Her Outlaw Heart

by Samantha Harte

  Jamming the letter into her pocket, her mother said, “The answer, Avinelle, is pitifully obvious. Corbet's hussy must stay with us. Whoever helps Corbet’s little protégé will earn his gratitude. That must be you.”

  “What if she robs us while we sleep?”

  Her mother’s lips curved into a cunning smile. “Then she will prove herself unworthy of our help. Away to prison she goes. Problem solved. Corbet marries you, as planned.”

  Avinelle stormed up to her room and slammed the door with all her strength. Throwing the cash box onto her bed, she tore into the bottom of her wardrobe. In her late husband’s humidor she grabbed up his pocketbook and plucked his copy of the cash box key from the hidden compartment.

  Taking the cash box and dropping cross-legged onto the floor, she jammed the key into the keyhole and lifted the cash box lid. Her breath went out. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was all there. Her entire hoard, intended to get her back east. There was still hope of escaping this damnable prison called home.

  Five

  Waiting for Avinelle’s return, Corbet paced the jailhouse porch, thinking how Jodee had looked moments before as Hatcher stopped by to present his single-page newspaper sheet. Spying the article about herself, Jodee’s eyes snapped with fire. Corbet was impressed with her gumption.

  At the sound of Avinelle’s surrey approaching, he felt relief and went back inside. He wanted to know what Hatcher had written, too. Jodee still sat at his desk, reading aloud but sounding little better than a schoolchild.

  FEMALE OUTLAW JAILED

  Returned safely from his desperate manhunt, Marshal Harlow has detained Jodeen McQue, daughter of wanted outlaw Timothy Titus McQue, upon further investigation as to her innocence or guilt. T. T. McQue was shot dead during the Ashton-Babcock stagecoach holdup at Ship Creek Crossing last Friday afternoon along with William R. Burstead, driver out of Cheyenne City. Ashton-Babcock station agent Benjamin T. Nobley, Burdeen, company agent Chester M. Clarkson, Philadelphia, co-owner Thiea Ashton, and her daughter Avinelle Babcock of Burdeen were robbed at gunpoint. As reported in our last issue, Deputy Virgil Robstart was wounded during the shootout which ended the reign of terror perpetrated by the McQue gang. Cloyd Rike and his three sons, Mose, Witt, and Lee, were killed dead by Marshal Harlow and his posse of Burdeen’s finest and most courageous townsmen. Burl Tangus, a known associate of the McQue gang, remains at large. It is not yet known if Miss McQue partook in her father’s thieving ways, but it is said she is a crack shot and accomplished at attending the needs of renegades.

  Corbet cringed. The townspeople would surely wonder just how Jodee McQue “attended” renegades.

  Jodee threw the paper down and twisted away.

  Avinelle charged into the jail, breathless in fresh silk. “I’m sorry to be so long, Corbet, but it was difficult convincing Mother.”

  Turning from Jodee, Corbet took the bait. "Convince your mother of what?"

  Jodee rolled stiffness from her wounded shoulder, drew her right arm to her side, and held it there, her lips pressed together as if to keep everything she wanted to say from flooding out. Aside from the flinty gaze she gave Avinelle, Jodee looked pale.

  “Miss McQue,” Avinelle began with formality. “Mother has agreed to let you stay in our home. A short time. We’ll help you find employment. Not with us, of course. We don’t need more help.”

  Corbet's heart gave a leap of relief. It was a marvelous idea! Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? He’d never seen Avinelle look so overwrought, but he grinned nevertheless. He wanted to kiss her for helping him. “That’s so generous.”

  Pinking prettily, Avinelle thrust a paper-wrapped parcel tied with kitchen twine at Jodee. “A dress. Go ahead, put it on. I give you permission to go into the sleeping room to change. You can’t go out in public looking like that.”

  Reluctantly, Jodee accepted the parcel. “I’ll pay you back, Ma’am.”

  “Nonsense. No repayment is expected, I'm sure. And please, call me Avinelle. We’ll be fast friends. But remember to call my mother Widow Ashton. It’ll take a while for her to get used to having someone like you in our home. We’ve been in mourning, you see.” She made a pathetic smile. “For my late stepfather, and my dear late husband.”

  “I won’t stay more’n a day or so.”

