Rebel with a Cause

by Carol Arens

  * * *

  Zane stood before the counter of the telegraph office, waiting for the clerk's attention and wondering what had become of his good plain sense. Day by day, he seemed to see the world through more fanciful eyes, almost as though he were looking at it as Missy would. Damned if colors didn't appear brighter. The air even smelled sweeter.

  Exactly one hour earlier, he had been lurking in a doorway near the bank. He should have been keeping a hawk eye out for Wage, but his attention drifted too often to the pretty face peering out of the hotel window from across the street.

  Missy Devlin looked like an angel and no mistake about it. He had been ten times a fool to stare at her the way he had, with his heart as well as his eyes.

  He couldn't recall ever meeting a woman like her. Peering out the window sleepy-eyed, with her sunshine curls caught up in a blue ribbon, she was a picture of delicate womanhood. Any man seeing Missy at that moment would have given his right arm to protect her.

  Any man wouldn't know that the sweet sparkle in her eyes was really a flash of intelligence and a call to adventure that went bone deep.

  Sometimes, the most delicate-looking creatures were the hardiest. For instance, butterflies. If a man didn't watch his step, he might just get caught up in a butterfly moon.

  Maybe that's why, after only half an hour of watching for Wage, he had abandoned his hiding place next to the bank.

  After that, he'd searched for the criminal from one end of town to the other, giving the task only half of his attention. It was unlike him to be so careless.

  In the end, he stood outside the telegraph office, perplexed by what he was about to do. Clearly, he had been bewitched by some sort of a spell.

  With a shiver, he reminded himself that he did not believe in spells.

  But when had he come to want Missy's bright company more than the outrageous bounty that her brother offered?

  He had been standing at the telegraph counter, mentally composing the wire to Edwin Devlin that would cancel his interest in the reward, when the door opened with a rush of cold air.

  He heard a gasp and turned around.

  Missy! Her face had been turned, hidden by the closing door, but he'd bet a year's pay that she was the only woman in Foggy Johnson Creek to sport a flopping red feather on her harlot's bonnet.

  "Sorry for the wait, mister, what can I do for you?" the clerk asked.

  Zane stared at him for a moment then he studied the closed door.

  "You a married man?" Zane asked. "Maybe you have a regular woman in your life?"

  "No, sirree! Never put my neck in that noose." The clerk's sizeable Adam's apple slid up and down with his declaration. He swiped his brow. "Not this fellow."

  "Sensible... I suppose. I'll catch you later about the wire." Zane tugged at the brim of his hat, giving the man a nod in parting.

  He left behind the warmth of the telegraph office and stepped into the fog. Missy had disappeared. Wherever the woman had gone he would bet his mother's ribbon that she was hell-bound for some misadventure or another.

  Zane took fast strides up the street and when he didn't find her, turned and paced the other direction. Ten minutes later he abandoned the relative security of the boardwalk to search the alley where any lowlife might take refuge. Without a doubt, Missy would be drawn there like a bee to spring clover.

  The thought set him running. In his mind he saw her confronting every one of the scoundrels at once, helpless and at their mercy.

  Someone yowled in pain. After a heartbeat a curse sliced through the fog. It sounded only a block or two up, probably behind the livery. It was a man's voice, but that didn't mean that the madcap Miss Devlin was not involved.

  He reached for his gun on the run.

  Damn! Children's voices, and too nearby to risk drawing his weapon. In this fog they could be anywhere.

  From fifty feet away he spotted a pair of figures. Through the wispy vapor they appeared to be dancing.

  "Let go!" Missy hissed.

  "I vow, I'll mail the cursed thing back here when I get a hundred miles away without being followed. Ooof!" The taller figure grunted when Missy bit his hand. "You little bitch!"

  Still forty feet away, Zane stretched his stride, watching the tug of war going on between Missy and Wage.

  Wage held the reins of a horse in one fist and a journal in the other.

  Missy also gripped one corner of the journal. She appeared less than willing to let go of it. With both of her dainty hands she tugged on the leather-bound volume. The book shifted back and forth between them like a two-manned saw.

  Missy raised her knee. Wage pressed his thighs together.

  In the same instant he must have heard the pump of Zane's boots on the dirt for he let go of the reins and the journal. He clamped one arm about Missy's chest and turned her, facing Zane.

  Missy looked hot and furious. If sheer anger could win a battle, the bank robber would be done for. Her feet kicked and flailed, but Wage, in his dandy's suit, held her fast.

  From the front of the livery, Zane heard a woman's voice calling to the children. Missy's breath wheezed in her lungs.

  "Back off!" Wage demanded. His nostrils pinched to slits with the exertion of holding Missy still. "Hand over that ribbon in your hair, Coldridge... No funny business or I'll make her pay for it, I swear I will!"

  Missy's mouth moved but her voice remained trapped under her assailant's arm.

  Zane ripped the ribbon from his hair and flipped it to Wage. Second by second, Missy's face purpled with the need for air.

  "Please do quit squirming, Miss Devlin. I won't keep you with me an instant longer than necessary. Just long enough to know that Mr. Hero, here, hasn't followed."

  "Ma, come quick!" a boy's voice screeched. "There's a man's got a lady behind the barn!"

  Footsteps, light and feminine, tapped the dirt in the alley beside the livery.

  Zane's gun felt like a hundred pounds of dead weight for all the good it did.

