by Deborah Camp
She bowed her head and closed her eyes for a moment, taking stock of what she’d said to him and how she must have dented his sense of honor. “I’m truly sorry, Dalton. I don’t want us to cross swords over this.”
“Neither do I.” He ran a palm down his face, released a long sigh, and then glanced at the door beside them. “What’s behind there?”
“My quarters.” She didn’t know why that admission made her feel vulnerable. This man had an uncanny way of doing that to her!
“Your quarters,” he repeated, in a suggestive way that made her want to smile. “Your bedroom?”
She became fascinated with the burgundy strips of velvet edging her cuffs. “I sleep in there, yes.”
“Just your bedroom? Do you have a parlor, too?”
“Yes. A small parlor and a bed chamber,” she said, continuing to fiddle with her cuffs. “Same as any private quarters, I suppose. Nothing fancy.”
He eyed the tall ebony wood panels that hid them from the rest of the room. “Cozy.” His gaze caressed her face and his voice turned velvety soft. “Now I’ll know where to find you.” He trailed a fingertip down her warm cheek and tapped her chin. “I’d like to see inside there some day. Soon.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Not going to happen, Marshal.”
“Challenge accepted,” he whispered, then stole a kiss from her, his mouth lush and hard on hers for a few stinging seconds.
“Hey!” She pressed her hands against his solid chest and pushed away from him. “That wasn’t a challenge.”
“You’re right.” He turned away, but flung over his shoulder as he left, “It’s more like a mission.”
With his mind on Lacy Tyrell and the many ways she could make his blood heat and his body ache for her, Dalton was almost to the jail when he heard a chuckle behind him. He looked over his shoulder and stopped dead in his tracks when he recognized the tall man astride a roan gelding. Turning fully to face the man, Dalton tipped back his hat to get a better look at him.
“Well, if it isn’t Enoch Custer. What are you doing in Far Creek?” He raised a hand, waylaying the man’s answer. “Let me guess. Junior Pullman brought you here.”
The hired gun smirked and folded his gloved hands on top of the saddle horn as he surveyed Dalton with cold, gray eyes. “Seems like everywhere you go, you rile someone up, Moon. I’ve been hired to keep the peace is all.”
Dalton chuckled. “That’s funny. You keeping the peace.” He hung his thumbs in his gun belt and tried not to show how aggravated he was to have Custer on his tail on top of everything else. “So, you’re taking on the railroad now? You sure you’re ready for that fight, Custer?” He saw the flicker of concern in Custer’s eyes and knew he was right. Pullman hadn’t given him the whole picture of the situation.
“I’m giving you fair warning, Moon. Pullman doesn’t want you on his property. He’s hired me to make sure you stay away from him and I mean to do just that. You place one toe on his land, I’ll shoot it off.” He grinned, displaying a row of large, square teeth.
Dalton noted that Custer had gained a few pounds around the middle since he’d seen him about six months ago. He was still a decent looking man, though, with his pale blond hair, mustache, and short beard. Dalton knew him to be handy with a rifle, especially a long-range weapon. Custer preferred to pick off his prey from a distance, giving him an unfair advantage.
“Where have you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since I ran into you in Galveston.”
“Here and there,” Custer answered, vaguely. “Mostly in Missouri and Kansas. Upstarts like you keep me busy.”
Dalton smirked and refused to take the bait. He heard someone behind him and glanced back to see Otis.
“You must be the marshal Mr. Pullman told me about. Marshal Gentry, right?” Custer said, giving Otis a nod. “Pleased to meet you. I’m newly hired by Mr. Pullman. Enoch Custer’s the name.”
Otis puffed out his chest. “Hired you as a wrangler, did he?”
“No, Marshal Gentry. As a Regulator.”
Dalton ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something he’d regret. It shouldn’t irritate him that Custer kept calling Otis the marshal, but it did. What was even more irritating was that Otis had yet to correct him.
“A Regulator?” Otis repeated, smoothing a hand through his white and gray beard. “You don’t say? I don’t think we’ve ever had one of them in our town. Sounds like more trouble to me.” He speared Dalton with a squinty glare.
