Читать книгу Wed To The Texas Outlaw - Carol Arens - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Sitting on a grassy incline that overlooked a fresh-running stream, Boone savored the last breath of warmth from the fading day. He shuffled through the handwritten notes that Mathers had supplied.

It wasn’t comfortable reading about the town and its trouble because, in his time, he’d caused a fair share of trouble. He’d been the outlaw they feared.

Hell, he’d become more than that. Common outlaws could be found on every saloon corner, but his reputation had snowballed until he was seen as a monster.

And all because of bad timing.

Until the day he’d robbed the saloon in Dry Creek, he’d been as common as any other thief. That day, with his pockets comfortably sagging with cash, he’d gone out, passing a man going in. That man, reportedly angry at finding the coffers empty, had killed four people, women among them.

The killer was as common-looking as beans. Boone was tall; he had looked threatening that afternoon. So it’s him they remembered...him they gave the blame to. Word spread that the pair of them were partners. After that, fear and a natural love of gossip attached many sinister stories to him. Some of them actually happened, just not by his hand. Others were born of ripe and idle imaginations.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he withdrew the bent badge Mathers had given him and rubbed his thumb over the tarnished metal.

Holding this symbol of law and order in his hand, knowing that he would one day pin it on his vest, made him feel like an imposter. This business of upholding law and order was the last thing he’d ever imagined he would be doing.

Never expected he’d be anything other than a two-bit criminal.

He’d been a novice at crime, though, compared to the outlaws he would be facing.

The sun sat low and bright over the horizon. It was only an hour before sundown. They’d reach Jasper Springs by noon tomorrow.

That didn’t give him long to figure out a way to round up six bloodstained souls. He’d have a better shot at it if he had the meanness in him that his reputation said he did.

All he was, was a survivor. He reckoned that would have to do.

A rustle of petticoats approached from behind. Melinda sat beside him, a blanket drawn across her shoulders. Funny how it smelled as if she’d brought a handful of sweet-smelling flowers along with her.

“I’d like to read those.” She pointed to the papers he held.

He shook his head. “It’s not fit reading for a lady’s eyes.”

Eyes that had been as agreeable as sugar suddenly narrowed at him. “If that lady’s life depends upon knowing what she is up against, it is fit reading.”

She wouldn’t find it pleasant, but he handed them over.

A gust of cool wind rustled the pages in her hand. She pressed them to her bosom. He tried his best not to notice.

For a long time she was silent. A delicate line creased her forehead while she read.

Was she seeing his face when she read about the outlaws? That alone would be enough to make him feel guilty about his past, even though it was not as black as she must think. Funny how a man wanted his wife’s respect. It didn’t matter that he barely knew her or that she wouldn’t be his wife for long.

“Six King brothers in all,” she sighed. The blamed wind tugged at the paper. She pressed it to her chest again. The way the pages flapped against her bosom made it impossible not to think about—hell’s curses—unsuitable things. “What will we do?”

“‘We’ will not do anything.” He shot her a severe frown but she did not react to it. “This is all on me. The one and only reason you are here is for show.”

With a delicate arch of her brow, she questioned him.

“Let’s see...” She tapped her finger on the paper on her breast. He turned his gaze to the water rolling by, staring at each ripple with dedicated concentration. “There’s Efrin King, the oldest, known as King Cobra. It says here that he’s a greedy soul, in love with money and power. Then we have Buck King—King Diamond Back. He’s second by birth and they say that he is jealous of Efrin. And what about Lump King? King Horny Toad is simpleminded, quite evil nevertheless. I’ve got to say, that one worries me, Boone. You can’t think to take on this whole family alone?”

“Look, I know you want to help. Seems to be in your nature to. But this is dangerous business. The only way of coming out of it whole is if you do what I tell you to without question.”

“I reckon you can handle Olfin—King Hornet.” Blamed, if the woman hadn’t just ignored him. “It’s says here he’s not as bad as the others, just sort of goes along.”

He should have refused to involve Melinda in this, at least more forcefully than he had. Here she was, as determined as a bee collecting pollen, to put her nose where it didn’t belong.

“I welcome your ideas and that’s as far as it goes.” He shot her the frown again. “Anything besides that, you’ll only be in my way.”

