by Deborah Camp
“Is it over?” Trixie asked, bursting into the saloon.
“Where’d you go?” Melba demanded.
“I hid over at the hotel.” Trixie’s attention latched onto the bloody man. “Thank God, he ain’t dead. You doing okay there, Fletcher?”
The man shrugged as he allowed Dutch to swipe some of the blood out of his chin whiskers and mutton chops.
“Your name is Fletcher?” Dalton asked.
“Yep. Mason Fletcher.”
“He works on the Cannon Ranch,” Trixie said. “Trey and them others said he was cheating at cards. Was you, honey lamb? Was you cheating?”
“Nah.” The man flapped a hand at the notion. “They’s sore losers is all. And they’s crazy! Whooping up on me like they had a right.” He stuck out his red-splotched hand. “Put ʼer there, Marshal. I owe ya.”
Dalton eyed the man’s outstretched hand before he shook it. “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Fletcher. Those men didn’t have a right to beat you. They’re lucky I didn’t arrest them.” He glanced at Lacy, catching her worried frown and actually smirked at her in reply.
Lacy chewed on her lower lip, imagining what Pullman might do if Trey were thrown into the jail. Probably torch the town! Spinning around, she left the way she’d come. Out back, instead of returning to the hotel, she veered toward the stables to pet Cry Baby.
The horse hung its head over the gate for her to stroke her long forelock and mane. Loving on the horse settled Lacy’s frayed nerves. She placed a kiss between Cry Baby’s eyes and crooned to her that she was “so pretty,” “such a good girl,” and “my special angel.” She’d closed her eyes and when she opened them, she gave a start to find that Dalton Moon stood not more than a foot from her.
“You scared me!” she scolded him.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall and his gaze brushed up and down her like a caress. “I came to check on you. Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m just . . .” She shrugged.
“Wouldn’t blame you if you’re a mite rattled.”
“I’m fine now.”
“That’s good. Go riding with me in the morning,” he suggested. “I’m leaving for Topeka Sunday to testify in Louder’s trial and I’ll be gone a couple of days.”
She felt as if a stone fell from her heart to her stomach. “You aren’t.”
“I am.” He removed his hat and ran a hand through the inky, curling nest of his hair. “Will you, Lacy? Take a ride with me tomorrow?”
She wanted to agree, but she couldn’t shake the way she’d felt when he’d stared at Trey Pullman with eyes that were as hard and cold as a whetstone. Seeing him that way had shaken her to her soul. She didn’t know him, she told herself. Didn’t know what he was capable of. Didn’t know his heart. He could be toying with her. Could be laughing behind her back at her gullibility – her willingness to spend time with him. Time alone. She didn’t think he was that type of man, but she couldn’t rule it out because . . . because she didn’t know him. The man in the saloon, who had drawn on and shot Whit with such speed and accuracy was a legend, a wild tale, a person she shouldn’t be sporting with. He was paid to ferret out trouble and end it, then move on to the next problem.
“Lacy?” he asked, the deep, rich timbre of his voice slicing through her inner debate.
“No. I won’t.” She sucked in a small breath, surprised by her own, rapid answer.
He drew his brows together in thoughtful reflection and then disappointment tugged down the corners of his mouth. With a sigh, he placed his hat back on his head. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am. I’ll be busy tomorrow. Thanksgiving is next week, you know.”
“Ah, yes. So it is.” Sadness lingered in his chocolate eyes. “You have much to be thankful for, do you, Lacy?”
She took a moment to reflect on his question and then decided to fling it back at him. “Do you?”
His smile turned melancholy. “Not as much as I’d like.”
Cry Baby nickered and nudged her shoulder. Lacy placed a hand on the mare’s head, but kept her gaze locked on Dalton. Suddenly, he seemed vulnerable and unsure of himself. It tore at her heart.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
The faintest of smiles flickered across his face. “Always am. Don’t you fret over me, Lacy Tyrell. I won’t have it.”
“Oh, I know. I saw how you can handle yourself in there.” She nodded in the general direction of the saloon. “You’re a flash of lightning with that gun of yours. Deadly.”
