Читать книгу Her Sheriff Bodyguard - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 13

Chapter Five

They arrived in Gillette Springs just as the sun dipped behind the mountains to the north. The trunk sat waiting in the hotel foyer, as Hawk had instructed, so he arranged for a room. The women ordered a bathtub to be brought up. He made sure they bolted the door and strode off to find the sheriff.

The man’s office was just three doors down from the hotel, but nobody was there. A sign stuck to the door read At Polly’s Cage. Back at five.

Good idea. He could use a shot of whiskey before heading back.

“Sheriff Davis in town?”

The pie-eyed deputy leaned against the polished wood bar and sent Hawk a sloppy grin. “Leadin’ a posse up to Idaho,” the paunchy man allowed with a derisive snort. “Left me in charge, he did. In charge of what, I’d like to know. Nuthin’ exciting ever happens in this town.”

“Might be something exciting tonight,” Hawk offered. “Suffragette lady’s making a speech.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard about her. Over at the church, seven o’clock.”

“Listen, Deputy, someone took a shot at the lady two nights ago in Smoke River. Think you should...” Hawk leaned toward him and lowered his voice. Then he stopped short and studied the man. Old. Out of shape. And drunk. This deputy couldn’t protect a dog from a flea.

Hell. All he wanted to do was head back to Smoke River and forget the woman now taking a bath at the hotel. He wanted to get as far away as possible from Caroline MacFarlane.

But he couldn’t leave her to the protection of this sorry excuse for a lawman. He ground his teeth until his jaw hurt.

“How about you make sure nobody sits down in that church tonight without removing their sidearms. Pile ’em up on the back pew and guard them.”

“Oh. Oh, sure, mister. I’ll do that for sure.”

And not much else, Hawk realized. The minute Caroline entered the church she would be a sitting pigeon. Hell and damn, he couldn’t leave her. When he returned to Smoke River he’d send off a stiff note to Sheriff Davis about his derelict deputy, but for tonight, Hawk figured he’d have to stand in. Maybe he’d have to rethink the whole thing to keep this headstrong woman safe.

He grabbed a bath and a shave at the barbershop across the street from the saloon, then went up the hotel stairs to tell Fernanda and Caroline what not to do tonight.

* * *

“Whatever do you mean, don’t wear this dress? This is my most tailored suit. It is perfectly proper and stylish and it commands resp—”

“It makes you look stiff and superior and men hate women like that.”

Caroline drew herself up as tall as she could and glared at him. “Oh, they do, do they? Well, let me tell you something. It is not men I am trying to reach, Mr. Rivera. It is the women I want to hear my message.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s the men you need to convince. The women are already on your side.”

Fernanda laid a restraining hand on her arm. “He is right, hija. It is men who will be voting to give the vote to the women.”

Rivera yanked open the door to her wardrobe where she’d hung up her dresses and flicked through the hangers. “Wear something frilly,” he said. “Something with ruffles or bows or ribbons or something.” He pulled out her flounced yellow skirt.

“Wear this.”

“That is meant for a party or a reception. It is entirely too dressy for speech-making.”

“Wear it anyway.”

The man was impossible. She eyed his selection with trepidation. It was entirely too frivolous for playing the role of a—what had he called her?—a crusader?

Oh, Mama, I am beginning to wish I had known more about what I would be getting into.

But Fernanda had a point; it was men who would be voting to change the suffrage law.

“I—I cannot do it. I refuse to...to...well, seduce the men with a pretty dress.”

“You want to win the war,” he grumbled, “you do what you have to do.” He reached over and plucked the pins holding her bun at her neck.

“And wear your hair down.”

She gasped as her hair tumbled free. “Just what do you think you are doing?”

“Damned if I know,” he muttered. “Keeping you safe. Out of the line of fire from some crazy gent who wants to stop you.”

“Oh.” The look on his face stopped every protest she could think of.

“Look, Caroline,” he said. “I don’t believe in your cause. I don’t want you women to win the vote. But I also don’t want you to get yourself killed.”

“Oh,” she said again. Suddenly all the air whooshed out of her and all her brave words dissolved into thin air. Very well, she would do it. She would wear the yellow dress. She would be soft and feminine and she would win the vote of the men on behalf of the women. Rivera was right. It was +exactly like going to war.