“If it weren’t for King Copperhead, Leland, I’d take to my bed and cover my head with a dozen quilts. But what do you intend to do with someone who, it says right here, is charming and at the same time the most deadly of them all? Of all the brothers he takes the most pleasure in violence. Did you see this, Boone?” She shoved the paper in front of his eyes. “He delights in it!”

He was silent because he didn’t rightly know what he was going to do. Not with Leland or any of them.

According to the plan, they, as homesteaders, were supposed to look weak, victim-like. To his mind that was no plan at all.

Smythe, who had been collecting firewood, dumped his load beside the circle of stones Boone had set out for the night’s campfire.

With his strides crisp and his back straight, the lawyer crossed the clearing then wriggled down between him and Melinda. The dog-wolf followed but turned aside to snuffle through the brush, his tail wagging and resembling bristles on a worn broom.

Mathers had seemed to feel the beast would be helpful. But so far his disposition seemed mild; they hadn’t heard so much as a growl out of him.

“You are my charge,” Smythe said to Melinda. “I won’t have you putting yourself at risk.”

“As your husband, I say the same.”

Melinda gave them both a sincere smile, a lovely one, in fact. “I would never dream of being a burden to you, Stanley. Or, Husband, of putting you at unnecessary risk.”

Odd that her apparent compliance didn’t ease his concern a whit.

“Still, I can’t help but wonder, Boone, what you will do about the youngest, Bird King, who calls himself King Vulture? It says right here that he is unpredictable.” She jabbed her slender finger at the words on the page. “Apparently charming one moment but the next nearly as wicked as Leland.”

“Sounds like they consider themselves royalty,” Stanley said.

“According to Mathers, they rule the town, even make other folks call them by their last name first. ‘King’ So-and-so.” He took the papers from Melinda and handed them to Smythe. “The only law that’s observed in Jasper Springs is at the whim of the Kings. Says here they hanged a boy barely out of the schoolroom for trying to defend his sister from Horny Toad. Doesn’t say what happened to her.”

Silence stretched for a time, broken only by the chirrup of crickets, the croak of frogs.

Suddenly there was a tussle in the shrubbery. Branches cracked and leaves scattered.

Billbro trotted out with a limp rabbit in his jaws. He set it before them.

“Good. One of us is a hunter,” Stanley observed. “We won’t starve.”

* * *

Riding down the main street of Jasper Springs, the wagon wheels laboring over the rutted road, Melinda thought the town must have been well cared for at one time.

Flowerpots decorated the raised boardwalk. A banner advertising a long-gone Fourth of July celebration was strung from one side of the street to the other. Looking past the banner, toward the end of Main Street, she saw a fountain gurgling in the town square.

Sadly, Jasper Springs now resembled a ghost town more than anything else. Those pretty flowerpots were cracked, growing weeds, the banner faded and tattered. The spring-fed fountain sounded lovely but no one was around to enjoy it. It would be easy to imagine that no one lived here any longer.

At least there were trees to soften the dreariness of the place. Dozens of them grew around town, their fall colors bright and beautiful. What a satisfaction to know that the outlaws did not control everything.

Melinda adjusted her drab bonnet and tried to fluff her brown dress. Sadly, no amount of encouraging could make the homespun fluff.

She reminded herself that she was not here to look her best but to pose as a homesteader’s wife. To appear dutiful, hardworking and, most of all, vulnerable.

That is what her new husband must believe she is, if his hesitation to let her read about the Kings was any indication.

“Humph!” He would need to learn that she would not wither at the first sign of trouble.

Stanley, sitting beside her, the team’s reins gripped in his smooth, lawyer-like hands, looked at her in question.

“It’s nothing,” she said, even though it was. If a man was going to rely upon a woman’s help, he had to respect that she could actually help.

Boone rode in front of the wagon, sitting tall on Weaver the mule. A rifle lay square across his thighs. To her mind, he looked far too commanding to be a meek farmer, even given his humble mount.

Far too handsome, as well.

As if reading her thoughts, her admiration of the masculine image he presented, Boone twisted in the saddle.

