Her Outlaw Heart

by Samantha Harte

  He could do worse, he reminded himself.

  At the stage office, Corbet came up short. He should’ve asked that green-clad drummer’s name. Just because he pictured Tangus as tall and wearing pistols didn’t mean he should ignore bandy-legged strangers in ill-fitting bowler hats.

  After sending his morning’s telegraph messages, Corbet scanned the street, spotting the cactus green among the brown and dusty black that townsfolk wore. He veered toward the cluster of ladies surrounding the grinning, talkative stranger displaying his wares. Button salesman. Annoyed by the distraction, Corbet hurried on, dismissing the man from his mind. Moments later he found the doctor’s office closed. At the Robstarts, was scrawled on a slate hanging alongside the locked door.

  Taking chalk dangling on a string, Corbet wrote, Come to jail soon as you can. Urgent!

  He stormed on toward the barbershop. What was he going to do about Miss McQue? He had no reason to hold her. He himself found the buckskin bag on the cabin floor when he lifted her into his arms. At the time he’d thought the bag must be hers. He’d stuffed it in her knapsack, but he believed her now when she vowed on her dead parents she hadn’t been part of the holdup. Besides, Nobley and Clarkson both swore in their statements in Cheyenne City that six men robbed them, not seven. Jodee McQue would’ve made seven.

  Should he turn her out? What would she do then, serve hash to cowhands at Artie’s? Dodge drunkards at the Whitetail Saloon? “Board” at Rella’s?

  He caught sight of himself in a storefront window, a tall scowling man with no friends. He admitted to himself why he was keeping such a close eye on his female prisoner. To him, the most important thing was to protect those too weak to protect themselves. In doing his bang-up job as marshal, he had shot a defenseless girl.

  Well, she hadn’t been entirely defenseless. She’d had that heavy old pistol and plenty of spunk.

  Corbet plunged on, racked with regret. She looked so darned cute in those britches that clung to her backside like his hands wanted to—he immediately banished that thought. He’d never seen a woman wearing pants. The sight tended to keep a man awake at night.

  It wasn’t only that. It was her sun-colored hair, wild around her face like she’d been romping in a haymow. It was those eyes, big and blue and baffled by the cruel world she’d been born to. And that tear in her shirt wasn’t helping matters. Best send her on her way. Buy the ticket himself. Good riddance.

  At the barbershop Corbet sank into the cracked leather chair that stood prominently in the single front window, affording barber Walter Hamm a full view of the street.

  “I need a trim, too,” Corbet said.

  “Glad to see you back from your man-hunt, Marshal. Glad them outlaws is gettin’ planted today, too. I hear Virgil Robstart is crazy with fever.”

  “If you see Doc, tell him I got a wounded prisoner who needs attention.” He wanted to quiet the barber so he could think.

  Walter’s eyes flashed. “I hear she’s a regular spitfire.”

  Corbet wouldn’t have described Jodee McQue quite like that, but then, he hadn’t known her long. She seemed more like a lost kitten. “Who said that of her?”

  “It’s all over town she rode with them hellrakes like she was born to it. Would make quite an attraction, hangin’ a female in this town.”

  Corbet pushed the barber’s razor from his face. “A man shot the stage driver, Walter, not a woman. She wasn’t there. Nobley and Clarkson as well as Mrs. Ashton and Mrs. Babcock said so. Sworn statements. The first I knew of her was when I waded through outlaws I gunned down and found her bleeding on the floor. She hasn’t done anything to be hanged for, for God’s sake.”

  Grabbing a towel, Corbet wiped the lather from his face and hurled himself back into the morning cold without his shave. Hang her? Where did this town’s sudden blood thirst come from? This was not what he had been planning to do when he’d headed west. It certainly wasn’t what he was going to be doing for the rest of his life. Maybe it was time to move on. Let some other puppet dance at the end of the Ashton-Babcock tether.

  With relief, Corbet saw the doctor trudging up from the direction of the Robstart’s cabin. “You better head for the jail, Doc,” he called in a none-too-pleasant tone.

  The weary man looked up. “Delirious?”

  “No, but she needs that dressing changed.” Corbet’s belly knotted. Virgil must be bad off.

