Читать книгу Outlaw Love - Judith Stacy, Judith Stacy - Страница 11

Ben Tucker stood at the doorway of the livery when Clay walked up. “Leaving town so soon?”

Clay shook his head. Though he’d like nothing better than to be on Scully Dade’s trail again, he’d gotten roped into riding shotgun for Jack Morgan’s payroll on the afternoon stage, delaying his own work for a while.

“No, Ben. I’ll be staying on here for a few more days.” Clay glanced back into the stable. “Is Deuce around?”

Ben’s brows pulled together. “What’s that boy done now?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“If he’s caused any more trouble, I’ll take a strap to him this time.”

The image Ben’s words conjured up didn’t sit well with Clay. “He didn’t do anything. I’m after the Dade gang, and I think Deuce might have some information on their hideout.”

“That boy,” Ben said, fuming. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. When Miss Chalmers wouldn’t let him come to school anymore, I told his ma she had to keep him busy at home, but she couldn’t do anything with him. I never thought he’d end up in trouble with the law.”

“I think he’s learned his lesson. Besides, working here with you ought to keep him busy enough.”

“Maybe I should have done that from the start. But the boy’s so scrawny. If he hadn’t come into the world at the same time as my Jared, I might have doubted his ma’s virtue.” Ben shook his head. “I guess every litter has a runt.”

“Is it all right if I talk with him?”

“Sure thing, Marshal.” Ben led the way through the stable, past rows of stalls. The horses chewed quietly on grain, occasionally pawing the soft earth or uttering a nicker, content in the barn’s cool interior.

Ben stopped at the open door to the feed room. Barrels and sacks of grain lined one wall. A rickety desk sat against the other; papers peeked from the half-open drawers, and ledgers littered the top.

“Deuce! Get out here, boy!”

A second later, he appeared at the door. Perspiration dampened his forehead, shafts of straw clung to his clothes and stuck out of his hair, dirt smudged his face. His breathing was heavy and labored.

Deuce glanced at Clay, then his father. His eyes widened. “I didn’t do nothing. I swear, Pa, I didn’t.”

“The marshal just wants to talk to you, boy. And as soon as you get done, I want you to take that mare back over to the hotel. Understand? Then come straight back. You’ve got a lot more chores to get done before the afternoon.”

Glay thought the boy might fall over any minute, from fear and exhaustion. “I don’t want to keep Deuce from his chores. I’ll walk along with him while he takes the horse to the hotel and we’ll talk then.”

“All right. But you tell the marshal whatever he wants to know. You hear me, boy?” Ben turned to Clay. “You let me know if he gives you any trouble. I’ll take care of it.”

From the looks of Deuce, Clay doubted he had the strength to give anybody trouble at the moment.

Deuce led the mare from the stall. They walked in silence until they reached Main Street. Clay took the reins and tied the horse off at the hitching post outside Connie’s Cookie Emporium. “I’m pretty thirsty. How about you?”

Deuce wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve and nodded.

“I’ll be back. You stay put.”

Inside the store, dozens of colorful candies sat in glass containers along the counter, and the display cases teemed with cookies, pies and cakes. The scents of vanilla, cinnamon and apples mingled in the air. Behind the counter stood a robust woman who appeared to have perfected her recipes by years of sampling her own confections. She eyed Clay up and down.

“You must be that new marshal I heard about. Welcome to Eldon. I’m Connie. I just took some oatmeal cookies from the oven. How about it?” Clay nodded, and she twittered, her cheeks going as round as ripe apples as she fetched a cookie from the display case behind her

He tasted and nodded quickly. “Give me a handful of those.”

“Well, hello again, young man.”

Clay turned to see Miss Matilda Wilder at his elbow. He touched the brim of his Stetson. “Good day, Miss Wilder.”

She shuffled her big satchel onto the counter, waving her flowered handkerchief. “Looks as though you have quite a sweet tooth.”

Clay grinned. “I sure do”

“Well, good for you. Keep up your strength. You’ve got a big job to do, and we’re all very proud of you, dear.” Miss Wilder gathered her handkerchief and satchel and made her way out of the store.

Connie wrapped the cookies in waxed paper. “How about some cider to go along with these?”

“Sure. Make it two.”

She poured the drinks and picked up her tablet to tally Clay’s purchase. Absently she reached in her pockets, then felt behind both ears and patted her neatly coiled hair.