“No trouble if Mr. Moon here stays away from the Pullman spread,” Custer said with an oily smile. “It’s all in his hands.”
“It’s Marshal Moon to you,” Dalton said, tiring of the exchange. He aimed a finger at him. “Watch yourself, Custer, and I’ll be watching you.” He turned and walked past Otis. He slammed the jail door behind him as a streak of curses singed his tongue. Thumper roused up from his nap near the stove and whacked his tail against the spittoon while Dalton paced off his anger and waited for Otis to come back inside. When he did, Dalton spun to face him. “Deputy, you’d better decide which side you’re on.”
“Wh-what?” Otis stared at him, widening his small eyes. “What you yelling at me for?”
“I get the feeling you hope that Pullman or one of his bunch puts a bullet in me. I don’t care for that feeling.” Dalton tore off his hat and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. He ran his fingers through his hair as he wrestled with his foul mood. “Enoch Custer is trouble, all right. He takes money to shoot the enemies of anyone who hires him. He’s here to send another message to me to get out of town.” He stopped in front of Otis. “I’m not moving one inch. You got that, Deputy?”
“I don’t know why you’re angry at me. I ain’t done nothing to you.”
“It’s like I said. You don’t seem to have my back.”
“Well, I do. I swore to uphold the law and that’s what I’m doin’.”
Dalton stared at Otis Gentry’s glowering countenance a few moments, wanting to believe him, but unable to make that leap. “Just be sure it’s the law you’re upholding and not Pullman’s brand of it.” He sat in the chair and kicked his boots up on the edge of the desk. “What do you know about the Leaguers?”
Otis shuffled to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Only that about every rancher in the area is one. None of them want the railroad to come in and take even one acre of their land, and who can blame them?”
“I can.” Dalton stared hard at Otis. “They have to think of someone other than themselves. The railroad is progress and can mean a better life for everyone in these parts. If the railroad decides to build a terminus here, Far Creek will profit greatly from it. Even if the railroad doesn’t build anything in town, just having the line run near here will bring more commerce to these parts.”
Otis plopped down in one of the other chairs. “But the railroad steals the land from the ranchers!”
“And some of the land doesn’t even belong to the ranchers. They just claim it. That’s what has them riled. In other cases, the railroad offers to buy the land at a fair price, but a lot of the ranchers place a much higher value on their land. Nobody steals anything.”
“It’s called domain or something like that and it’s out-and-out thievery!”
“Sounds like you’ve been to the Leaguers meetings, Otis.”
He clamped his teeth together with a distinct click. He glared across the rim of his cup at Dalton. “What if I have been to one or two? It’s my duty to know what’s happening under my nose, ain’t it?”
He nodded. “Who all were there?”
“Every rancher around and some farmers.”
“And is Pullman the leader?”
“He’s the president.”
A harsh bark of laughter bounced out of Dalton. “The president, huh?” He eyed the toes of his boots for a few moments, choosing his next words carefully. “It’s good you’ve been keeping an eye on those men, jus
t as long as you don’t join up with them. They’re on the wrong side of this fight. They’re standing in the way of progress and that never goes well. You’ve lived long enough to know that for a fact.”
“Progress.” Otis said the word like it was profane, then swallowed a big gulp of coffee.
“Yes, progress,” Dalton echoed. “And you’d better get on the right side of it, Deputy. Real quick.”
“I got my own mind and I ain’t asking you to control it for me. You don’t like how I do my business around here, fire me.” He set the cup on the desk and sprang up from the chair. Reaching the door, he paused and snarled, “And stay away from my niece! She don’t need no tumbleweed like you messing with her heart!”
Dalton smirked as the door slammed shut. He sat in the ensuing silence and mulled over what he should do about Enoch Custer hanging around and how far he could trust his deputy. Custer was a thorn in his side. They’d tangled more than a couple of times and Dalton had always come out ahead. He’d wrangled with men like Custer during the war and had learned how they thought and reacted. He could handle him.