It felt as if he looked past her eyes and into her mind, saw himself the way she saw him: bold, well formed, commanding. A smile tweaked one side of his mouth. He arched an eyebrow.

She held his gaze for an instant then quickly glanced away. For all the good it did now. No doubt he felt the heat of her blush all the way from here.

Deputy Billbro kept pace with the mule, sniffing the air and learning things about the place that mere humans were unable to perceive.

“Where is everyone?” she asked softly. It was too quiet. A muttered voice might be heard for a block. “It’s midday. You’d think folks would be about.”

All of a sudden Weaver brayed. The sound echoed all over town. A curtain swayed at the window of the bank but then fell back into place. A baby cried but was quickly silenced.

Jasper Springs was not deserted, after all; it only seemed so.

Boone reined in the mule. Stanley halted the wagon beside him.

“We’ll visit the mercantile for supplies,” Boone said. “Make our arrival known.”

Melinda wiped a spot of dirt from the wagon bench and smeared it on her cheek to make herself look weary, which she was not.

“Slump your shoulders, Boone. No one will believe that a man of your size is a weakling.”

He arched a brow but did as she asked, but really, it didn’t help much. He was a fine, strapping man and there was no hiding it.

Stanley slumped his shoulders, too, but it didn’t make a difference, not that she would ever point that out.

The dog didn’t need to act dusty and matted, he was naturally that way.

Early this morning they had discussed Mather’s plan, how they would give the appearance of easy victims to attract the interest of the Kings. This would not be easy for Boone. She had noticed him chafing at the idea even from the first mention of it.

Stopping in front of the mercantile, Boone hid his rifle in the back of the wagon, then helped her down. His big hands cupping her waist did not feel anything but strong.

No, and neither did his arms as he set her effortlessly on the ground. It would take some doing to make him appear vulnerable.

“I’ll need to act the nag,” she whispered in his ear. “Will anyone recognize you?”

She worried that someone might have seen his Wanted poster. If they did, the scheme would be exposed.

He shrugged. “Probably not. It’s been some time since that broadsheet’s been spread about. Folks forget.”

Chances were, that would be true of most men, but Boone was quite tall, his face striking in its handsomeness and, to her mind, unforgettable. Her cousin, Rebecca, liked to call Lantree her big blond Viking. Naturally the same could be said of Boone.

“Come along, brother Stanley,” she said with a wink at her pretend sibling. “Let the theatrics begin.”

“I wish you’d take this more earnestly, Miss Winston,” he chided.

“That’s ‘Mrs. Walker.’ I know you’re worried about me, but between you, my husband and the deputy, I could not be safer if I were locked in a vault.”

Boone led her up the stairs of the boardwalk. She gazed down at her scuffed boots, at the sad sag of her faded brown skirt while she gathered the inspiration to play her part.

The painted sign beside the mercantile door indicated that they had come during business hours but the door was locked.

Boone rapped on the wood.

“You’ll have to pound harder than that,” Melinda said in a raised voice while she rolled her eyes.

Her homesteader husband frowned. She hoped that he remembered that she was only acting at being a nag. “I declare, you’ve grown weak from all that alcohol. Soon as we settle into our homestead, I’m burying the bottle.”

Boone actually gasped.

“Here, let me do it.” She nudged him aside then pounded her fist on the door. Maybe she ought not to have flashed him a smile.

All at once the door opened and they were greeted by a scowling man with a drooping mustache that hid his lips.

“Don’t you know to stay off the streets, today of all days?”

He hustled them inside, cast a cautious glance at Billbro, then shut the door and shoved the bolt closed.

“Looks like rain by sundown, but I can’t see why that should keep us off the street now,” Boone commented.

“Take off your hat indoors, Mr. Witherleaf.” Melinda cast her husband a scowl then turned it on Stanley. “And you, too, brother. Don’t behave like a heathen.”

Her “relatives” looked startled by her bossiness when they ought to be acting as though her bitter tongue was commonplace. Later on, some lessons in role-playing would be in order.

Still, she would have to allow the men some leeway. Clearly, they had not grown up as she and Rebecca had, always trying to keep one step ahead of Mama’s restrictions and at the same time avoid undue punishment.

“You’re new to town.” The storekeeper wagged his head long and slow.