“I swear to goodness, where is my pencil? It was here just a second ago.” Connie searched the counter, lifting the cookies and cups. “Where did it go?”

Clay dug coins from his pocket and dropped them on the counter, more than enough to cover his purchase. He thanked her, but she didn’t notice as she searched for her pencil.

Deuce was waiting on the bench outside, where he’d left him. He’d washed up at the water trough; his shirt was damp.

Clay plucked a piece of straw from Deuce’s shaggy hair. “You need a haircut, son.”

He swiped his hand across his forehead, pushing back his bangs. “Pa takes Jared and me to the barber at the same time. Jared doesn’t need a haircut yet.”

Clay sat beside him and passed him the apple cider. “How’s it going with your pa?”

Deuce gulped down half the cider and grimaced. “He’s powerful mad at me still.”

“Maybe you’d be better off working at home in- stead,” Clay suggested. Ben Tucker had been right about one thing. Deuce was too small to do manual labor.

Indignation and a hint of anger showed in Deuce’s eyes. “I’ve got five sisters at home. You think I should stay there? With all those girls? And do women’s work?”

“No, I guess not” Clay bit into a cookie.

Obviously, Deuce’s options were limited, and Clay could see how the boy, unable to attend school anymore, not wanted by his father and too prideful to help his mother, had been easy prey for the likes of Luther McGraw and the Dade gang.

“Your pa will come around, once you show him you’ve no intention of getting into trouble again.” “He don’t need me. He’s got Jared.” He turned away.

Clay swallowed the last of the cookie. “How did you get mixed up with Luther and the Dade gang, anyway?”

His shoulders slumped. “I wasn’t really part of the gang,” he said. “I met Luther here in town, and he claimed he had a mine somewhere up in the hills, so I signed on to help him. Luther knew Scully, but he wasn’t in the gang, either.”

“Luther sure acted like he was.” Clay touched his finger to the burns on his neck. “He seemed dead set on protecting Scully and his hideout.”

“Scully just let Luther ride with the gang ‘cause Luther could cook so good.” Deuce bit into a cookie. “It’s hard to find a good trail cook.”

“Were you ever at Scully’s hideout?”

“No. I only met up with the gang that one time, a couple of days before me and Luther—” Deuce glanced at Clay’s throat and quickly averted his eyes. “Well, you know.”

Clay ran his finger around the inside of his shirt collar. “Yeah, I know.”

Deuce chanced a look at Clay again. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t want any part of hanging you, but Luther kept going on about it. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Decisions in life keep getting harder, Deuce. You need to learn how to handle them. It’s part of becoming a man.”

Deuce’s mulled that over for a moment, then nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

“Nobody ever said it would be easy.” Clay chucked him softly on the shoulder. “But I can see you learned a lesson this time. I’d say that means you’re on your way.”

Deuce looked up at him again, and the tiniest grin tugged at his lips. “Do you think so?”

Shouts from across the street drew their attention to Duncan’s General store. After a moment, the raucous noise stopped, a door slammed, and a young woman left the store. Head high, shoulders straight, she marched determinedly down the street.

Deuce popped another cookie in his mouth. “Don’t give it no mind. It’s just Nate and Estelle Duncan. They fight all the time.”

Clay’s gaze followed the young woman along the crowded boardwalk. She looked vaguely familiar, but he’d only met a few women in town, and none so young. “Who is she?”

“That’s Holly, their daughter.” He finished the last of his cider. “She’s the reason they’re always fighting.

From what he could see, she was a pleasant-looking girl, fuller around the hips and waist than her corset could disguise. “Is she too willful to suit her ma?”

“More like her ma’s the willful one. Holly’s nice. She just got into a fix, I guess you’d say.”

Clay looked down at him. “What sort of fix?”

Deuce’s cheeks reddened. “She got in the family way.”

“She had a baby?”

Deuce shrugged his slim shoulders.. “I heard my mama telling my sisters about it, warning them about…you know. All of a sudden Holly’s ma sent her to visit her aunt, and she was gone for a long time. Her ma made her give the baby away—that’s what my mama said—because when she came back she didn’t have it with her.”

“What about the baby’s father? He wouldn’t marry her?”

