Ropin' the Moon

by Deborah Camp

  She would sleep with Bobbie Sue until Dalton was able to return to his own abode. Dutch had offered to have him carried there, but Lacy couldn’t bear to think of him sleeping on a hard cot in the tack room after what he’d been through. She fervently wished she knew who’d shot him. She’d . . . she’d . . . well, she’d do something!

  She had already narrowed her suspects to two men – Junior Pullman or, more likely, the Regulator he’d hired. Uncle Otis had told her about him. A sharp shooter named Custer.

  Lacy adjusted the covers over Dalton before tiptoeing from the room. He’d sleep soundly tonight. Tomorrow she’d make sure he had food in his belly and insist that he allow himself time to heal before resuming his work. Uncle Otis could take over for a few days.

  She gathered her nightdress, clothes for tomorrow, and a few toiletries. She found Bobbie Sue waiting for her at the top of the landing, wringing her hands and looking worried.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Sleeping,” Lacy reported. “I imagine he will barely stir until morning. He drank quite a lot of that whiskey.” She walked with Bobbie Sue to the woman’s room at the end of the hall.

  “Can you believe that someone would be crazy enough to shoot a marshal in the back like that! And it is most likely someone we know.”

  “It’s Pullman or someone associated with him.” Lacy shifted the items in her arms. “You’re sure you’re okay with me barging in on you?”

  “Of course. Don’t be silly.” Bobbie Sue placed an arm around her shoulders. “How are you doing? I know you were shaken to your soul when Marshal Moon came riding in, soaked in blood and looking white as a ghost.” She gave her a quick hug. “You being sweet on him and all.”

  “I’m not—!” Lacy bit back her futile reproach. “Well, yes. it was upsetting seeing him like that. Seeing anyone like that!” She closed her eyes for a moment, recalling the sight of Soldier carrying his wounded rider. Several people had trotted along beside him, unsure how to help or what to do. They’d barely made it to the hotel when Dalton had begun sliding out of the saddle. A couple of men had rushed to catch him before he hit the ground.

  Bobbie Sue opened the door and stood back to let Lacy go in first. It was a small room with two windows that faced the stables. A double bed, dresser, washstand, and armoire crowded the space, leaving barely enough floor free for the oval rug with its design of red roses and honeysuckle vines. A single lantern on the dresser provided ambient light that stuttered and cast wiggling shadows on the walls. Lacy laid her things on top of a trunk at the foot of the bed.

  Bobbie Sue closed the curtains and turned up the wick on the lantern. “I’ll check on the front desk. You rest.”

  “No.” Lacy glanced in the dresser mirror and smoothed wisps of blond hair off her forehead and temples. “The excitement is over and we’ve done what we can for him. We can both resume our duties.” She turned toward the door to find Bobbie Sue gazing at her with an enigmatic smile. “Something wrong?”

  “You do like him, Lacy. Why are you acting like you don’t?”

  “I never said I didn’t like him,” Lacy hedged, not sure she wanted to talk about her feelings for Dalton with anyone. “I’m glad the bullet didn’t hit his lungs or heart. He was lucky.”

  “Did you two have a spat?”

  Lacy rested her hand on the door knob, debating whether to confide in Bobbie Sue or keep to her own counsel.

  “Lacy? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She looked over her shoulder at Bobbie’s Sue worried expression. “Dalton and I are friends. That’s all. He’ll be moving on soon.”

  “Oh, I see.” Bobbie Sue folded her arms at her waist and nodded. “Otis will be pleased to hear that. He’s been fretting that you’d fall head over heels for the marshal and then be brokenhearted when he rides away and never looks back.”

  Lacy couldn’t keep the frown from her face. Uncle Otis had obviously been talking to Bobbie Sue about her and Dalton. While it was touching that he was looking out for her, she was a grown woman who knew her own heart and mind. She also wondered how much his feelings had to do with her heart and how much they had to do with his festering resentment of Dalton taking over his job temporarily.

  She jumped slightly when Bobbie Sue touched her shoulder.