“Is that why you won’t go for a ride with me? Are you scared of me now, Lacy?”
“No.” She hitched up her chin. “I just think we shouldn’t . . . it’s just that . . .” She stopped to draw in a big breath and clear her mind before she finished, “It’s better this way, Marshal.”
He flinched as if her calling him “marshal” was a slap instead of a word. His gaze scoured her face for long moments before he seemed to believe her. He nodded, slowly, as he turned away. “Okay then. Good night, Miss Tyrell.”
She watched as his tall form blended in with the shadows outside and disappeared altogether. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest and her eyes burned. Cry Baby blew a hot breath across her cheek. She pressed the side of her face against the horse’s neck.
It was better this way, she told herself. She didn’t want her heart trampled on by Dalton and that would surely happen if she kept slipping off with him, kissing him, letting her desire for him rule her and rob her of her good sense.
“Nothing good can come of it,” she whispered to Cry Baby. She had given him the right answer. She had made the right decision. But, somehow, it felt all wrong.
He’d taken the long way to Topeka, staying off the main roads and slipping through backwoods and along hunting trails. Figuring that if someone was aiming to keep him from testifying, that someone would shoot him before he could arrive at the courthouse, Dalton had decided to make himself a harder target.
Once in Topeka, he’d checked into a decent hotel, had some dinner and had turned in early so that he’d be refreshed the next morning for the trial. He’d dreamed of Lacy Tyrell that night – of the smell of her and the silken feel of her skin. He’d dreamed of kissing her until he’d melted all her resistance and could undress her, one garment at a time, uncovering her delicious body to his starving eyes. Her arms had reached for him. Her rosy nipples had peaked with longing. Her plush lips had parted as she’d sighed his name. He’d awakened stiff and swollen, which didn’t surprise him in the least. It wasn’t the first time that Lacy had overtaken his dreams and commanded his body.
After a quick breakfast, he’d arrived at the courthouse as nervous as a bridegroom at a shotgun wedding. Sam Louder was led in and glowered at him. Dalton had ignored him. When he’d been called to testify, he’d spoken confidently and clearly, relating to the judge how Louder had admitted his crime, had broken out of jail, and how he’d tracked Louder down and arrested him again with Louder resisting. He also told the judge that the victim could not appear in court to give her side of it because she’d been murdered. A couple of times, Dalton had heard Louder chuckle. When the judge sentenced Louder to seven years in prison, Dalton barely resisted the urge to smirk at the prisoner, who was no longer amused by the proceedings.
“Seven years!” Louder shook off his lawyer’s hands. “You gotta be loco! I ain’t gonna stand for that. All’s I did was get a little rough with that split-tail whore. As for the jail break and all. Hell, you’d do the same thing. Ain’t nobody likes being penned up.”
The judge, a rail-thin man in his mid-forties, eyed Louder behind thick glasses and pursed his lips in a grimace of disgust. “Take him away, guards. He’s stunk up this place enough.”
Two burly men had shoved Louder out of the courtroom. Louder had managed to spit in Dalton’s general direction as he’d passed him.
Dalton thanked the judge and shook hands with the lawyers, then he’d stepped outside and breathed in the
air of freedom and justice. He’d turned his face up to the sun, appreciating that he could level the scales somewhat for poor Willa Hollister. He swore to himself that he’d ferret out her murderer and make sure he’d spend time in prison or paid with his life. Whittier had risen to the top of his list of murderers, but Dalton didn’t think he’d acted alone. He’d studied boot prints behind the cobbler’s store. He couldn’t prove it, but he’d determined that there had been at least two men back there with Willa.
He’d spent the rest of the day exploring the city and eating a fine meal at one of the restaurants. He’d even taken in a rollicking show at one of the dance hall saloons with banjo players and crazy jokers and pretty gals flipping their petticoats high enough to reveal their creamy thighs. Sure wasn’t anything close to that in Far Creek and that made him itch to move on to the next town. Just as soon as that thought had struck him – a notion that usually made him gladden with the prospect of new beginnings and new challenges – he had been struck by the realization that he’d be putting Lacy Tyrell behind him, too.