“He couldn’t. He got caught stealing from Mr. Morgan’s hardware store and got sent to prison.” Deuce gazed across the street. “I don’t think Mr. Duncan liked him much, anyway.”

Clay blew out a heavy breath. Maybe Eldon wasn’t as quiet as he had originally thought

He turned to Deuce again. “Tell me about Luther. Does he know where Scully’s new hideout is?”

Deuce waved away the notion. “I don’t think Luther knows anything. I think he just talks like he does.”

“I’d say you’re right about that. And I’m glad to see you realize it” Clay rose from the bench. “If you hear anything from the Dade gang, let me know.”

Deuce nodded with less enthusiasm than Clay had hoped for, then rose and untied the mare from the hitching post.

“I’ve got to get over to Miss Kelsey’s.”

Clay’s stomach twisted into a knot at the sound of that name. “Kelsey Rodgers at the hotel?”

“Pa put a shoe on her mare this morning,” Deuce patted the horse, and it. nuzzled his shirt, knocking him back a step.

Clay patted the big mare. “What about Kelsey? Has she been out of town having babies?”

“Kelsey? Shoot, no. She’s nothing like Holly. Fact is, she and Holly don’t even speak.”

He didn’t know why he’d asked about her in the first place, but now he had to know more. “Why’s that?”

The mare pulled back. Deuce grabbed the halter with both hands. “Bad blood between their families. Emmet Rodgers—that’s Kelsey’s father—founded the town, along with Mr. Morgan. They’ve been partners since they were both young. They got rich together. The way I hear it, Nate Duncan thought Mr. Rodgers had done him wrong in a business deal, and they’ve been feuding ever since.”

Clay took hold of the mare to keep it from dragging Deuce across the street. “So Kelsey’s family is wealthy? Why is she running the hotel?”

“Her pa’s busy running other businesses, or something. I can’t remember the last time he even came into town.” He shrugged. “I expect that suits the Duncans just fine. Too bad, though. Kelsey and Holly used to be good friends. But since her brother—”

The mare tossed its head, pulling Deuce off his feet. Clay held the horse with a firm grip until Deuce got a hand on the halter again.

Deuce gave the horse a wary look. “I’ve got to go.”

“You’d better get back to the livery before your pa comes after both of us.”

Deuce’s stomach turned over, and headed off down the street leading the mare. It seemed nervous with the other horses around, so Deuce cut through the alley.

“Hey, boy! Deuce! Get yourself over here!”

He turned and saw Luther’s face wedged between the bars of the jail house window. He froze in place.

“What’s the gol-darn matter, boy? You think you’re too good to talk to me now?” Luther taunted him.

Reluctantly Deuce led the mare to the window. He glanced up and down the alley. “I could get in big trouble for talking to you again.”

Luther’s eyes bulged. “Well, what about me? I’m sitting here in the gol-darn jail cell, fixin’ to go to prison. How’s that for trouble?”

“I know, but—”

“And you don’t even have a howdy-do to say to me? After all I done for you? After the way I took you in when your own pa wouldn’t even pay you no mind whatsoever?”

Deuce’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“’Course I’m right.” Luther pressed his face closer to the bars. “What have you been up to?”

Deuce jangled the lead rope. “Helping at the livery.

Luther squinted, then pointed and snapped his fingers. “Where’d you get that horse, boy?”

“I’m taking it back to Miss Kelsey at the hotel.”

His eyes widened. “Kelsey? That Rodgers girl at the hotel? Is it hers?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t you know where that there horse come from, boy? It’s the one that went down with them dang-fool Schoolyard Boys. Don’t you recognize it?”

Deuce looked at the mare, then at Luther. “No. I guess with all the commotion, I didn’t pay much attention.”

“That’s ‘cause you were puking your guts out while I was getting shot up,” Luther barked. He stroked his chin. “Now why would a nice little lady like that Rodgers gal have a horse that was used by a bunch of outlaws?”

“I don’t know.”

Luther’s brows drew together. “I’ll have to study on that a spell.”

“Look, Luther, I’ve got to go. If my pa finds out—”

“I’m stuck in this hole until the circuit judge gets around again, and all you’re worried about is your pa.” Luther waved him closer. “Get over here, boy.”

He glanced up and down the alley again, then ventured closer to the window. “What?”

“I’m getting powerful thirsty in this here cell,” Luther whispered. “How ‘bout you bring me a bottle?”