  “Doc will decide that,” Corbet cautioned, beginning to wonder if Jodee would make it to Avinelle’s house. He watched her totter back into his sleeping room. Quickly he grasped Avinelle’s elbow and pulled her outside to speak to her privately. “You’re sure about this?”

  Avinelle leaned in close and gave Corbet her most captivating smile. She smelled of roses and looked irresistible. “I don’t know why I didn’t suggest it right away, Corbet.”

  “Well, I do appreciate this. I’ll stop by once or twice a day to check on things.”

  “She’ll be no trouble at all, really, Corbet. We’ll love having her. Why, in a week’s time you won’t know her. No one in Burdeen would want the daughter of an outlaw attending their children, kitchen, or parlor, but what people in Cheyenne City don’t know will be to Miss McQue’s advantage. We'll find her a job there.” Avinelle patted his hand with lingering tenderness. “Then we can get back to normal and forget all about that horrid holdup.”

  • • •

  Jodee discovered she actually liked the flowered blue calico she lifted from the widow's wrapping paper, but the garment was threadbare. Reluctantly she unbuttoned the marshal’s shirt and tugged it from her aching shoulder. She removed her own torn and bloody shirt and tossed it aside. The doctor's fresh bandage around her chest felt tight. She longed to tear it off. Aware suddenly that she stood half naked in the marshal’s sleeping room, Jodee quickly pulled the calico dress over her head, leaving her denim britches on underneath. This was no charitable gift, she was certain. This was a sample of all she would endure as Avinelle Babcock’s house guest.

  Grabbing the marshal’s shirt, she pulled it back on like a jacket. She supposed she could refuse to go, but what else might she do? She had to get well. She had to start over somewhere. For two years she’d endured the company of outlaws. Before that had been loneliness and hardship. A few days with two thorny widow ladies could be no worse.

  Moments later, as Jodee walked out of the jailhouse a free woman, she asked, “When will I get my pistol back, Marshal?” She watched his eyes go over her and wondered just how awful she must look.

  He seemed pleased, but worried. “You won’t need your pistol at Avinelle’s house. And you don’t have to worry about Tangus. Cedric Bailey is Avinelle's driver. He’ll stand guard over you.”

  Corbet watched Jodee’s shaggy blonde hair lift on the breeze as she climbed into the surrey. As Avinelle drove away, he waited for a sense of relief to sweep over him, but it didn’t come. With a sinking heart, he realized he was going to worry about Jodee McQue no matter where she went and no matter what she was doing.

  He wandered into his sleeping room. Jodee’s blood-stained shirt lay on the floor. Picking it up, he wondered what kind of man T. T. McQue had been to take his twelve-year-old daughter from the safety of her grandmother’s home. How could he make Jodee follow him into horse stealing and stagecoach holdups?

  Back in the empty main room, Corbet noticed Jodee’s knapsack lying on the floor of her cell and retrieved it. He found several small stones in the bottom. They weren’t gold or silver ore. He tried to imagine an adolescent girl living among outlaws, wearing tattered clothes and collecting rocks wherever they camped. He couldn’t imagine the desolation of it, the danger.

  Placing the knapsack for safekeeping in his sleeping room, Corbet headed outside, crossing the rutted street toward the jeweler’s store. Later, at the stage depot, he sent another telegraph message to Cheyenne City’s sheriff, asking after T. T. McQue’s final resting place. He also requested a deputy with experience. He intended to fire Jimmy Hicks. Then he went to the cemetery where he looked down at four unmarked graves where the Rikes lay
. He’d ended those lives without a thought. He supposed his quick action had saved his posse and helped the good people of Burdeen by preventing further holdups, but it was nothing to be proud of.

  Back on the main street, Corbet wondered why Jodee’s people let a twelve-year-old girl vanish into the night. Surely someone had mounted a search for her. A thousand terrible things might have happened to her. He felt indignant on her behalf and duty-bound to befriend her. Already he wanted to stop by Avinelle's to check on her. Did Jodee remember how to behave in a decent household?

  Finishing his rounds south of town where the livery barns, horse corrals, and cattle yards spread, Corbet thought about his own bleak childhood. At nine years of age, and already tall, he’d been hired out to Willis Harlow, a dairy farmer who worked homeless lads like himself. For eight years Corbet had slept in hay mows, washed at a trough, and took his meals on a windswept porch.

