Her Outlaw Heart

by Samantha Harte

  She shook her head. “Never danced.”

  The doctor raised his brows. “Well then, you have something to look forward to. Stay put. No running off. Marshal Harlow said he found no warrants against you. No witnesses placed you at the holdup. When you’re able, we’ll get you situated in a new life. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  A new life? Why would anyone help her with that? “Is the deputy’s wife all right?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Patsy's up already cooking breakfast. I’ll tell her you asked.” He closed his bag and left without a goodbye.

  Jodee struggled with tears of relief. The moment she sensed someone new entering the sleeping room, she tried to hide her wet face.

  “Miss McQue, can I fetch you anything?” It was Hobie.

  “Water,” she choked out, turning to give the lad a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

  When he saw the tears standing on her cheeks, he blushed scarlet. He was back moments later to hold a tin cup of water to her lips. His hands shook so badly, water dribbled down her chin to her neck as she drank the sweet coolness. His eyes glowed as he leaned in close to help her.

  “That’ll be all for this morning, Hobie,” the marshal said, watching from the doorway.

  “But I want to sweep her cell—”

  “Miss McQue won’t be going back to her cell. She’ll rest here until we find her a place to stay. Mrs. Brady’s boarding house is full, apparently, but don’t worry, Jodee. We won’t run you out of town. Hicks is heading out to that cabin to track Tangus. You’ll be safe here in town. You’re no longer under arrest.”

  Jodee didn’t know what to say. She was free to go?

  Hobie edged out of the room. “Hope you’re feeling better soon, Miss McQue.”

  The marshal regarded Jodee with a closed expression. That was when Jodee remembered kissing him. Surely it had been a dream. She’d never kissed anyone except the whiskered cheek of her father.

  “Hungry?" the marshal asked, rubbing his neck. He seemed skittish. “Artie brought another tray. He can’t seem to get enough of feeding you.” His words hinted at amusement but his eyes remained hooded. “I think he’s taken a shine to you. Hobie, too.”

  She answered hesitantly. “I’m not hungry…I don’t think.”

  “I’ll be here working in case you need anything.” He pulled the door closed and left her to consider her astonishing new fate.

  She slept soundly most of the morning. Just before noon she woke feeling ready to eat everything in sight. Artie brought chicken broth and freshly baked bread for her luncheon. She had no idea what had become of her uneaten breakfast. Then she remembered that had probably been a day or two ago. The newspaperman stopped by for an update on her condition, but Corbet didn’t allow him to visit.

  Around three o’clock, Jodee felt well enough to take a turn behind the jailhouse to the privy. Rella’s windows were shuttered against the late afternoon sun. Although Jodee didn’t have the luxury of watching the marshal work at his desk, she relished listening to the rustling of his papers and the scratch of his pen. Two men came to talk to the marshal a while, but Jodee couldn’t catch what they said. She thought she heard the marshal unlock his desk drawer. The doctor stopped by late. Her wound was better, he said with an easing of his pinched eyes. Mrs. Robstart was up, tending her tiny newborn son whom they had named Henry, after Virgil’s father back East, he told her. Virgil was sitting up in bed, taking broth. The worst was over.

  Jodee slept the remainder of the evening feeling as if the world had come to rights again. She didn’t wake again until after dark. It was late when she heard the marshal give instructions to a deputy for evening’s rounds. It wasn’t Hicks. She spent a peaceful night dreaming things she couldn’t remember come morning.

  • • •

  The early stagecoach rattled through town as Jodee woke the following morning. When she sat up she felt as near to normal as she had since before the shootout. Her shoulder ached, but she could move her arm without fainting with pain. She flexed her elbow, wrist, and fingers, relieved to discover she could still move them.

  Swinging her legs off the bed, she found she could stand without assistance. How wonderful it felt to be nearly well again. She breathed in, smelling fresh coffee in the main room.

  There was a small barred window in the sleeping room. Jodee looked out at the busy street and watched three men struggle to lift a heavy black safe with gold lettering on the door from the rear boot of the stagecoach. They lugged it into the stage depot.

  Jodee closed her eyes. “Oh, Pa,” she whispered. “Why’d you leave me to this?”

