Читать книгу The Outlaw's Return - Victoria Bylin - Страница 8

Denver, Colorado

July 1876

When J. T. Quinn vowed to find Mary Larue, he never once imagined they’d meet on a perfect Sunday morning in Denver. On those long nights when he’d lain alone in his bedroll, he’d imagined seeing her on a stage in some high-class opera house. He’d pictured himself in a black suit and a white shirt leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed as he listened to her hit the high note only she could hit. Their eyes would meet and she’d recognize him. She’d miss a beat, but she’d pick up the song with even more power than before and he’d know…she still loved him.

That wasn’t going to happen today.

It wasn’t Saturday night, and J.T. wasn’t wearing a suit.

It was Sunday morning, and he had trail dust in every pore. He also smelled like the inside of a saloon. He hadn’t visited such an establishment for six months, but last night he’d walked past a gaming hall with a head full of memories. A drunken cowhand had stumbled out to the boardwalk with an open bottle of whiskey, and the contents had sloshed on J.T.’s trousers. The smell had sickened him in one breath and tempted him in the next. He’d have changed clothes, but the garments in his saddlebag were filthy. They stank, but not with whiskey. He’d resisted that temptation, and he’d done it because of his love for Mary Larue.

Heaving a sigh, he looked down at his dog. “What should we do, Fancy Girl?”

She whapped her tail against the boardwalk and looked up at him with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. J.T. didn’t know what kind of dog she was, but they’d been best friends since he’d walked out on Griff Lassen at the Dudley place. They’d been running off Ambrose Dudley and his brother, squatters up in Wyoming, when the dog had charged at them and started barking. Griff had ordered J.T. to shoot her dead.

J.T. had done a lot of mean things in his life, but not even he could shoot a dog. On the other hand, he’d come close to shooting Griff. When the man aimed his Sharps at the mutt, J.T. had shoved the barrel downward. The bullet had ricocheted off a rock and creased Fancy Girl’s head. J.T. had mopped her blood with his bandanna and fed her jerky from his pocket. When she’d followed him to his horse, he’d poured water from his canteen into a pot. She’d lapped every drop, and he’d filled it again.

He’d left the Dudley place with the job undone and Griff promising to get even, but the dog had followed him. That night he’d named her Fancy Girl because her fur reminded him of Mary’s blond hair, and he’d made a decision. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who hunted squatters and shot at dogs.

Over the past ten years, J.T. had sold his gun for money. He’d been nineteen when he’d first been paid to hunt down cattle rustlers, and next month he’d turn thirty. For a gunslinger, he had a lot of years on him. Today, standing outside a saloon and listening to Mary sing, he thought back on those years. He’d drunk oceans of whiskey and been with too many women. The whiskey had never failed to work its magic. The women, though, had lost that power, and it was because of Mary.

She’d been in his head for two years now, ever since Kansas, where they’d been a pair and she’d made him smile. Really smile. Not the sneer he usually wore. And not because she was generous with her affections. Mary made him smile because she believed he was a good man. He wasn’t, but after the mess at the Dudley place, he wanted to try. Leaving that day with Fancy Girl, he’d decided to find Mary and make a new life. He had some money saved, enough to open a saloon, a place where she could sing and live the life she’d always wanted. He didn’t plan to marry her. He’d changed, but not that much. Picking up where they’d left off seemed noble enough.

He and Fancy Girl had been searching for six months, and he’d finally caught a break. He hadn’t touched a woman or a drop of whiskey since the mess in Wyoming, but he still had to eat. Last night he’d taken supper at the boardinghouse where he was staying with his dog. One of the boarders, an old man with bad eyes, had told him about a woman named Mary who sang like a nightingale.

You’ll find her tomorrow morning at Brick’s Saloon.

Not once had it occurred to J.T. that Mary would be singing a hymn in a makeshift church. His mind had gone in the opposite direction. He’d imagined her finishing up a night’s work that involved more than singing. He’d been sick to think she’d fallen so low, but in the next breath he’d been relieved. No matter what Mary had done to survive, he still loved her. He wouldn’t wish her the suffering of selling herself, but he rather enjoyed the thought of riding to her rescue. He didn’t have much to offer a woman as beautiful and talented as Mary Larue, but he had plenty to give to a woman forced into prostitution. As a gunslinger, J.T. knew all about selling himself.