  The doctor passed Corbet. “Change it yourself. I have to get to my office for more supplies. I’ll be catching Patsy’s baby tonight if she doesn’t let up.”

  • • •

  The man from the restaurant stood watching Jodee so intently she couldn’t go on trying to comb her hair. What was his name? Artie? Sitting on the cot with her head down, her hair thrown forward because she had been working at the knots in back, she muttered, “What’s so interesting to look at?” Maybe her gruff tone would put him off.

  Artie Abernathy looked to be around Burl’s age, late twenties, Jodee thought. His hairline receded to ginger curls. His mustache was a clumsy attempt at a handle-bar style which accentuated the pale fullness of his face, but he looked nice enough.

  “I’ve been cooking around here almost four years,” he said grinning. He settled his haunch onto the corner of the marshal's desk, tipping it slightly. “Started out cooking in a tent. You know, I can’t believe it’s in a woman's nature to run with outlaws. You were forced into it, ain’t that right, Miss McQue?”

  Before Jodee could answer, the hard-eyed Deputy Hicks sauntered in. “What the hell’r you doin’ here, Abernathy?”

  Artie straightened and brushed the front of his apron. “You weren’t here, so the marshal asked me to watch over Miss McQue.”

  Deputy Hicks rolled his tongue around his teeth. “Well, I’m here now.” He winked at Jodee.

  Jodee shrank back, loathing the sight of the man.

  “Anything special you’d like for lunch, Miss McQue?” Abernathy shuffled toward the door.

  Jodee shook her head. As Abernathy went out, she noticed a man in a black bowler hat passing by outside. The man looked in, straight at her, and then strutted on. She didn’t recognize the clean-shaven face but she knew that walk. Shaking, and feeling sick, she pressed herself against the wall. That was Burl! But clean-shaven and wearing a green suit? It couldn’t be. Was he crazy? Surely Burl was a hundred miles away by now.

  When she opened her eyes, Hicks stood at her cell door, blocking the view of the open door.

  “What’s ailin’ you? In them britches, a person’d take you for a saddle tramp, excepting for that long hair. And certain other things. Need some help combing that hair?”

  When she didn’t reply, he kicked the bars with a dirty boot.

  “I’m talking to you. Ever been down Cheyenne City way?” He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the corner.

  Jodee knew better than to speak.

  He pulled a flask from his hip pocket and took a long pull. Whiskey that early in the morning meant nothing but trouble. “I used to frequent a gal down Cheyenne way had hair like yours. You got any connections with that line of work?”

  She hoped she looked fierce. Gun shot and without a weapon, she had no defense against a man like him. At the slightest sign of weakness, the deputy would have her cell door unlocked, doing what came natural to vermin.

  “Come to think of it, you smell like you ain’t had a bath in a year. Ten dollars says I meet up with you at Rella’s one of these nights. You’ll smell better then.”

  Jodee twisted away. She had cleaned up at the hideout camp, but that had been days ago. She’d traveled many a mile since. She listened while the deputy rifled through the marshal’s desk drawers and yanked hard at one that was locked. She heard him saunter into the sleeping room and browse through things he had no business touching. She felt indignant on the marshal’s behalf.

  Finally the deputy dropped onto the chair behind the marshal’s desk and tipped it against the wall. When the jailhouse door opened,
Jodee’s hopes lifted.

  “Hard at work, I see, Hicks,” a stranger said.

  “I do more work than you any day of the week. Sniffin’ out a story, are ya’, Inky? Well, there she is, our very own lady outlaw, but you’ll find little to grab the attention of readers. She’s as boring as slop and about as pretty.”

  “How would you know what might interest my readers?”

  Warily, Jodee sat up. She pushed her torn shirt back into place.

  The newcomer was an attractive man in a striped shirt and high-buttoned coat jacket. He swept off his hat. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Miss McQue. I’m George Hatcher, Burdeen City Dispatch. It’s only a one page newspaper, but I have ambitions. May I ask a few questions? I promise to be fair.”

  “Fair about what?”

  “Why, in presenting your case to the public. How is it you came to be riding with those outlaws after the holdup?” Moving closer to the cell, he plucked a tablet from his breast pocket and stood poised with pencil, ready to write. “You might make a name for yourself back East if your story’s interesting.”