Later, he’d lain awake in his bed at the hotel, wrestling with the melancholy that coated him when he envisioned never laying eyes on Lacy again. Never hearing her husky laugh or see pinpoints of light dance in her blue eyes. Never hear his name whisper across her pink lips. It felt like she’d physically injured him when she’d spurned him, calling him “marshal” again and letting him know that she was done with him. But he’d shaken it off. Or so he’d told himself.
He’d tossed in bed, slammed his fist in the pillow several times, and finally drifted into a fitful slumber that had him feeling sore-headed and tender-hearted come morning. How that gal had woven herself around his heart and head so quickly astounded him. But she had. It was clear as day to him. She was different from any other woman he’d squired. He supposed it was more than that, though. It was more like he’d been courting her – something he hadn’t done since before the war.
That had brought him up short and he had mulled over it during his breakfast. He wasn’t sure how it had happened or when, but he wasn’t just escorting Lacy with hopes of winning a kiss or two. He was courting her and wanting more than kisses. Much more. He wanted her. With everything holy and unholy in him, he desired her. It wasn’t like before when he’d blithely turn his attentions from one woman to the next. No other woman would do. No other woman equaled her or came close.
She was the belle of Far Creek for good reason that went beyond her natural beauty. Her spirit spoke to a man like a Siren’s call. She was the type of female who could be soft as the patter of raindrops or biting as a hail storm, depending on the situation and her mood. She looked a fella right in the eyes. No simpering or eyelash fluttering – although she was damned good at that, too. But, generally, she aimed those big blues at a person and didn’t flinch. That told him that she hadn’t lived an easy life. She’d known hardships and had borne up under them.
Smart as a whip, she’d found work that paid her a living so that she owed no one or actually needed anyone, adding to her allure. That she stood on her own two feet and wasn’t looking for a man to lighten her load was an elixir to him. She was like his mother and his sisters. Strong, opinionated, capable, but without losing one ounce of femininity. She brought out in him every good thing there was about being a man.
These musings continued as he headed for Far Creek. He rode along the main road, which was populated with enough traffic that he had to weave Soldier around slower wagons and barely moving horses every quarter mile or so. The day passed quickly. He stopped after a few hours to stretch his legs and let Soldier have a drink from a creek. Kneeling on the bank, he splashed some of the ice cold water in his face, filled his canteen, and admired the fallen autumn leaves surrounding him. Winter was approaching, he thought, noticing that many of the trees had bare branches now.
“Come on, son,” he said, snagging Soldier’s reins and hauling himself back into the saddle. “We aren’t too far from Far Creek now. Another couple of hours and we’ll be there.”
He thought about taking the hunting trials and backwoods the rest of the way, but since it would add another hour to the trip, he guided the buckskin back onto the main road. The threat was gone, anyway. He’d testified and Louder was sentenced, so what was done was done.
About ten miles from town, the shot rang out, splitting the air about the same time as a ball of fire rammed into the back of Dalton’s left shoulder. It rocked him forward in the saddle and instinct made him hunker down and slide over to the right in case the shooter wanted to take a second shot at him. Soldier knew what to do. With his ears laid back and his teeth clacking, he stretched out into a full-out run, not waiting for any guidance from his rider. Dalton held on, letting the horse take them away from imminent danger. He smelled his own blood and felt the wetness of it make his shirt stick to his back. The bullet had found meat and maybe some bone. With the shock of the attack wearing off and his adrenalin ebbing, he felt like the left side of his body had gone numb except for the hole in it that throbbed along with his racing heartbeats.
“Get us home, Soldier,” he whispered, righting himself in the saddle and realizing that he had double vision. He glanced at his shoulder. A patch of blood had seeped through his shirt and stained his coat. He grabbed a handful of Soldier’s mane in his right hand and told himself to stay upright.
They’d be home in no time. Just another mile . . .
He must have passed out for a minute or two because consciousness came thundering back to him when he heard Lacy Tyrell’s voice.