  On the far side of the stagecoach someone helped a woman in a magnificent blue traveling dress step down to the rutted street. Another woman wearing a hat with black plumes climbed from the stagecoach, too.

  It felt so amazing to watch the goings-on of the street without feeling the need to hide. Trying to forget her grief, Jodee reminded herself they were going to help her start a new life. She might never again be sick enough to steal a kiss from the marshal—that’s what it had been, stolen—but at least she had the memory of it. Her father would’ve wanted her to start over. She had to try, for him.

  Thinking she should tidy the bed, Jodee realized the two women were coming across the street to the jailhouse. She edged back where she wouldn’t be noticed, peeking out the window of the marshal’s sleeping room. She heard the women step up to the porch, arguing in hushed tones. Behind them, a surrey with fringes around the roof rolled to a stop beside them. The driver brought parcels and two carpetbags from the stagecoach and loaded the things onto the surrey.

  The older woman climbed aboard the surrey and fussed with her black skirts.

  Jodee heard the jailhouse door open.

  “Why Corbet Harlow,” came a young woman’s sweetly scolding voice, “We expected you’d greet us at the depot just now. Didn’t you get my telegraph message?”

  “Avinelle! Weren’t you due tomorrow?” The marshal’s voice sounded strained.

  “When we got your message—you recovered my cash box—we had to come right away! You can’t know how grateful I am. Oh, but you do look surprised. All right, I’ll forgive you, but only this once. Won’t you at least give me a kiss hello? You look—well, really, Corbet! Aren’t you glad to see me at all? I’m back after my horrifying ordeal. Mother has been a trial, you can be sure, but then…” She lowered her voice. “Mother always is.”

  In the sleeping room, Jodee's heart sank. She dropped to the edge of the bed and sat listening. So, the marshal wasn’t as alone in his life as she liked to imagine. This was why he so relentlessly followed Burl and the Rikes into the canyon. The woman on the stagecoach was his sweetheart.

  Feeling like a fool, Jodee fought a jumble of hurt and hopeless feelings. She heard the marshal cross the floor and pause. Was he kissing his visitor hello?

  “You’re all right then?” he asked. “That first message sounded as if you’d been killed. You weren’t wounded, not at all?”

  The woman gave a laugh, but she spoke with a pout. “It was terrifying! They ordered us out of the coach. We had to stand there at gunpoint like, like…It became ridiculous. They were a passel of fools, arguing over that safe. The lout couldn’t open it. Dropped it. Threw it against a boulder. Shot at it. The bullet ricocheted, ripping through my clothes. I could’ve been killed!” She lowered her voice. “The cash box, Corbet?”

  Jodee heard him unlock his desk drawer.

  Their voices dropped so low Jodee couldn’t hear anything more for some seconds. She feared he was consoling her, holding her, kissing her.

  No longer able to contain her jealous curiosity, Jodee balled her fists. It was stupid to reveal her presence in the marshal’s sleeping room, she knew, but she couldn’t stop herself from pushing the door open and facing the woman who was the reason her father had been killed.

  At the sight of Jodee emerging from the sleeping room, the woman’s mouth fell
open. She clutched a small, flat metal box to her bosom and backed away. She was the most beautiful person Jodee had ever seen. Her complexion looked like her grandmother's porcelain teacups. Her closely-set eyes blazed with astonishment. She wore skirts drawn back into complicated folds and pleats. Over the dress was an elbow-length cape of plum-colored fabric that caught the morning sunlight. She wore an elaborate hat with ribbons trailing over a cascade of gold curls.

  Jodee stared at her until her eyes went dry. The marshal had his hand on her elbow as if he had just kissed her.

  Jodee watched his neck redden as he stepped back.

  To think she’d fantasized about the marshal taking a shine to a bedraggled desert rat like herself, Jodee thought, feeling like a jackass.

  The woman's eyes darted over Jodee, from her sleep-tousled hair to the overlarge blue shirt she was wearing and her worn denim britches that hugged her long legs. She gawked at Jodee’s stocking feet. Drawing herself up, she seemed like a rattler ready to strike.