  “Better make one up then, ’cause it ain’t.”

  Hicks snickered. “Spoken like a real lady.”

  “Tell me where you hail from, Miss McQue,” Mr. Hatcher said. “I heard you were born of a red-haired lady of the evening in San Francisco.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I hear you’re every bit as violent as the men you rode with, that you helped plan robberies and even pulled a few yourself dressed as a schoolgirl.”

  Jodee struggled to stand. “That’s a lie!”

  “Then tell me your story so I can set the record straight. I can’t begin to describe the harm you’re doing to your reputation, staying in this cell without benefit of a lawyer. If you’re innocent, why’re you being held?”

  She glared at the newspaperman, knowing she dared not trust him. But what could she do when folks were spreading lies about her? The lies sounded like things Burl Tangus might say just to be mean.

  “I was born in Arkansas.” She watched him scribble. “How do I know what you’re writing?”

  “I’ll bring a copy of the story straight from the press. Can you read, Miss McQue?”

  “Of course I can read. I went to school. I attended Sunday school, too, if that matters to you. I can recite and cipher and sign my name.”

  “And you’re a dead shot with a pistol, they say.”

  “A body gets hungry enough, she can shoot near anything.” Jodee could only manage to sit primly on the edge of the cot. “I grew up on a farm. I hunted eggs. I was learning to darn socks.”

  “Then one night outlaws raided your sleepy hometown, shot your family, and captured you. You’ve been their prisoner ever since. Is that right, Miss McQue?”

  Deputy Hicks kicked the chair by the door. “She weren’t no prisoner, Inky. She is Miss McQue, as in T. T. McQue’s own born daughter. That innocent-looking face of hers don’t fool ol’ Jimmy Hicks, here. You print that story—eggs and Sunday school—I’ll tell everybody it’s a fool lie.”

  They didn’t believe her. Jodee wilted. “You print lies about me,” she hissed, “I’ll come gunnin’ for you.” Too late she realized she sounded like an outlaw!

  Before the newspaperman could retort, the door swung wide. By the thunderous expression on the marshal’s face, he’d been listening on the far side of it for some time.

  Ducking his chin into his collar, the newspaperman looked embarrassed to have been caught questioning the marshal’s prisoner without him present. “I was just leaving, Marshal, but if you please, Miss McQue, one last question. Which man shot Willie Burstead during the holdup? The stagecoach driver.”

  “I don’t know! I wasn’t there.”

  “We hear Burl Tangus rode with your father and the Rikes. Nobody’s seen him. Where is he? Is he coming for you?” the newspaperman asked.

  Balling her fists, Jodee flinched as her shoulder blossomed with pain. “I ain’t nothin’ to Burl Tangus, so why would he come for me?”

  She hoped Burl was gone, but she feared he was in town, following her, making up stories about her, waiting to break her out and steal her back to the outlaw life she hated so. Why would he bother?

  “That’s not what I heard. I heard you and him had an understanding.” Mr. Hatcher cocked his head, one eyebrow raised. “You’re his girl.”

  Jodee struggled to her feet. The cell spun in front of her eyes, unsettling her stomach. Trembling, she advanced on the newspaperman, whose face lit with excitement. He stood poised on the other side of the bars, ready to write.

  “I ain’t nobody’s girl, but I have to wonder who you been talking to. Maybe Burl Tangus hisself? Did he promise you a good story if you pestered me?”

  Sputtering, Hatcher made his excuses to the marshal and fled the jailhouse. The marshal followed him outside. Jodee heard a heated exchange. When the marshal returned and sent Hicks away, he wore a turbulent expression. “Just tell me one thing, Miss McQue.”

  “Oh, please,” she snapped. “I’m weary of all your polite talk. Just call me Jodee.”

  “Jodee,” he said more gently, approaching her cell like she was a dangerous mountain cat. “What does Tangus look like?”

  Making her way back to the cot, she dropped onto it. “Runty man. Stringy dark hair, dirty beard, weasel eyes. Thinks he’s as smart as a whip. Walks like he owns everything.”

  “Any chance he might be in Burdeen?”