“No. I can’t do that.” Deuce backed up a step.

“You owe me, boy.” Luther pointed an accusing finger at him. “On account of you, I got shot, arrested and thrown in this here jail. I coulda got you in with the biggest gang in the state. Scully would have taught you everything he knowed about outlawing. You’d have been somebody, boy. And look at you now, shoveling up after horses in your pa’s livery. What kind of life is that?”

Deuce shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know, Luther.”

“Come back here after dark and bring me a bottle.”

“I’ve got to go.” Deuce pulled the mare down the alley.

“You better be back here! You owe me!”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even look back, just hurried through the alley and over to the Eldon Hotel. Deuce put the mare in the small paddock, then stuck his head inside the open kitchen door. It smelled of freshly baked bread.

Etta Mae turned from the stove, dripping water. “Hmm? Yes? What is it, dear?”

Aware now of how long he’d been away from the livery, Deuce bounced anxiously on his toes. “Is Miss Kelsey here?”

“Oh, no, dear.” Etta Mae turned back to the stove. “She went out to visit her pa this afternoon. Seems he’s not feeling well. And she was just out there yesterday, too.”

“When will she be back?”

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t expect her back. She took her carpetbag with her. Left some time ago.”

“Just tell her the mare is in the paddock.”

Deuce went down the alley, but in the opposite direction, away from the jail. He ran all the way back to the livery.

Clay ducked into the express office and walked up to the counter. The sheriff had told him—three times—when the stage would be through Eldon, but he wanted to check the schedule himself, as well as some other facts.

Otis Bean, the senior agent, looked up from his neatly arranged desk. A green visor crowned his bald head, and black armbands fit loosely around his crisp white shirtsleeves. In the corner, at a much smaller desk, sat a young man, his dark head bend forward, diligently shuffling through several stacks of papers; junior agents worked hard on their way up.

Otis Bean peered over the top of his spectacles. “Yes?”

Clay braced his hands against the counter. “I’m Marshal Chandler. I need to talk to you about the stage robberies.”

Otis looked Clay up and down, and his expression soured. “Well, you can be sure it had nothing to do with my stagecoaches—I don’t care what Jack Morgan says. He might own everything in this town, but he doesn’t own this office.”

“Seems a mite peculiar, don’t you think?” Clay hung his thumbs in his gun belt. “The only time the stage is robbed, Jack Morgan’s payroll is on it.”

“Hoodlums.” Otis tossed his head. “Don’t blame me if you law people can’t keep the stage lines safe for decent folk to travel.”

Clay inclined his head. “Makes me wonder who else knew the payroll would be on the stage. Morgan says he never sends it out on a regular schedule, just to keep anybody from learning the routine.”

Otis’s body went rigid. “Now you listen here, Marshal, I’m senior agent of this office, and I know my job. And so does Ernie.” He jerked his thumb toward the young man seated in the corner. “If somebody is shooting their mouth off about Jack Morgan’s payroll going out, it’s not coming from this office.”

The man had worked himself into such a snit, Clay felt inclined to believe him. “I’d like to see the journals for the days the Morgan payroll was stolen.”

Otis’s spine stiffened. “That is private information meant only for the stage lines.”

Clay straightened and squared his shoulders. He tapped the badge on his chest. “Not anymore.”

His eyes narrowed, and then he slapped his palms against the desktop and rose. “Ernie!”

The young man jumped from his chair. “Yes, Mr. Bean?”

“Get the records for the days of the last four stage robberies. Give the marshal whatever he wants.” Otis turned and glared at Clay. “And I should hope this will actually result in an arrest”

Ernie gathered the ledgers and brought them to the counter for Clay, then hurried back to his desk. Otis stood watching Clay as he leafed through the pages showing the routes, schedules, passenger rosters, and cargo manifests.

The bell jangled and the door opened. Clay glanced up to see a tall young woman in pale blue step inside. Her brown hair was carefully coiffed, and she looked like an easterner. Her eyes flashed as her gaze swept the three men.

“Well, good morning, gentlemen.”

She purred the words, like a cunning cat on the prowl, and sauntered over to Clay. She tapped the badge on his chest with her fan and smiled lazily up at him. “I do believe you must be that marshal I’ve heard so much about.” She tossed an impatient glance at Otis Bean. “Introduce us.”

