sue snickered. “That must have made him bust the buttons right off his shirt.”

  “You would have been better company,” Lacy groused, walking back into the hotel lobby with Bobbie Sue following her.

  “Poor fella. He’s been pining for you something awful.”

  “Who’s been pining for who?” Dutch Visser asked, his voice as big and booming as the man himself. He tromped in, his size thirteen feet encased in fringed moccasins. He wore his usual brown leather trousers and plaid shirt. His long, straight blond hair sat on his head like a thatched roof and his sky blue eyes twinkled with merriment. Most of his face was covered in white-blond hair. “You’re not flipping your skirts at any of the no-good varmints around here are you now, Lacy girl?” the big Dutchman asked.

  “Not a chance. I just shared my lunch basket yesterday with Forrest. Bobbie Sue says he’s sweet on me.”

  “He is. Anybody with eyes can see it,” Bobbie Sue declared. She angled up her round chin, daring Dutch to say different.

  “Yeah, well, he can get in line. Lacy girl has every bachelor man in Far Creek acting a fool for her. Forrest Cole’s not worth your trouble, okay? In fact, finding a man worthy of a gal like you in these parts is about as likely as ropin’ the moon.”

  “So, you think she should be an old maid without a family of her own, do you?” Bobbie Sue challenged him again, propping the broom against the registration desk so that she could plant her hands on her hips in consternation.

  Lacy smiled, enjoying the silly standoff between the two people who had worked together for going on seven years. She figured they were about the same age, although Dutch’s face showed more rigors, being deeply lined and rough-skinned. The only wrinkles on Bobbie Sue’s tanned face appeared at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. The liberal streaks of white in her black hair, her rounded shoulders, and age-speckled hands testified that she’d passed fifty years.

  Dutch lifted his beefy arms out from his sides in a huge shrug. “Can I help it if I’m the only manly man around? And Britta already roped and tied me twenty years ago.”

  Bobbie Sue and Lacy giggled as Dutch flung back his head to let his big har hars bounce off the high, tinned ceiling. Lacy gave his shoulder an affectionate swat. He’d hired her two years ago to manage the hotel while he ran his saloon next door. At first, she’d worked as bookkeeper and occasional waitress, but within a couple of months he’d turned over the day-to-day operation of the Holland Hotel to her. She felt lucky to have such a fine job, especially after enduring hard times through the war years.
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  “How many we got staying with us this week?” Dutch asked, getting his merriment somewhat under control. It seemed he was always on the verge of busting out and grinning like a monkey.

  Lacy went behind the waist-high desk and glanced at the ledger. “Four. We have six rooms open.”

  “Maybe that new marshal will check in until he can find himself permanent lodging. He’s supposed to show up today, isn’t he?” Dutch asked.

  Lacy jerked and her gaze whipped to the front door. “That was him!” she said with a gasp.

  “Who?”

  “Him!” She jabbed a finger frantically at the open door. “He rode by a few minutes ago! The marshal. He’s here. I’m sure that was him. He wore a fancy gun belt and the saddle he sat on would be worth a couple months’ wages.”

  “Oh, yes, yes.” Dutch clasped his hands together and grinned. “Dalton Moon. He’s one of the fastest guns around, okay? He’s cleaned up several towns. Rid them of bad men and mean drunks. He’s a youngish fella, right? Your age?”

  “Maybe a few years older than me,” Lacy said, easily picturing him again and feeling the same sense of being held captive by a pair of dark eyes and an appreciative smirk. But then she remembered that the stranger was here to replace her Uncle Otis as marshal and her allegiance to family broke the spell. She huffed out a breath of irritation. “Ooo, it still stings that the town council demoted Uncle Otis to deputy as if he hadn’t given his all for five years to this place! For all we know, this vigilante marshal will only make things worse.”

  “Vigilante?” Dutch barked another laugh, but then tempered it with an understanding smile. “I know it smarts, Lacy girl, and it plucked some of your uncle’s feathers, but things are already worse around here. Someone has to rein in the tomfoolery or this town won’t be fit for decent folk. And the railroad sure won’t want to come near here if there’s no law and order, okay?”

  “Uncle Otis was doing all he could. He’s been trying to keep the peace. He says that Junior Pullman told him that he’d have a talk with Trey and his saddle pals.” Even as she said it, she knew it was just words. The past few months she had witnessed, along with everyone else, the increase in violence and the complete disregard for the law. Store windows had been shot out, merchandise had been stolen, and women and children had been terrorized on the streets. The Pullman family felt as if they owned Far Creek, so their ranch hands did whatever they wanted, wherever they wanted.

  “I’ll tell you this, okay? With Otis’s help, the new marshal will set things to right and we can get back to being an orderly town full of law-abiding folks.” Dutch sent her a wink and a wave. “I have a shipment of whiskey to uncrate. You ladies stay out of trouble, okay?”

  “Okay!” Bobbie Sue pantomimed kicking him in the backside as he stomped out of the hotel. “Old rascal! I don’t know how Britta puts up with him. And I’d be a rich woman if I had a nickel for every time he says ‘okay.’” Her expression grew sympathetic as she faced Lacy. “Oh, hon, I know how you feel. Makes me mad when I ruminate about how Otis has been mistreated. That sweet man has his pride, after all! Just shows that his heart is in the right place for agreeing to stay on as deputy and help that gun-slinging marshal they’ve brought in.”

  Lacy draped an arm around Bobbie Sue’s shoulders, feeling the kinship of their mutual respect and affection for Otis Gentry. Her uncle had been courting Bobbie Sue for nigh on a year now. A shy man around womenfolk, he’d never married but had taken a shine to Bobbie Sue’s gumption and compassion. A war widow with grown children, none of whom had stayed in Far Creek, Bobbie Sue blushed like a girl when talk turned to her feelings for Otis.