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Why would he ask that? Did she dare say what she suspected? “Honest, Marshal, on my ma’s grave I ain’t nothin’ to Burl Tangus. He ain’t nothin’ to me. He turned Pa back to outlawing and ruined what chance we had for a decent life. I wished him dead more’n once, and that’s a fact. That night when we were hiding at the cabin, I heard him brag that he shot the stage driver. They was laughing at him on account he couldn’t bust some safe open. When he shot at it he claimed a bullet ricocheted and near to hit one of the ladies. He bragged how it made her jump and scream. She isn’t dead, is she?”

  The marshal pulled a telegraph message from his pocket. “The bullet tore through her clothes, she writes. Something like that would surely upset a woman like Avinelle Babcock. She was probably wearing something new. You say Tangus’s face is pock-marked?”

  He was baiting her, and she knew it. What a snake. “I never seen Burl without a beard. Don’t you listen? He never took pains to look decent.” She thought about the man she’d seen strutting past the doorway earlier. That couldn’t have been Burl. Just a curious passerby.

  The marshal unlocked her cell. She shrank from him, fearing her clothes smelled dirty like the deputy suggested.

  “Take it easy, Jodee,” he crooned, crouching. “I need a look at your wound. Doc’s been up all night with my deputy and his wife, so I have to look after you myself.”

  Jodee shook her head. I can’t bear for you to touch me. “I’m fine. Please.”

  He was so close she could see the flecks of gold and black in his eyes. Something melted inside her, leaving her tingling in ways she had never felt before. He looked back at her, caught momentarily, and he swallowed.

  Oh, Marshal, she thought. You are the damndest looking man I ever saw.

  “I’m keeping you here for your own safety, Jodee. You understand that, right? Until I have Tangus in custody, you’re at risk.”

  “Burl don’t care about me, I tell you.”

  “But you saw him shoot the driver.” He held her gaze with electrifying intensity. “Your testimony could send him to the gallows.”

  “I told you,” she said, with equal intensity. She fought to keep her lips from quivering. “I wasn’t at the holdup. I didn’t see him do nothing. I heard him talking about shooting the driver. Afterwards. At the cabin. Burl’s in Cheyenne City or Denver by now, looking for some other fool like my pa to follow his schemes. He can’t do things by himself. He needs men stupid enough to help him. To make him look big. I saw you
got most of the loot back. Burl won’t come after it. Why would he? He’s gone. Even if he broke in here, I wouldn’t go with him. I hate him. I’ve always hated him.”

  The marshal stared and stared and stared at her until finally, blessedly, his gaze softened. “All right. Settle down. You’re right. I’ve recovered almost everything taken during the holdup. Lay back. Let me see.” He pulled aside the bandage and sucked in his breath. Did it look that bad? He was just doing his job, she told herself. He didn’t care about her. He wasn’t worried.

  “You let me out of here, I’ll take myself away,” she whispered. “You won’t have to bother with me anymore.”

  He shook his head, his eyes pinched with pity. “Where would you go? Is there really a family farm back in Tennessee?” He was so close she could’ve kissed him.

  Her face went hot. Looking away, she bit out, “Arkansas!”

  “Anybody still there?”

  “I don’t know. Ma used to tell me that when Pa came for us we were going to go off with him no matter what, so when he came, even though Ma was gone six years, I went with Pa. In all the years I been gone, nobody ever came after me. I figured they were glad I was gone.”

  “Who?”

  “My grandmother,” Jodee said, surprised that she still felt hurt after so long. “Aunt Mardee, Uncle Jeb.” So few people to care about her, Jodee thought. She felt so alone. “Grandmother was too old to come after me, I reckon. Aunt Mardee had my young cousins to tend. Uncle Jeb had the farm. They didn’t want me. Really, they didn’t.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “She took sick. I was six. Then Granddaddy died…out in the barn, during a storm. Times got hard. I was a burden.” Jodee couldn’t say more. She watched the marshal’s coffee brown gaze. He was listening, but she couldn’t tell if he believed her.

  “I just want you to know, Jodee, me asking Rella to help you was not meant as an insult. I’m not much use to you. I felt you needed a woman’s help. I don’t want you to consider her kind of life.”