Otis’s lips curled downward. “I’d like to present Mallory Morgan. This is Marshall Chandler. Mallory is Jack Morgan’s daughter.”

He touched the brim of his hat politely. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Mallory uttered a deep, throaty laugh and eased closer, holding her gaze steady on Clay’s. “Yes, Marshal, quite a pleasure.”

The young woman exuded a sensuality that perme. ated everything around her. All done up as she was, in that proper dress with the tight fitted bodice and the bustle that swayed provocatively, he sensed a recklessness about her, the kind that in his younger days he would have sniffed after like a dog on point; the kind he now knew could cause a man a world of trouble. Especially when packaged as the daughter of the town’s richest man. Clay eased back a step.

Mallory smiled sweetly and touched Clay’s chest with her fan again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you men from your work. I’ll just have a word with Ernie.”

Her gaze turned to Otis, and her brows arched, as if she were daring him to object He didn’t, and she giggled softly and wound her way back to Ernie’s desk, her bustle swaying.

Clay turned back to the ledgers, talking quietly with Otis. After a moment, he glanced up. Ernie, flushed and breathless, was on his feet. Mallory stood inches away, purring softly to him. She gestured with her fan and smiled seductively. He nodded and grinned like a babbling idiot, totally captivated by the spell she cast.

Clay turned back to the ledgers. He knew he’d worn the same dumb look as Ernie many times himself. What man hadn’t?

Mallory stayed only a moment longer, then leisurely left the express office, offering a goodbye from behind her fan. Ernie sank down in his chair, heaved a heavy sigh and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

Another hour passed, while Clay examined the stage records, before Jack Morgan and Sheriff Bottom arrived.

“Do you always put the payroll on the stage?” Clay asked.

“No reason not to,” Morgan told him. “I’ve sent it that way for years, with never a problem. Why should I go to the expense of paying my own guards, when the stage line will do it for the freight cost? I’m not throwing money around like that.”

Otis Bean lifted a pocket watch from its pedestal on his desk. “Stage is due to arrive in six minutes.”

Clay led the way onto the boardwalk. One passenger, a man in a yellow plaid vest, waited outside.

Otis paced the boardwalk, studying his pocket watch. “Five minutes! Stage in five minutes!”

“Anybody else taking the stage today?” Clay asked.

Otis consulted his schedule, clutched in his. other hand. “No. Only whoever boarded in Whittakers Ferry.”

Clay gazed down the street. “Where’s that?”

“Ten or so miles east of here. Four minutes!”

“And the next stop is Harmonville?”

“That’s right.” Otis consulted his schedule once more. “After leaving here, the stage stops at the swing station for fresh horses—that’s where. the mine foreman picks up the payroll—then goes straight through.”

Thundering hooves pounding the soft dirt street preceded the stage.

“Stage arriving!” Otis clutched his pocket watch.

The driver atop the big coach braced his feet and pulled back on the reins, stopping the team in front of the express office. The horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads. Leather creaked and the stage groaned, settling in a cloud of brown dust. The shotgun rider stood and stretched.

Clay’s gaze swept the stage with a critical eye, the men up top, the baggage tied on, the sturdy horses out front. He stepped off the boardwalk and opened the coach door. Inside sat an elderly man with a white beard, dressed in a bright green suit—the perfect complement to the next passenger boarding. Neither man would be a help in a shoot-out, but neither would try to be a hero and get someone else shot

Clay gave only a cursory glance to the widow seated in the far corner. No one liked to look at a widow. A bonnet and a thick black veil shielded her face. Black gloves covered her hands and the heavy gown draped the rest of her. In her lap she clutched her reticule and a small Bible.

A heaviness rose in Clay’s chest. Rebecca…

Determinedly he pushed the thought from his mind and replaced it with preparation for the task at hand.

Otis consulted his pocket watch. “Three minutest Stage leaving in three minutest!”

Clay watched as the strongbox was hoisted up top, then took the rifle Sheriff Bottom had brought for him and climbed up beside the driver. He paid no attention to the anxious look on Jack Morgan’s face or the sher- iff’s attempt at advice.

Nor did he give any thought to the little widow in the coach beneath him. For all the memories the sight of her widow’s weeds caused, she meant nothing to him. Just a passenger on the stage. Nobody important

He was sure of it.