Mary’s voice soared to a high note of a hymn. With that glorious sound, J.T.’s hopes crashed like a bird dying in flight. What did he have to give a woman who sang in church? Not a blessed thing. He didn’t believe in God. The one time he’d cried out for mercy, the heavens had remained silent, and he had the scar to prove it.

Fancy Girl whined at his side.

“I know,” he said. “We found her, but it’s not going to work.”

Inside the saloon, Mary’s voice dipped and soared. As the hymn closed with a trembling “amen,” Fancy Girl tilted her head. He could see where the bullet had left a lightning bolt between her ears. The dog had a keen intelligence and a way of reflecting J.T.’s thoughts. When she cocked her head, he saw the question he’d just asked himself.

“She doesn’t need us, girl.”

Fancy wagged her tail. But you need her.

“I know.” He rubbed the dog’s chin. “But she’s happy now. She’s got more than I can give her.” He had a lot to offer a fallen woman, but a respectable one was beyond his reach. For all he knew, Mary could have found a husband. Did she have a baby of her own? Maybe a house with pretty curtains? J.T. didn’t know, but he knew Mary had changed. The old Mary wouldn’t have been caught dead singing a hymn. The new Mary sang the song with conviction.

If she’d been the woman he recalled, J.T. would have fought for her affection, but how could a man like him compete with God? J.T. certainly couldn’t, though he could have given the devil a run for his money. The thought offered an old and lonely consolation. If he couldn’t have Mary, why not buy a bottle of whiskey, a big one with a fancy label? Why not get drunk and sink into oblivion? J.T. fought the urge to go down that road, but he felt his grip slipping. Without Mary, he’d cleaned up his life for nothing. Finding a place to buy liquor on a Sunday morning wouldn’t be easy, but he’d seen a mercantile that probably had a stash behind the counter.

He stopped scratching Fancy Girl’s ears. “Let’s go,” he said to the dog.

She barked.

“Shhh,” J.T. cautioned. The last thing he wanted was a nosy minister poking his head over the batwing doors. He took a couple of steps down the boardwalk, but the dog didn’t budge. Instead of following him like she always did, she whined.

“I know how you feel,” he said. “But we’re not good enough for her.” A man couldn’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, and J.T. was definitely closer to a pig than fine fabric.

When the hymn ended, the minister called out, “Amen!”

Chairs shuffled and a woman called to the crowd. “We’ve got pie and coffee. Help yourselves, folks.”

J.T. had skipped breakfast, and he had a sweet tooth these days. Pie sounded good, but he had to go before the church folks started to leave. He aimed his chin across the street. “Come on, Fancy.”

The dog perked her ears and tilted her head. J.T. considered the expression a smile, mostly because she got that look when he told her stories by a campfire. He did it to amuse himself, but mostly he liked the way Fancy seemed to listen. She had that look now. She seemed pleased, even eager to go inside the saloon, as if she expected a big bowl of water, maybe even a meal of scraps.

That’s one thing J.T. could say for his dog. Fancy Girl had hope. J.T. had no such optimism. Mary had found a life better than anything he had to give. He had to leave before someone noticed him. “Come on,” he repeated firmly to his dog.

The mutt looked at him as if he were an idiot, then she walked under the batwing doors with her tail wagging.

“Traitor,” J.T. muttered.

Thoroughly annoyed, he leaned against the wall of the saloon, placing himself between the window where he’d peeked inside and seen Mary and the door that would put him directly in her line of sight. No way could he go inside, but neither could he leave his dog.

Surely a high-and-mighty minister would throw the mutt into the street. J.T. just had to wait for someone to notice her. Squinting against the sun, he leaned on the wall and crossed his arms. As soon as Fancy Girl learned her lesson, he’d throw away six months of hope. He’d find a place to buy whiskey, then he’d get his horses out of the livery and he’d leave Denver fast and forever. He’d find a tree by a stream, drink the whole bottle and push Mary Larue out of his heart forever. First, though, he had to get his dog back.

“A dog!” Mary declared. “It looks like she’s coming to church.”

“Maybe she is.” Reverend Joshua Blue crouched down and scratched the dog’s ears. The service had just ended, and the congregation was headed to the refreshment table. Mary glanced to see if her sister and brother were behaving themselves. A month ago, their arrival had turned her life upside down, and she was still reeling from the shock. Her father had been gone for years, but her mother had died just a few months ago. Gertie and Augustus had come to live with her. She spotted them both in the back of the makeshift church.