  “Hon, did that marshal say something hateful to you?”

  “No. It’s nothing like that.” She shrugged. “You’re right. He will be moving on soon.” And I’ll be stuck here. She wrenched open the door as the rest of that thought seared her mind. Truth be told, she envied Dalton Moon. He was bound for a new place, new people, a chance to begin again and see if he’d be happier somewhere else. She would remain in Far Creek until . . . until what? She was a town elder, still working at the hotel? Until she finally met a man she found interesting enough to marry? In all her years, she could point to only one man who intrigued her, challenged her, lit her up from the inside out. And he’d be leaving soon.

  “He will be gone in another month,” Bobbie Sue said as if following her train of thought. “It’s smart of you to break away from him sooner than later. The longer you share his company, the harder it will be when you’re without it.”

  “At this point, I pray he leaves town alive. Junior Pullman could be the death of him. Or that hired gun.” She shook her head as she moved quickly down the stairs.

  “Maybe this ambush will make him more cautious. Maybe it knocked some sense into him,” Bobbie Sue said.

  Lacy rolled her eyes. Bobbie Sue obviously knew nothing about the hard-headed, determined man currently sleeping in her bed. If anything, being shot would make him more obstinate and unflinching about ending Junior Pullman’s stranglehold on Far Creek.

  “He’s a man, Bobbie Sue,” she said when they reached the first floor of the hotel.

  “And so?” Bobbie Sue asked, smiling.

  Lacy shrugged. “So, you have to take a man for what he is and not for what he ought to be. Dalton Moon is prideful and courageous.” She sighed as she struggled with the contrasting feelings whirling around her heart. “I don’t want him to get hurt or . . . worse, but I also don’t want him to be less than he is. He won’t back down, and that scares the stuffing out of me and also impresses me.” She shook her head. “That’s what he does to me, Bobbie Sue. He makes me so looney that I can’t tell if I want to kiss him or kick him.”

  A cackle had them both turning toward the doorway that led into the restaurant. Agnes stood there, her veined hands covering her grinning mouth.

  “What tweaked your funny bone?” Lacy asked with a little laugh.

  Agnes sent her a wink. “Lacy girl, that handsome marshal has sunk his spurs into you already. You just don’t know it yet.”

  Finding it difficult to stay away from Dalton, Lacy set the breakfast tray on the bedside table and watched a ray of sunlight peek in from the gap in the drapes to find Dalton’s whiskered chin. Appolonia had prepared a couple of hardboiled eggs, a few slices of bacon, and bread and butter for him. Earlier, Lacy had brought in some clothes for him that Uncle Otis had fetched. She’d stacked them on the foot of the bed.

  Half-expecting to find him awake this time, she was glad he still slumbered. She liked looking at him to her heart’s content, taking pleasure in memorizing the slash of his cheekbones, the arch of his eyebrows, the shape of his nose, and his strong jawline that was now darkened by whiskers. Did he inherit his good looks from his mother or father? Did his mother and sisters worry about him as much as she did or were they immune to his wandering from town to town and peril to peril?

  She heaved a woeful sigh that emerged more like a groan. Dalton’s eyelashes fluttered and lifted. His unfocused eyes found her, fixed on her, sharpened. A frown line settled between his eyes. He swallowed hard and coughed.

  “Where am I?” he whispered, his voice full of grit.

  “You’re in the Holland Hotel.” She decided that was enough information for now. “I’ve brought you some breakfast, if you think
you can eat. How about some water or coffee?”

  “Breakfast?” He closed his eyes again.

  “Yes. You’ve been asleep since Dutch removed the bullet from your shoulder yesterday. Here, let me help you.” She reached for him when he planted his fists on the mattress and attempted to shift to a sitting position. Gripping his upper arm, she realized that the muscles there impeded her spanning the circumference of it. “Be careful,” she admonished when he grimaced and sucked in a breath. “Dutch had to put some stitches in and we don’t want you to ruin his handiwork.” She steadied him as best she could as he inched himself high enough to lean back against the oak headboard.

  “I’m hot.”