But oh, Lord, no one had told her how frightening it could be.

“Get dressed,” Hawk ordered. “I’ll walk you to the church in ten minutes.” Like a good soldier, she didn’t even flinch. Made him wonder something else about her.

He closed the door and paced up and down the carpeted hallway outside and tried to figure her out.

* * *

The church was filled to overflowing. The mix of seated men and women was about even. Deputy Saunders had secured all the sidearms on the back pew and was standing guard over the pile of holsters and gun belts and revolvers. At least he had sobered up.

Hawk had arranged with the minister to use the entrance in back of the pulpit so Caroline would not have a long walk up the aisle. Fernanda was already seated in the front pew, her face looking serene and her hands folded in her lap. But her dark eyes were wide with apprehension.

Caroline stood next to him, waiting for the last of her audience to squeeze into a pew. She took his breath away in that yellow dress. Hell, she’d have every man in the church in love with her before she even opened her mouth.

She, too, looked calm. Resolute. Suffused with soldierly purpose. He’d seen lieutenants with less steel in their spine.

She also looked female as hell and too vulnerable. His chest tightened just a fraction more than he liked.

Beside him, she drew in a shaky breath and started forward.

“Wait.” He laid his hand at her waist and pulled her to a stop beside him, then slipped the small pistol he’d bought out of his vest and pressed it into her hand.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“It’s a pistol. It’s lighter than my revolver. Carry it in your skirt pocket.”

“I—”

“Careful,” he said. He closed her fingers around the gun butt. “It’s loaded.”

She snatched her hand away, then nodded. “Thank you.” He watched her slip it into her pocket.

“Ready? Let’s go.”

As he had instructed, she moved through the doorway and quickly placed herself behind the minister’s solid oak lectern. Hawk followed, seated himself on a side chair just behind the pulpit, and scanned the crowd. Quietly he laid his revolver across his lap.

The audience couldn’t see the weapon; besides, every eye was glued to the vision in yellow standing at the front of the church.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Caroline MacFarlane.” She kept her voice low and even, not a hint of harangue or inflammatory words. Good girl.

“I want to tell you about my mother, Evangeline MacFarlane. When I was old enough to notice such things, I became aware that my—” she hesitated and Hawk tensed “—my father struck my mother. He did this often, almost every night, and he made no attempt to hide from me what he was doing.”

She paused and Hawk focused on the men in the crowd. Some looked angry; some looked a little guilty; but most bore a look of concern.

“When I was twelve years old my mother took me away from our home. She said she could not live like that any longer, and no matter how my father begged and pleaded, she refused to go back.”

The women in the audience nodded and murmured to each other. A few even dabbed at their eyes.

“But my father went to court. And the judge—” Again she stopped and this time she swallowed hard. “The judge said my mother had to return to my father, had to live with him even though he mistreated her. He said it was the law in Massachusetts, that if a woman left her husband, she forfeited her right to her children.”

Hawk studied the faces of the men. No doubt some of them beat their wives. Maybe they felt they were justified; maybe a few felt guilty. But not one of them challenged Caroline or shouted an insult. Instead, they waited to hear her next words.

“My mother decided this was wrong, that forcing a woman to live with an abusive husband was wrong. She moved us into a room at a boardinghouse. Later, to save herself—and me—she left him for good and took me with her. She joined a group of women and spoke out against this injustice, and other injustices against women. We traveled all over the country, and everywhere we went, my mother spoke out to support women.”

In the uneasy silence, Hawk finally began to breathe easier. It was not an unruly crowd; the men were stirred up, he could see that, but they weren’t violent.

Caroline went on, her voice still soft. “Did you know that here in Oregon a woman cannot divorce a man for cruelty or abandonment? And that if a woman earns any money of her own, it goes to her husband?”

She paused again. “Ladies and gentlemen, do you think this is fair?”

There was a sudden commotion at the back of the church. Hawk lifted his revolver, shielding it from view with his hand, and thumbed back the hammer. But the cause of the disturbance was a young boy of about eight or nine, who darted up the aisle to where Caroline stood and thrust a folded piece of paper into her hand.

“Man said to give you this,” he panted.

She unfolded the note and gasped. Then she looked over at Hawk.

Her face had gone white as milk.