“I’m Boone Witherleaf. This is my wife, Melinda, and Melinda’s brother, Stanley.”

The name Witherleaf had been assigned by Mathers and could not have been more absurd. In Melinda’s opinion, calling Boone “Witherleaf” did nothing to diminish his natural aura of power.

Perhaps her nagging would seem more effective if he would hang his head lower.

“You always neglect to introduce the dog.” She knelt down and snuggled the big hairy head against her bosom. “Billbro is as much a part of the family as you are.”

Boone coughed.

“We’re taking over the old Ramsey place,” he said to the merchant.

“The Ramsey place? If you want my advice, you’ll turn tail and run.”

“Why would we?” he asked. “And why should we stay off the streets?”

“I reckon you’ll find that out soon enough. I’m Edward Spears, by the way. This is my store, for what it’s worth anymore.”

“A pleasure.” Boone extended his hand in greeting, so did Stanley. “Might you be the brother of the livery owner in Buffallo Bend?”

“One and the same.”

“Oh, he’s a fine man.” Boone nodded his head. “Well, I reckon we’ll need dry goods and a few tools, grain for planting.”

“This time of year?” Spears asked. Melinda suspected that he was smirking under his massive mustache.

“Please excuse my husband. He’s a greenhorn through and through.” She stood. Hands on hips, she faced Boone. “I told you, planting is done in the spring.”

“You’ll need firewood, though. Trees are scarce out that way. And a gun. I notice you aren’t carrying, but if you’re set on staying you’ll need one.”

“If you really think it necessary.” Boone shrugged. “I reckon I’ll purchase that, as well.”

Actually there were a dozen weapons packed at the bottom of the wagon.

It was good to see Boone handle the weapon Spears placed in his hand as though it were a live snake.

Mr. Spears had yet to say why they should be off the streets today more than any other day. Clearly, everyone else in Jasper Springs was of the same mind.

Boone withdrew a large roll of money from his pocket, making sure the storeowner got a good look at it.

“I’ll take the dog outside for a moment,” she announced.

Naturally, she would be forbidden to do so, but her intention was to find out why.

“I wouldn’t, ma’am. Not without protection.”

“Why ever not?”

“Olfin King was buried today.”

“I’m sure that’s very sad.” She touched her throat, pretending that it was. But, really, that meant one less outlaw to be a threat to Boone. What a shame that according to the notes, Olfin King was the least villainous of them all.

“I reckon not so sad. You can bet the folks of Jasper Springs are celebrating behind their bolted doors. After you’ve been here a while, you’ll understand why.”

“That seems coldhearted,” Stanley observed.

“What happened to Olfin King?” Boone asked.

Yes, to her mind, that was an important bit of information.

“He got himself shot in the leg a few weeks ago. The doc tried to heal it but infection set in. The Kings buried Olfin this morning. Hate to say so, but I reckon it won’t be long before we’ll be burying the doc.”

Melinda felt her stomach turn. She slid closer to Boone; the need to be near him natural and not a bit of show in it.

The danger involved in what they had undertaken hit her fresh. Boone’s big, solid presence helped to sooth the jitters skittering along her spine.

With an arm around her shoulders, he tugged her close. He squeezed his fingers, sending a message. No matter what, he would be here to keep her safe.

While she was, in most instances, able to see to her own safety, she leaned into him, took comfort in his large, Viking-like presence.

For all that she felt heartened. She knew that Boone felt the pressure of the situation. This close, she could see his jaw grinding with tension.

“We’ll be on our way, then, just as soon as we’ve loaded the wagon,” he stated.

“I wouldn’t settle on that land if I were you. The Kings see it as their own. Won’t be pleased that you’ve taken it over.”

“Pleased or not, they have no legal right to it,” Stanley pointed out.

“Well, you’ll find that they do what they want to whenever they want to do it. And a sorry day, too, for anyone who stands in their way.”

She felt Boone’s muscles tense. Glancing up, she saw his expression harden.

Boone dropped his gaze, stooped his back. Clearly he was striving hard to hold on to the character of Witherleaf. Behind the playacting, she suspected he was smoldering not withering. Just now, on the inside, Boone was probably as meek as the outlaw portrayed in his Wanted poster.