  “You’re feverish.” She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. His skin was warm and sticky. “Drink some water.” Picking up the glass of it on the tray, she gave it to him. He took it with a hand that trembled.

  After he gulped some down, he made a slow scan of the room and then examined the lace-edged sheet. He looked at her from under a cocked eyebrow and a cunning smile tipped up the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m in your room.” He smoothed his hands over the coverlet in something akin to a caress. “This is your bed.”

  She gave a little shrug. “Yes. We couldn’t allow you to recover next to the stables, now could we? It being Thanksgiving, the hotel is full.”

  “Thanksgiving.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow, actually.”

  He scowled. “Have I ruined the holiday for you?”

  “No. Holidays are busy in the hotel business. Our celebrations are short and then it’s back to work.”

  He glanced around. “I told you that I’d get in here, didn’t I?”

  Extending him an arched look, she pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “This isn’t what you had in mind though.” She nodded at the tray. “Can you eat something?”

  He glanced at the food. “Not yet.” He flexed his shoulder and eyed the white bandage Dutch had affixed to it. “Maybe some coffee.”

  Setting to it, she gave him the cup of it. “If you don’t want eggs and bacon, I’ll have the cook make something else for you. Porridge? Grits?”

  He waved aside her suggestions and gulped the coffee. “Much obliged,” he murmured as he looked over the tray again. “I’ll try one of those eggs, I guess. And a slice of bread. Once I get some food in me, I’ll clear out of here.”

  “No, you will not,” she said, yanking back the egg and bread she had been about to offer him. “You will stay put until tomorrow. Then we’ll see.”

  Stubbornness firmed his jaw. “And when did you become my boss?” He snatched the egg and bread from her hands even as he hissed in discomfort at the sudden movement.

  Softening her stance, she decided to ply him with honey instead of vinegar. “Dalton, please? Can’t you promise me to stay here one more day and night? For me, Dalton?”

  One corner of his mouth twitched. She couldn’t be sure if he was moved by her plea or had seen through her ruse.

  “I’m Dalton again, am I?” He plucked at the lace-edged sheet. “This is a very comfortable bed. Much more comfortable than the one I use. If I lounge around here another night, I might decide to stay.”

  His quip didn’t amuse her. Instead, it nicked her heart. “Make yourself at home? Put down roots? No, you won’t.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “You have itchy feet. You’ll leave here as soon as you’re satisfied that your job is done. You’ll ride away and never think of me again. Within a month, you’ll forget my name.”

  “No.” Although the word was softly spoken, it was weighty. “I won’t forget you or your name, Lacy Rebecca Tyrell.”

  Her gaze flew to his and her breath lodged in her throat at the raw, guileless emotion in his eyes. “How . .?” She blinked. “Uncle Otis told you.”

  He nodded.

  “And what is your middle name?”

  “Armstrong.”

  “Armstrong? My, my. Dalton Armstrong Moon.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll remain here and rest another day and night if you’ll join me for dinner this evening.”

  “What? In here?”

  “Yes.”

  A laugh tumbled from her. “You’re a devil.”

  “Me? You wound me.” He placed a hand over the bandage and presented a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Again. You call me a devil because I don’t want to dine alone?”

  “I can’t do it,” she said, clasping her hands and gazing down at them because she found it difficult to refuse him while looking into his pleading, dark brown eyes. “You know I can’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I have a reputation that I won’t besmirch.”

  “Besmirch?” he repeated with deliberate enunciation. His chuckle brought her gaze up to his with a snap.

  “Yes, besmirch. People will talk if I spend the evening in here with you.”

  “Did I say the whole evening?” he chided, his voice going scratchy again. He coughed and took a long swallow of water. “I asked if you’d dine with me. How can anyone speak ill of a kind, young woman who agrees to sit with a wounded man while he partakes of his supper? I might require assistance.” He pressed his hand lightly against the bandage again. “I am disadvantaged as anyone can see.”