He wanted to believe that he could handle Otis Gentry, too. He hoped that Otis would do the right thing if he were ever backed into a corner by Pullman, but he couldn’t say for sure. Otis was skittish and that was a dangerous trait when bullets were flying.
One thing he could do was stay away from Otis Gentry’s niece. Guess people were talking about him and Lacy. Tumbleweed. That’s what Otis had called him. He shifted in the chair, not particularly caring for the description, but not able to totally disown it.
Yes, he could stay away from Lacy Tyrell. He just wasn’t of a mind to.
Chapter 9
Saturday night.
Lacy heaved a sigh as she handed room keys to newly checked-in guests. Behind her, she could hear raucous laughter and the hum of many conversations in the hotel dining room. Outside, the clatter of hooves and the click click of shoes promenading along the boardwalk filtered into the lobby. Far Creek was bursting with activity on this moonless, cloudless, chilly night in November. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving and people were arriving to be with their relatives and friends.
She ran a finger down the registry. Only two rooms left vacant in the hotel. They’d be filled by Monday, she reckoned. Lacy glanced up when the front door swung open. Trixie, one of the saloon girls next door, stuck her head in. Her eyes were wide with alarm.
“Fight just broke out next door!” She stepped inside. “I’m staying here ʼtil it’s over!” Crossing her arms over her tight, gold corset, she shifted to the corner and wedged in there. Black stockings encased her thin legs, which were exposed up to her thighs by her short, flouncy skirt that was draped in front and festooned with gold bows. Her black corkscrew curls trembled around her face. “Marshal Moon’s comin’, so no tellin’ what will happen. Somebody sure could get kilt!”
At the mention of Dalton’s name, Lacy moved from behind the desk. She started for the front door, then changed her mind, and retraced her steps. Better to go have a look-see from the back of the saloon, she thought, walking swiftly along the hall and through the kitchen to the back door. If Trixie had abandoned the saloon, the threat must be real because the girls who worked there were used to skirmishes and yell-fights among the regulars. Slipping in through the back door, Lacy edged around crates and barrels toward the barrage of shouts and curses. She stopped on the threshold and took a half-step back into the shadows when she saw the melee before her.
A man was on the floor, curled in a fetal position, and Trey Pullman kicked him over and over again while Whit and Forest grinned and danced about like simians. People had moved back and watched, some bleary-eyed and smiling and others in shock and horror. Dutch hammered his fist on the bar, his face red as a beet and his eyes shooting sparks of rage.
“Get away from that fella right now or I’ll squash your heads like ripe melons, I will!” Dutch bellowed at them, shaking a fist to punctuate his threat.
Whit Whittier drew his revolver and aimed it at Dutch. “Shut your trap, old man, or I’ll blow a hole in ya.”
Lacy went cold as she stared at Whit and wondered how she could have ever given him the time of day. He was holding a gun on Dutch! Was he out of his mind?
Dutch glared at him with squinty eyes, daring him to make good on his threat. “You best lower that pistol right now, okay?” Dutch said through gritted teeth. “If you know what’s good for you.”
Whit chuckled and cocked the revolver. “You stay put behind that bar, Dutch, if you know what’s good for you!”
Lacy’s heart felt like a chunk of ice in her chest. She was torn, not knowing what to do. Should she march into the room and demand that Whit lower his weapon? Would he obey her or show her that her command meant nothing to him? Indecision rooted her to the spot and doubled her vision for a few seconds.
The bat wing doors snapped open and Dalton entered the saloon. The chaotic voices dwindled to an eerie silence as if Dalton’s presence rendered everyone mute. His dark gaze assessed the situation. In the next moment his hand was filled with a revolver that barked once with authority. Whit yelled and dropped his gun. He clutched his hand as blood oozed from it.
“You bastard!” Whit screamed at Dalton, then turned wild eyes on Trey. “He shot me!”
Uncle Otis scrambled in and stood, wide-eyed, behind Dalton. Lacy realized she wasn’t breathing. She inhaled and her vision sharpened. Good Lord! She’d never seen anyone move so fast in her whole life! In fact, she didn’t even see Dalton reach for his gun. It had been a blur of motion and then Whit had squalled like a newly castrated calf.