Gertie met her gaze, then heaved a sigh worthy of the actress she wanted to be. At seventeen, the girl thought she knew everything. Mary had once had the same illusion, but she’d learned some hard lessons in her own acting days. She didn’t want her sister to repeat her mistakes, but neither did she want to deny her dream.

As soon as Gertie turned eighteen, Mary planned to send her to New York to study with Maude Atkins, a theater friend who had moved back East. Mary wished she’d gone to New York, a city with classy theaters and modern stages. Instead she’d traveled west with a third-rate theater troupe. She’d made a name for herself, but she’d also been disgraced. Two years had passed since gunslinger J. T. Quinn had left her unmarried and pregnant, but she hadn’t forgotten the miscarriage or the scandal that had erupted. People in Abilene had known she and J.T. had a special friendship, and some assumed the truth—that they were lovers. When she became pregnant, she was desperate to keep the news to herself, but she miscarried just before taking the stage. The gossip about her turned into a full-blown scandal and she lost her reputation completely. When a drunken bounty hunter assumed she’d welcome his attentions, she’d shot him in self-defense. After an ugly murder trial, she’d cut all ties to Abilene and the theater.

Her friends at Swan’s Nest knew she’d killed a man, but no one in Denver knew she’d been with child. Neither did the baby’s father. She’d made her peace with God, but she had no illusions about people and gossip. She knew how it felt to endure stares and ugly talk. She cared deeply about her reputation, and she wanted to set a good example for Gertie. Her sister knew nothing about the scandal, and Mary intended to keep it that way. That’s why she was sending Gertie to New York. If the girl pursued a stage career in Denver, she’d surely meet someone who knew about Mary’s past. Someone would recognize Gertie’s last name, the gossip would start and Mary would lose her reputation for the second time.

Her brother, Augustus, wouldn’t understand the mistake she’d made, but he inspired other worries. He was twelve years old, thin as a bean and hadn’t said more than “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” since he and Gertie had arrived from West Virginia. The boy was quiet because he stammered his words. As a singer, Mary had trained her voice. She’d tried to help Augustus control his breathing, but he’d only gotten more nervous with her attention. She didn’t know what else to do, but she wouldn’t stop trying to help him.

She loved her brother and sister, but her life had changed drastically the day they’d arrived. In some ways, it had changed for the better. In others, it had gotten so hard she wondered if God had stopped hearing her prayers.

Reaching down, she patted the dog. Its tongue fell to the side as it panted in the summer heat. “I think she’s thirsty,” Mary said to Josh.

“Hey, Brick!” the minister called to the saloon owner. “How about some water for our guest?”

Brick grinned. “Sure thing, preacher.”

As the saloon keeper went to fetch a bowl, Mary traced the ridge of the white scar between the dog’s ears. “I wonder where she came from.”

“There’s no telling,” Josh answered. “But she looks well fed.” He fingered the red bandanna tied around her neck. “She’s also wearing her Sunday best.”

As Mary laughed, Adie Blue, Josh’s wife and Mary’s best friend, approached with Stephen, her one-year-old son, balanced on her hip. Mary ached a little at the sight of them. If she hadn’t miscarried, her baby would have been about the same age.

Adie patted the dog’s neck. “The poor thing! It looks like a bullet grazed the top of her head.”

“It looks that way,” Josh agreed.

Glad to be distracted, Mary touched the scar. “Who would shoot a dog?”

Even if the mutt had been raiding a chicken coop, she didn’t deserve to be shot. Strays did what they had to do to survive. Bending slightly, Mary scratched the dog’s long chin. She had a thick golden coat, big brown eyes and an expression Mary could only describe as a smile. Tinges of black feathered above her eyes to make brows, and she was brushed and clean.

She rubbed the dog’s jaw. “Where’s your home, sweetheart?”

The dog cocked her head as if to say, Right here.

Mary knew the feeling. When she’d come to Denver, she hadn’t known a soul until she’d found Swan’s Nest, a boardinghouse for women in need. There she’d met Adelaide Clarke, now Adie Blue, and made new friends. If someone had told her two years ago she’d be singing hymns in church, she’d have laughed at them. But that’s where she was today and where she wanted to be. A bit of a stray herself, Mary appreciated having a home.

She rubbed the dog’s ears until Brick arrived with the water and set the bowl on the floor. As the dog lapped happily, Gertie sidled up to Mary. “Can we go now?”