“Dalton! Help me get him down! Dalton!”
The panic in her voice opened his eyes and he smiled when her oval face came into view. Her eyes were so blue! Like heaven. Surely, heaven was that color.
“You’re awful pretty,” he murmured.
“Who did this?” Her breathless words came at him, rousing him from his stupor.
Clarity washed through his mind. Dalton didn’t know how, but he was off his horse and helped into the saloon by Dutch and Otis. Ahead of him, Lacy motioned for others to clear a table as the men eased him into a chair.
“Lay him down here.” Lacy patted the table.
“I don’t need to lie down,” Dalton said, hearing his voice emerge rough and full of gravel. “I’m fine.”
“Somebody shot you, okay?” Dutch said. “Let’s peel this coat and shirt off him and see the damage. Might have to take him to a doctor.”
“No you don’t,” Dalton assured them. “It’s nothing.” He grunted in pain as Dutch yanked his coat and then his shirt off him.
“There is a bullet in you,” Lacy said, standing in front of him with her hands planted on her hips and flags of color rising in her cheeks. “A bullet in your back, I might add. Who did this? What weasel shot you from behind?”
He grinned, thinking she was never prettier than with fire in her eyes and her golden hair in a long, thick braid. God, he wanted to kiss her, to taste her sweetness. More than he wanted his next breath!
She bent over at the waist to stare into his eyes. “Who shot you?”
“I don’t rightly know as he was behind me and hid. That’s what weasels do, sweetheart. They hide and take pot shots at you because they’re too cowardly to face you.” He saw her brows arch and her lips part at the endearment he’d spoken. Then Dutch’s blunt fingers probed the hole in his shoulder and made him shut his eyes in agony.
“It’s in there, all right. Gonna have to dig it out, okay? You want me to have a go at it or should we haul you to a real doctor?”
Dalton shook his head. “You do it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Dalton took in a deep breath, dreading what would come next. “Just give me a bottle of whiskey and cover your ears because the words that will be coming out of my mouth won’t be fit for polite company.”
Chapter 10
Dalton Moon was in her bed.
Lacy stood beside it, momentarily mesmerized by the
length of Dalton’s black lashes resting on his cheeks. She loved the shape of his lips, too. They were full and the upper one had just the right dip in the middle, making it attractive but not in the least bit feminine. In truth, there was precious little about him that she didn’t find attractive.
He could look wounded and lost one moment and then in the blink of an eye appear as dangerous as Satan himself. One of those dark, lazy-eyed stares of his could make her feel all floaty inside. However, she shivered even now when she recalled his ruthless expression when he’d faced the Pullman bunch.
Thankfully, he appeared nearly angelic now with his face void of any expression other than slumbering peace. Ah, but he’s handsome, she thought. And he was in her bed.
She could see some of his chest and the swirls of ebony hair on it. His strong, tanned throat moved as he swallowed and he frowned slightly before slipping into deep sleep once more. Reaching out a fingertip, she felt the black stubble on his cheeks and chin. It was softer than she’d imagined. Freckles dusting the tops of his shoulders snagged her attention and she ran that same fingertip along his shoulder. His skin was warm and she suspected he might have a bit of a fever. Since his face was paler than usual, the scar near his eye was more noticeable. She resisted tracing it with her fingertip because she feared it might disturb him enough to awaken him.
Throwing up a wall against the temptation to run her fingers across the hair on his chest, she folded her hands behind her back and took one step back from the bed.
When Dutch had removed the bullet, Dalton’s stalwart composure through the ordeal had impressed her. The half a bottle of whiskey he’d downed before the operation had commenced certainly had aided in his ability to withstand the pain, she thought, and most assuredly helped him to sleep now. Still, he’d been a brave soul. If she’d had a bullet gouged out of her shoulder, she would have shattered windows with her screams before passing out cold. Dalton had managed to stay conscious until Dutch yanked the bullet out, taking some muscle and skin with it. Only then had he slipped into unconsciousness. A couple of men had carried him into Lacy’s quarters and put him to bed.