  As the newest and youngest farm hand, Corbet had endured beatings at the hands of the older boys. Isolated on that beautiful but lonely Wisconsin farmstead, he’d learned to fight for his right to exist. When years of farm work changed him from frail to formidable, Corbet defended new boys from the bullies. Most of the farm hands left by the age of sixteen. Corbet stayed two extra years. Eventually he, too, yearned to get away. Three years at a brewery in Milwaukee loading beer barrels brought him to full, broad-shouldered manhood. Hiring on as shotgun messenger on a stagecoach line carried him west.

  Three years before, working for the Ashton-Babcock Stage Line, Corbet rode the stage into Burdeen each week, often encountering the owner’s wife at the stage depot. He thought her the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. Later, after he’d been chosen as marshal, his natural kindness helped the pretty widow during the early months after her husband died. Too late, he realized how it looked, him a good-looking upstart, and she, co-heir to the stage line. Everyone expected he’d propose, but Avinelle proved difficult, given to tantrums and baffling changes of mood. Corbet's interest dwindled. Strangely, her interest doubled. Now he didn’t know how to discourage her.

  She liked to impress him with tales of the New York social scene she had once enjoyed. All he remembered of his childhood was hiding in alleyways. Who his parents had been, he never knew. How they came to their end, he couldn’t remember. He adopted his initial “J” to give himself stature. Corbet was a word he heard at the orphan’s asylum. J. Corbet Harlow became his own invention. He didn’t appreciate Avinelle and her mother trying to shape him into something different.

  • • •

  With nervous anticipation, Jodee held her seat as the beautiful young Widow Babcock steered her surrey up the steep side street where Burdeen’s quality homes overlooked the town. Widow Babcock stopped in front of a two-story house with ornate trim under the roof edges. As she climbed down with an angry jerk of her skirts, a balding man in suspenders and slouchy pants came around from the muddy side yard.

  “Will you be needing the surrey any more today, Ma’am?” he asked, looking not the least concerned with Avinelle’s ferocious scowl. He gave Jodee a nod of greeting. If he knew Jodee was the daughter of an outlaw, he gave no indication.

  “Nothing more today, Bailey.” The widow trudged up the flagstone walk to the porch. “Bring the tub. Our guest needs a bath.” Absent was the dazzling smile the widow reserved for the marshal. “Come on, you,” she called to Jodee.

  All I need is a few days’ rest, Jodee reminded herself, following the widow into the house. As soon as possible she’d be gone. As far as aggravation was concerned, Avinelle Babcock would be no match for Burl Tangus.

  Jodee heard Burl jeering in her head. “Aw, look at lil’ miss prissy, sittin’ all by her lonesome, eatin’ beans and actin’ so high like she’s in some fancy parlor instead of sittin’ on a rock by this here campfire. T. T., you ought to teach this girl she’s a born criminal, same as you and me.” Jodee was certain nothing Avinelle or her mother might say would ever upset her as much.

  From the dim hallway beyond the entry, a middle-aged maid in a homely black uniform scurried in. She looked up at Jodee with shy interest.

  Avinelle pushed her aside. “Must you always look like such a worthless piece of nonsense, Maggie? Don’t you have something you should be doing?”

  All pretenses of good manners had been checked at the door like pistols, Jodee thought, startled by the change in the young widow’s manner. Then she brought herself up short. She’d entered another world. She saw tables with funny legs, a hall tree with ornate hooks and knobs, and a ponderous tall clock with a swinging brass pendulum. The framed mirror on the wall looked as big as a store window. Avinelle was reflected in it, jerking off her gloves. Beside her stood a shaggy blond-headed vagabond with big eyes and a gawking expression.

  Burl would find this place a wonder, Jodee thought bitterly, noting silver candlesticks, pictures in gold frames, and a silver tray with a calling card on it. There was probably a chest of silver flatware tucked away somewhere and a velvet-lined box overflowing with jewelry.

  Jodee shook herself. Burl would never see this house.

  Peering into the drawing room, Jodee saw long panels of white lace hanging at the front windows. Every piece of furniture was darkly carved, every seat tufted and edged with fringe. Delicate porcelain knickknacks on frilly white doilies crowded every surface. Heavy, framed pictures covered the papered walls.