She stared at Dalton, stunned by the aura he projected. This was a Dalton Moon she hadn’t seen before. This man standing in the saloon, holding a revolver that emitted a curl of smoke, was the Union officer Rebel soldiers had faced in battle. This was the lawman who had forged a reputation for himself as a cold-blooded shootist. His eyes were so dark that she could see no pupils. His jaw looked as if it were chiseled from stone.
The fine hairs on her body quivered. Even though she felt as if she had ice in her veins, Dalton’s must have been frozen solid by the looks of him. Danger radiated from him. Anyone who didn’t think he’d shoot the next person who moved against him was a fool.
His ominous gaze slid to Trey, who stood over the moaning man. Blood trickled from the man’s nose and mouth and stained his gray shirt.
“Step away from him,” Dalton said, his voice emerging deep and deadly.
“This fella cheated me at cards,” Trey said, then spat down on him. “I’m teaching him a lesson. This isn’t any of your business.”
Dalton cocked his gun and aimed it at Trey. “You heard me, Pullman. Make tracks now or I’ll throw all three of you in jail.”
Trey smirked. “You and who else?”
“The bullets in this gun,” Dalton answered, but he didn’t smirk or smile. He stared at Trey with a look that would make a skeleton rattle its bones. “I’d advise you to keep your hands away from your six shooter, Pullman. I will kill you if you test me.”
Lacy gripped the door facing and her fingernails bit into the soft wood. It seemed like a whole minute passed before Trey shrugged and motioned for Whit and Forest.
“Let’s go, men. We’ve settled this dispute and we’ve made our point.” Trey sauntered toward Dalton, his spurs singing against the polished floor. “Old man Gentry, you’re keeping bad company. If you had any pride, you’d take that deputy star off your chest and tell this outsider to go to hell.”
Her uncle’s face reddened and his bearded chin trembled with affront. But he said nothing as he watched the three men strut out of the saloon, spurs jingling, as if it were by their choice instead of by Dalton’s command. Trey paused, holding the door open as he glared at the marshal. He raised a finger and aimed it at him.
“This isn’t over, Moon. We’re tired of having you underfoot. You best make tracks or we’ll grind you under our heels li
ke a cockroach.”
Dalton stared at Trey’s finger and the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth before he went serious again as he eyed Whit. “Where’d you get those scratches on your cheek and what’s that bruise on the back of your hand, Whittier? Looks like a bite mark.”
Whit’s face went ashen.
“Were you in town the night Willa Hollister was murdered by a lowlife?” Dalton probed.
“Where I keep myself on any night of the week is none of your damned business, Moon.” Whit shoved open the swinging doors and was gone, followed by Trey and Forrest.
Lacy let out a long breath and eased from the darkened doorway. She caught Dalton’s look of surprise before she knelt beside the man Trey had attacked. His face was swollen and bloody. Dutch squatted beside her and pressed a damp rag against the man’s bleeding mouth and nose.
“Help me get him in a chair,” Dutch ordered and several men sprang forward and maneuvered the moaning man into the closest chair. “Melba, bring me a bottle of whiskey!”
The stout barmaid grabbed one off a shelf and hurried to Dutch. “Here you go, Dutchy!”
He uncorked it and dribbled some into the man’s mouth, making him sputter before gulping some of it down. “That’ll make you feel alive again. Okay? Looks like he broke your nose, but it’ll heal up. How’s it feel when you breathe, Fletcher?”
“Hurts.” The man wheezed.
“Broke some ribs, too, I reckon.” Dutch looked at Dalton. “Good thing you came when you did. I was ready to shoot the lot of ʼem.”
Dalton gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Just doing my job, Dutch.” He glanced back at Otis. “Isn’t that right, Deputy?”
Otis screwed up his face in a disagreeable expression and didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Lacy. “And what are you doing here, girl? You don’t need to be nosing around this saloon when trouble’s afoot. Or any other time, for that matter!”
She didn’t bother to answer, mainly because she knew she couldn’t appease him and because Dalton was staring at her. She met his steady gaze and then looked at the gun he still held. He holstered it.