  She scoffed at his silliness. “You’re joking about, but you are weakened whether or not you admit it.” She realized he waited for her answer, still holding out that she’d agree. Should she? Considering the circumstances and the fact that she actually did want to dine with him, she allowed that she could agree without causing tongues to wag. “I suppose there isn’t anything wrong with me providing company as you eat your dinner as long as I leave the doors open.”

  “Ah, yes. That will keep the devil in his den.”

  “It’s simply an act of propriety.” She hitched up her chin, aware that they were both getting what they wanted. Time together. Moving back a step, she told herself not to tarry. She did have other work to do. “The privy is over there.” She waved toward a screened corner of the room. “Bobbie Sue and I will check on you throughout the day. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask us.” She scooted the plate of food closer to the bed. “Try to eat the rest of that.”

  He said nothing. Just let his gaze travel from her wringing hands to her mouth and stay there. Her heart doubled its pace.

  “Very well then.” Her voice emerged higher than usual, a clear testament to his effect on her. Tan his hide for looking so virile in her bed! The sheet had slipped to his waist, displaying his lightly furred chest and muscled mid-section. She retreated more steps. “I’ll leave you to rest. And eat. And, well, regain your strength so that you can . . . dress.”

  His brows shot up at that and he glanced down at his bare torso. A smirk played upon his mouth.

  “There are clothes here for you.” She indicated the stack on top of the trunk. “Uncle Otis brought them over.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  Why she blushed she couldn’t fathom, but she felt her face and neck flame. “You’re welcome. No thanks needed really. I’m doing what any decent person would do. I don’t need your gratitude. You certainly aren’t beholden to—.” She clamped her lips together and drew in a deep breath. “I’m babbling. Excuse me.” She lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave, and essayed a quick exit. Before she closed the door, she heard his husky chuckle.

  Chapter 11

  “I suppose the hotel is fully booked,” Amelia Tankersly said as she added the items Lacy had placed on the counter to the Holland’s bill.

  “Full to bursting,” Lacy agreed. “I was sure that I’d thought of everything, but there is always one or two guests who spring surprises on me.” She indicated the shoe polish, shoe laces, and box of matches. “We don’t normally provide such items, but when paying guests ask sweetly, what can we do but oblige?”

  “Lacy Tyrell! Just the girl I want to sp
eak to. What luck to run into you here.”

  Lacy turned toward Caroline Filmore, wondering what the city clerk’s daughter wanted from her. All smiles and blooming cheeks, Caroline was a frothy confection in her pink and white ruffled dress. A tri-cornered hat of deep rose and black lace topped the outfit. Lacy felt like a drab wren in her practical brown skirt and biscuit colored blouse.

  “I heard that Marshal Moon is staying at the hotel while he recovers.” Caroline pressed a hand to her throat in a show of compassion. “How is he getting on? I’d like to invite him to spend Thanksgiving with our family.”

  Lacy tried to squelch her proprietary feelings, but couldn’t. “He isn’t well enough to have visitors or to go anywhere for Thanksgiving. The hotel staff is seeing to his needs.” The smile she fashioned felt as cold as a witch’s kiss. “I’ll let him know that you asked after him, though.”

  “That’s odd. I saw your uncle a few minutes ago and he said that Marshal Moon would be returning to work tomorrow. If he is going to work, then he should be able to have Thanksgiving dinner with us. I’m sure you would have invited him to your house – if you had one.”

  Lacy slanted her a side-eyed glare. If Amelia hadn’t been regarding the exchange, she might have burned Caroline to a crisp with a blazing retort. Instead, she kept the stiff smile on her lips. “Caroline, the man was shot. He might show up at the jail tomorrow, but he won’t be working. He will be resting.”

  Caroline regarded her with open suspicion as she pursed her pink lips. “Your uncle said that no one has any inkling as to who shot him.”

  Lacy nodded her thanks to Amelia when she finished wrapping her items in brown paper and handed them to her. “I hope you and John have a lovely Thanksgiving, Amelia.”

  “I think I’ll bring him some of our cook’s corn chowder for his dinner tonight,” Caroline said, aggravatingly persistent. “That will make him feel better.”