“Not yet,” she answered. “It’s our turn to clean up.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue, Gertie.” Mary sounded more commanding than she felt. She was ten years older than her sister, but they’d been close growing up. Disciplining Gertie didn’t come easily, especially since Mary understood the girl’s desire for excitement and fancy dresses. They’d grown up poor in a West Virginia town called Frog’s Landing. Mary had been Gertie’s age when she’d left in search of fame and fortune.

The fortune had been fleeting, and the fame had led to a broken heart. She’d never forget seeing Jonah Taylor Quinn for the first time. She’d finished her second encore at the Abilene Theater and had stepped backstage. He’d been leaning against a wall with his boots crossed at the ankle and a look in his eyes that could only be called scandalous. She’d blushed just looking at him, but then he’d greeted her with the utmost respect. He’d invited her to a midnight supper and she’d accepted. One meal had led to another, and they’d become friends. As spring arrived in Kansas, they’d traded stories and kisses, and she’d fallen in love with him.

Then he’d left…. She still felt the sting of that midnight parting. It’s been good, Mary. But it’s time for me to go.

But I have to tell you something. She’d paused to gather her courage. Instead of telling him she was expecting a baby, she’d revealed her feelings. I love you, J.T.

He’d smiled that wicked smile of his, then he’d shrugged. Love doesn’t mean a thing, sweetheart.

She’d slapped him. Before she could say a word, he’d walked away. She couldn’t bear to think about what happened next, so she glanced at the dog. It had finished the water and looked content. “I wonder if someone’s looking for her,” she remarked to Adie.

“I’ve never seen her before.”

“Me neither,” Josh added.

Adie gave Mary a knowing look. “You’re going to take her home, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Home for Mary was an apartment over the café she owned thanks to a mortgage from the Denver National Bank. She didn’t have room for a dog, but neither could she leave the animal to fend for itself. Mary had always had a heart for strays. It didn’t matter if they had two legs or four. That inclination had caused trouble in the past, but she’d learned her lesson. She loved children and dogs and wouldn’t turn them away, but men couldn’t be trusted.

She looked again at Gertie and Augustus. Her brother stood half-hidden in the corner, eating a piece of pie. Gertie was giving her the evil eye. In another minute, the girl would storm across the room and make a scene. Mary hated arguing with Gertie, so she turned to Adie. “I’m going to start cleaning up.”

“I’ll do it,” Adie volunteered. “You work hard all week.”

“So do you.”

Adie shrugged. “I have to wait for Josh. Besides, I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure,” Mary answered.

“When you come to supper this afternoon, would you bring a couple of loaves of that good sourdough? If I know Josh, we’re going to have a crowd.”

Sunday supper at Swan’s Nest had become a tradition, one that had grown from a simple meal shared by the women who lived there to a feast for anyone who showed up. Josh made a point of inviting everyone from church, and today Mary had noticed some new faces. “I’ll be glad to bring all you need,” she said to Adie.

Her friend smiled. “While you fetch the bread, I’ll take Gertie and Augustus to Swan’s Nest.”

“If you’re sure—”

“I am.” Both women knew Gertie could be difficult.

“Thanks.” If Mary left now, she could squeeze in a few chores. She had to plan next week’s menus and inventory the pantry. Absently she patted the dog’s head. When it sniffed her hand, she smiled. Stephen wiggled in his mother’s arms and made a D sound.

“Dog,” Adie prodded.

“Da!”

Mary felt a stab of longing for the child she’d lost. She loved children, but she had no desire to marry. After what J.T. had done, she’d never trust a man again.

Absently rocking the one-year-old, Adie turned to her. “Are you going to take the dog?”

Mary looked down at her. “What do you say, girl? Would you like to come home with me?” She didn’t have a lot of space, but she had plenty of scraps.

The dog tipped its head.

“Let’s go,” Mary said to her.

As she crossed the room to speak to Gertie and Augustus, the dog followed her. Gertie fussed about going to Swan’s Nest, but she didn’t pitch a fit. Neither did Augustus, though Mary would have welcomed a tantrum in place of a nod. After waving goodbye to several members of the congregation, she left the saloon with the dog at her side.

She didn’t immediately notice the man leaning against the saloon wall. It was the smell of whiskey that got her attention, then the rasp of a stifled curse. Expecting a cowboy with Saturday-night regrets, she turned to offer the man Christian charity and a slice of pie. Instead of a stranger, she saw J. T. Quinn. And instead of charity, she felt something else altogether.