  “Let’s hope that the new marshal is respectful toward Uncle Otis,” Lacy said. “If he isn’t, he’ll have to answer to us, right?”

  “Otis will stand his ground, don’t you worry about that! He’ll take no guff off that whippersnapper.”

  Lacy gave Bobbie Sue a quick hug. She wasn’t as certain that her uncle’s heart was in his lawman’s duties anymore. He’d been grumpy and peevish ever since the mayor had hired Moon to rid Far Creek of ruffians. What they all seemed to be ignoring was that the “ruffians” were from the Pullman ranch and everyone in town was reluctant to cross them. Even Dutch, who Dutch didn’t take orders from anyone – except Britta, of course. Junior Pullman was like a rattler – coiled and ready to strike at the slightest provocation. He intimidated everyone – including the whole town council and Uncle Otis. If you went against him, your business might burn to the ground one night or your best horses might disappear from the stable.

  A small inner voice whispered that it might be a blessing if the new marshal could put things to right. Recalling his confident aura and his reputation as a gunslinger, she had to admit that he might be a formidable opponent for the Pullmans.

  Dalton Moon reined Soldier to a stop in front of the jail. Aware of being stared at, he paid little mind to the folks eyeing him from the boardwalk and street. He was used to it. His reputation as a “town cleaner” preceded him, making him a curiosity. He figured the mayor of Far Creek would show up fairly soon to welcome him. In the meantime, he’d have a look around his new stomping grounds.

  Easing out of the saddle, the muscles in his legs burned and the ache in the small of his back expanded. It had been a long ride from Leesburg, Missouri, especially since he’d opted to sleep under the stars instead of checking into a hotel last night. He hoped his Far Creek accommodations were a sight more comfortable. The mayor had telegraphed that he would be provided a room in back of the jail house. Flexing the tightness in his shoulders, he wrapped the reins around the hitching post and gave Soldier a pat on the neck.

  “I’ll take care of you in a bit, son,” he murmured and received a head butt against his shoulder in return. “That’s right. You rest here for a few minutes while I take stock of things.” He strode into the jailhouse. It smelled of cigar smoke and wet dog. A black and white mongrel, curled up in the corner, thumped his tail.

  “Are you the guard?” Dalton asked with a chuckle as he eyed a scarred desk, three chairs, potbelly stove, and three apple crates full of wanted posters, telegraphs, and other notices. A key ring hung near an interior door that was open. He could see two jail cells. A strangled snore and slumberous breathing emerged from that area.

  Curious, he moved toward the sounds. On the cot in one of the jail cells, his boots and brown hat sitting on the floor beside it, a man with a face full of white whiskers slept, his pudgy body curled so that his knees were near his chin. Silvery white hair covered his pate, except for his pink crown where only a few strands swirled like a snow drift. He snuffled a little and shifted on the narrow bed. The cell door stood open. Personal items sat on a small table and a rocking chair and woven rag rug transformed the cage into a bedroom.

  Dalton cleared his throat and the man’s eyes popped open. “Hate to wake you there, partner, but I’m thinking you might be Otis Gentry.”

  The man scrambled to his feet and swayed a little. His bleary blue eyes struggled to focus. “And who’s asking?” he croaked, then cleared his throat.

  “Dalton Moon.” He extended his hand. “You are Deputy Gentry, right?”

  The man stared at Dalton’s hand for a few moments, obviously displeased, before he obliged and completed the greeting. “Yeah. Thought you’d arrive tomorrow.”

  Dalton looked past him into the cell again. “You live here, do you?”

  Gentry glanced over his shoulder at the rumpled bed. He snatched up his hat and tugged it onto his head, then shoved his stocking feet into his boots. “I do. Have ever since I took the job.”

  “I was told there’s a room out back.”

  He squinted at Dalton. “The tack room?” He huffed out a disparaging laugh. “Yep. It’s out there next to the stables. If you enjoy smelling horseshit and fighting off flies, you’re welcome to it.” He sent him a baleful glare. “I don’t. I’m too old to be sleeping with livestock. You can move in here and I’l
l clear out. I’ll find me somewhere else.”

  Dalton waved a hand, dismissing that notion. He figured he’d already ticked off the old gent enough just by showing up. “No real hurry. We won’t be needing both cells for a week or two, most likely.” Gentry gave him a curious look before it changed to one of ridicule. The dog trotted into the cell and sniffed his pants leg. “Is he yours?” Dalton asked.

  “Not really. He showed up one day and I let him stay. He’s no trouble.”

  “What do you call him?”

  Gentry shrugged. “Dog.”

  Dalton chuckled. “Dog? Just dog?”

  “Yeah. He ain’t truly mine.”

  “Well, he seems a likeable sort. He deserves a name.”

  “Call him what you like.” Gentry scowled at him. “This is your jail for now. I got no say in anything.”

  Dalton knelt and rubbed the dog between his ears, sorting through words that would state his case without pouring more salt into the man’s open wound. “I can certainly understand that you’d be vexed about this situation. But the good news is that I won’t be here for long.” He angled a look up at the whiskered man. “A few months, probably. Then you’ll have this jail and this town back under your control.” He stood. At a couple of inches over six feet, Dalton was used to being taller than most men and he’d learned to step back a ways so that he looked at them and not down at them. “We’re going to be working together, so how about we make a pact that we’ll wrestle with the job and not about whose star is the shiniest?” He dropped his gaze to the marshal’s badge pinned to Gentry’s wrinkled shirt.

  Gentry unpinned the badge and tossed it to him. “Fine by me.”

  “If you want to keep wearing this, I don’t mind.” He held it up, but Gentry shook his head. “Suit yourself. Like I said, it’s only for a short time.”