  Jodee imagined herself swaggering forward, twirling her father’s heavy the pistol on her finger like Burl liked to do. She wanted to say something gruff—aw, but wasn’t that just the stupidest thing she had ever thought of? Acting like an outlaw would only impress another outlaw. Jodee suddenly felt every bit the rough outlaw’s daughter she was. She wished she was somewhere else, anywhere else, and anyone but herself.

  “Corbet?” came the woman’s strained voice. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Corbet let his shoulders drop. What a formidable figure he cut when he glowered like that, Jodee thought, beginning to tremble.

  His voice came out as impersonally as if he were addressing a stranger. “If you’ll take a seat, Avinelle, I’ll explain what’s been happening while you were recuperating in Cheyenne City.”

  “I shall stand, thank you.”

  “Well, then, Jodee, this is Widow Babcock, co-owner of the Ashton-Babcock Stage Line. She’s the woman who was nearly shot during the holdup at Ship’s Creek Crossing last week. She’s the woman the stage driver died defending.” Turning to the young widow, the marshal said with exaggerated formality, “Avinelle, this is Miss Jodee McQue, daughter of the outlaw also killed during the holdup.”

  Widow Babcock’s eyes rounded. “Your father was one of those outlaws? Then, what are you doing in there?” She gestured to the sleeping room.

  The marshal explained how Jodee came to be wounded and in jail.

  “She nearly died of fever two nights ago,” he added. “I had to put her in my room so I could tend her.”

  “And just where was Dr. Trafford?”

  While he explained about his wounded deputy, the man’s wife, and their new baby, Widow Babcock shook her head in disbelief.

  “But Corbet, you can’t have a woman in your sleeping room. People will think—” Her mouth contorted with an effort to hold back emotion. “This looks very unseemly, Corbet. Think of your reputation. Think of mine.”

  “This is where you can help,” the marshal said with rising animation. Interrupting himself, he indicated the chair behind his desk. “Jodee, you needn’t stand. You’re still weak.”

  Jodee’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. He was concerned about her? She doubted that. She shook her head. She dared not sit in the presence of this woman.

  “Exactly how might I help, Corbet?” Widow Babcock asked with open sarcasm.

  “If you would, Avinelle, please help me think where Miss McQue might stay until she’s well enough to work. She wants to go home, but she must earn her fare. I tried taking up a collection but—”

  “Work, you mean here, in Burdeen?” The widow's face paled. She glared at the marshal, her tortured feelings for him naked in her eyes. “If this is what you want, Corbet, I shall certainly give it my complete attention.” Tottering a little, Widow Babcock made her way to the door. She paused, looking flustered. “I came in to invite you for dinner Sunday. Mother plans something special.”

  “Honored, as always," the marshal said. "You wouldn’t happen to have a dress Miss McQue could wear?”

  Jodee backed away. “That ain’t necessary, Marshal!”

  “Anything else? Hat? Parasol? Corbet, you must excuse me, Mother’s waiting. I’ll do what I can, but you mustn’t allow this person to return to your sleeping room. Does anyone know she was in there?”

  “Doc Trafford. Hobie. George Hatcher. It’s no secret.”

  Clapping her hand over her mouth, the pretty young widow lurched out the door, her expression stricken.

  “If I’m free to go, Marshal, I’ll go now.” Jodee started for the door, but her head began to swim. She grabbed the desk for support. I’m not even strong enough to cross the room, she thought with disgust.

  Corbet was quick to lend her his arm.

  From the doorway, Widow Babcock watched with narrowed eyes.

  “Doc wants Jodee to get a week’s bed rest,” he explained as she hesitated. “Jodee actually was shot, Avinelle. You needed a week to recover a bullet hole in your cloak.”

  The widow sucked in her breath. “Corbet Harlow, you cut me to the bone. I—I shall return within the hour. Miss McQue,” she said in a condescending tone that left Jodee bristling, “I am filled with regret over your predicament, but you must not go back in that room.” She swept out, leaving behind the crisp fragrance of silk.

  The marshal sighed.

  Jodee felt like cussing.

  When the marshal met Jodee’s eyes she expected him to order her to his chair, but instead he pulled it around and urged her to sit. “A word from Avinelle Babcock and folks will line up to help you, Jodee.”