  Watching Jodee, Avinelle gave a nasty smirk and called in a simpering sing-song, “Oh, Mother. I’m back with our guest.”

  A pocket door behind Jodee slid open. Jodee was met by the icy appraisal of a woman scarcely five feet tall. Behind the woman spread a parlor even more cluttered than the drawing room. Ferns, fringes, peacock feathers…

  Jodee brought her nervous attention back to Widow Babcock’s mother’s disapproving eyes. “Howdy-do, Widow Ashton,” Jodee said, resisting the urge to dip a curtsy.

  The elder widow's face remained frozen with distaste. “Come this way.”

  Widow Ashton led Jodee down the center hall past the staircase. They went into a plain kitchen to a door in a rear hall. Jodee turned in circles, trying to see everything. The house was so much larger than her grandmother’s house had been.

  “Bailey is bringing the tub. Hanna is heating your bath water.” The woman indicated a rangy servant wearing a long white apron, standing at the cook stove. “You have no objections to bathing, I hope.”

  “No, Ma’am,” Jodee said, bristling with indignation.

  Jodee was shown into a small room no bigger than the jailhouse cell. Against the far wall stood a sewing machine on a table. Baskets of thread lined a shelf alongside folded fabric. Tiny gold scissors lay on the table. Jodee touched a finger to them and then snatched her hand back. Burl would have pocketed them without a thought.

  Bailey staggered in, dragging a sit-style bathing tub. Jodee’s grandmother had bathed her in a wooden laundry tub on the back porch. For many years, though, Jodee had simply bathed in creeks or rivers.

  “You do know how to take a bath, do you not? Liberal amounts of soap.” Widow Ashton managed to look down her nose in spite of her diminutive height.

  Jodee clamped her teeth together.

  “This is hair washing paste,” the widow said, taking up a small round tin and twisting off the top. The scent of lilac wafted up. “Wash your hair three times. Scrub vigorously. Will you require a stronger preparation? Bailey can drive to the druggist.”

  Bitterly insulted, Jodee accepted the tin with a shaking hand. “Ain’t nothin’ crawling on my head,” she hissed with restraint. The fragrance reminded her of spring afternoons at the scrubbing board with her mother and lilac bushes blooming in the yard. “I’m grateful for your kindness, Ma’am.” She couldn’t meet the woman’s eyes. She put her left hand on the door, making it clear she expected both hostesses to leave her in privacy.

  With Avinelle and her mother backing into the hall, astonished by her audacity, Jodee watched their servant Hanna carry in two
kettles of steaming water. Bailey brought buckets of cold water to mix with the hot. Avinelle looked as if she were just realizing what she had taken on by inviting an outlaw’s daughter into her home. Her expression was so filled with horror, Jodee almost laughed.

  Unsure if she liked being feared so much, Jodee said, “Thank you, Widow Babcock. Widow Ashton.”

  Avinelle twisted away. “I asked you to call me Avinelle.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, Ma’am,” Jodee said, hoping she sounded dignified, “I’ll stick to the proper.”

  Stripped of her snug jeans and the marshal’s shirt, and the threadbare old dress, Jodee stepped into the bathing tub and huddled naked in the warm shallow water. Feeling vulnerable and ashamed, she scrubbed all over until her skin burned. How many days now had it been since she had been alone with no eyes upon her, she wondered. Not since the holdup when she waited with the pack horse, expecting to ride away with her father to a new life.

  With that thought came the full weight of grief she’d been holding back. Her father was dead. She’d never see his smile again. Never hear his voice. Depend on his presence. Make him laugh. She missed him so keenly, she wondered if there was any point going on. What was the use cleaning up? Why find work? Why plan for a future without him? Wouldn’t it be easier to die?

  Like everything else, how would she even manage to do that. Damn fool girl, she thought, slapping the water, splashing the floor. Quickly she blotted up the spill.

  She remembered those first months with her father when she was twelve. She’d known nothing about him except the stories her mother had told of the handsome drifter who rode into town with three other whips. They’d lolled around saloons, getting drunk, playing cards, and talking loudly, her mother had so often told her. Jodee always pictured her pretty mother at seventeen, sashaying along the boardwalk on her way to the mercantile.