  She resisted him. “I don’t want her help, Marshall. The hotel’s fine, the livery stable, anyplace. I’ll work off the cost and be gone as soon as I can.”

  “Call me Corbet, please.”

  Jodee just wanted to flee. “I—I couldn’t.”

  With all her heart Jodee yearned to sidle up to him, slip her arms around his neck, and lay her head against his chest. Lest he see the longing in her eyes, she dropped her gaze.

  “Jodee,” Corbet said softly. “I’m sorry I put you in jail. Let me make it up to you. You need help returning to decent society.”

  She shook her head. It had been easier living with her father, apart from all that. She missed her father so much that she suddenly felt overwhelmed. With Corbet watching, Jodee felt her heart roll over in anguish. Finally, with a huff of exasperation, she dropped into the chair.

  He smiled. The way his lips curved back over his teeth made Jodee’s heart soar. It was the first time she’d seen him look pleased. The effect was dazzlingly. She felt a blossoming inside, of longing and hope.

  • • •

  The moment Avinelle climbed into the surrey, her mother snapped, “What went wrong this time?”

  Balling her gloved fists, Avinelle tucked her cash box into the folds of her skirt, fighting the urge to curse her mother.

  Corbet had looked as if he’d rather wrestle rattlesnakes than dine with her. And that Jodee whatever-her-name-was…Avinelle felt elderly compared to that fresh-faced young thing, standing in his sleeping room doorway! Not a wrinkle around her eyes, not a blemish on those apple cheeks. Long, tousled hair. Just the sort of waif big dumb men like Corbet Harlow found appealing. The little urchin looked as if Corbet had just ravished her.

  “Get going, Bailey,” Avinelle snarled at their driver. “This wind is unbearable.”

  Two years before, when she was first widowed, Avinelle thought, Corbet had showered her with his solicitous attention. He’d been nothing more than a shotgun messenger at the time, working on her late husband’s stage line. Tall and muscular like that, who wouldn’t have noticed him. Her mother certainly had. Her mother had used her influence, too, to get him hired as city marshal. Corbet proved so capable that her mother decided he’d make an even better business manager, and Avinelle’s next husband. Avinelle gritted her teeth.

  “Well?” came her mother’s grati
ng query.

  "What is it, Mother?”

  "Whatever is bothering you now? I see you have your cash box. Empty, I suppose.”

  Avinelle’s mind reeled. Yes, indeed, I have it back, Mother, she thought. She said nothing of its contents. Let her mother think whatever she wished. If I possessed an ounce of courage, Avinelle thought, I might be on my way back to New York right now. But no, she took pity on her mother, gave in to her fear of returning to a life less prestigious than this one. Richest widows in Burdeen City? So what? Avinelle was losing her mind with frustration.

  “Corbet has an outlaw’s daughter recovering in his sleeping room. That’s what’s bothering me. Mother. Bailey, if you repeat a word, I’ll fire you. You should’ve seen the way Corbet looked at her. He wants me to find her a place to stay, and to work.”

  The surrey lurched forward. Moments later it stopped in front of the Ashton-Babcock house a block from town. Avinelle fought her skirts, scrambled down, and charged up the flagstone walk, her ankles aching. She hated Burdeen City, and she hated this house. No one cared that she had nearly been killed during that holdup. She’d expected Corbet to fetch her from Cheyenne City and fall on his face in his efforts to comfort her tattered nerves. She and her mother had waited and waited. He hadn’t come. Now she knew why.

  Avinelle felt like a laughingstock.

  Her mother followed her into the entrance hall. “Maggie,” her mother called to the maid, “this place needs airing. Where are you? Old fool. Probably in her room, mumbling to herself.”

  “Mother, what am I to do?”

  “So you caught Corbet with a harlot in his bed.”

  Avinelle watched as her mother spied a piece of mail waiting on a silver tray and snatched it up. Her mother answered absently, “Turn a blind eye. Men have their needs.”

  “I will not.”

  Their maid scurried into the entry, her graying hair untidy. She escaped a scolding by hurrying into the parlor to throw open the windows. Avinelle watched her mother tear apart the envelope and read, eyes widening with alarm. What was it this time? A lost mail contract? Higher taxes?