  "Hold out your hands like a good girl. We wouldn't want the kid to see anything unpleasant."

  Missy nodded her head vigorously and touched her wrists together.

  "Lovely, we have a nearly pleasant end to this little problem, then." He frowned at the blood dripping down his palm.

  Wage let go of Missy for an instant, needing both of his hands to tie up hers. What he didn't see was her sideways glance...her grin.

  Zane cursed, but quicker than the wink she shot him, Missy shoved the journal at Wage. For some reason, he fumbled with it rather than keeping his full attention on his captive.

  Distracted, he failed to notice Missy touch her headwear and pluck a pin from her hat.

  His yowl echoed in the fog.

  "Oh, my!" gasped the woman standing at the corner of the livery.

  "Gads!" the boy declared. "She pinned him in the rump!"

  Up to the hilt! With one smooth move she had buried the pearly pin in her target and snatched Zane's mother's ribbon from Wage's fist.

  Gads indeed! She was something! But Wage's face had gone red with pain and anger. In half a second he would retaliate against her. Already, his fist had curled into a tight, bony ball. He drew it back, clearly intending to flatten Missy's face.

  The woman beside the livery screamed, the boy hollered.

  Zane roared and lunged.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wage pinioned her journal under his arm. The cad! In the instant, though, Missy could not keep hold of Zane's ribbon and retrieve her manuscript without taking the blow bearing down upon her face.

  She ducked beneath the sweep of the bank robber's fist, keeping the precious bit of fabric secured in her fingers.

  Her ears quaked at Zane's sudden roar. If her hat pin didn't deter Wage, the unholy fury coming from Zane would.

  Wage had no choice, really, but to run. His fists punched the small of her back, shoving her into the path of Zane's charge.

  Her skirt hem tangled on the tip of her boot. He
r arms waved madly, reaching in vain for something to break her fall. The ribbon fluttered and snapped. She slammed into Zane's chest and they went down. She saw the ground coming at her nose but in the instant before impact Zane's arms squeezed about her. He twisted.

  She slammed down on top of his chest. His breath whooshed out of his lungs with a grunt. Instead of colliding with hard-packed earth, she scraped her nose on the button of his shirt.

  "My hero," she panted, and pushed off his chest. Surely she had broken at least one of his ribs.

  Rolling sideways she lay beside him with a pebble digging into her back.

  Hoofbeats pummeled the earth, growing fainter by the second. Zane's breath wheezed in and out of his lungs.

  "He's getting--" she gasped "--away!"

  Zane lifted his head and peered after Wage. "He's not sitting down, though."

  Missy lifted her head to peer after the fleeing figure.

  "Drat, he's got my journal."

  She turned her face to peek at Zane. "He does look absurd, doesn't he, with his hind end in the air and my manuscript pages flapping?"

  "Oh, my gracious!" A rustle of petticoats rushed forward. "Are you hurt?"

  Zane eased up on his elbow, ignoring the woman standing over them and wringing her hands.

  "You could have saved it," he said. Inch by slow inch he tugged the ribbon from her fingers. "You could have kept the thing you hold most dear."

  "Not most dear."

  He looked into Missy's eyes, as though searching for something that went deeper than the things that eyes could see. She would bet her next breath that he saw their future together. He might not like it, but surely he could no longer deny it.

  "You've scratched yourself." He dabbed the lace on the tip of her nose.

  Brown eyes, shimmering like the sunshine far beyond Foggy Johnson Creek, searched her soul. Surely he would see the rightness of the love she had for him. Fluttering lace felt like butterflies against her face.

  And then he kissed her.

  "Oh, my!" The forgotten woman hovering over them gasped. Her skirt fluttered in retreat. "Come along, Gregory, Amy, everything here seems to be in order."

  After that...Zane laughed.

  * * *

  Something was wrong.

  From his seat at the restaurant table everything seemed normal. His steak was cooked rare, Missy smiled and chattered about the day's adventures while Muff slept under the table on a pillow in a basket.

  Still, something was wrong.

  Everything seemed humorous.

  Logically, he ought to be angry. He ought to be cursing his partner for abandoning her post and, therefore, setting up a situation where Wage once again escaped and where she had put herself at great risk.

  If his mind were clear, he would be riding hell-bent away from Foggy Johnson Creek, hot on the criminal's trail with Missy left behind forever.

  Instead, he was having dinner, compliments of Murphy's Steak House, and smiling at the glow of the new ruby-tipped hat pin securing Missy's hat to her hair. The pin had been a gift from the proprietor of the general store.

  If he could erase from his mind the sight of Wage's rear end bobbing over his saddle like a ball afraid to touch the ground, he might be able to regain some sensibility. But, with his eyes open or closed, the scene played over and over, and everything was funny.

  Missy, it seemed, had become quite a heroine in town, having saved the bank from being robbed. Even their hotel rooms for tonight had been paid for by the local citizenry.

  The prospect of another evening in Foggy Johnson Creek made him feel uneasy, though. It wasn't because of the constantly dreary fog, or the fact that Wage got farther away by the hour. How far could he get in one day with a pin buried in his rear? The pursuit could begin after a lazy morning in town and they would still capture him.

  His anxiety was due to the fact that every eye was on his partner. When she laughed, ears would twitch her way, when she picked up her fork, nearby diners would turn to look. She had become a Foggy Johnson Creek celebrity and the besotted folks of the town doted on her every breath.

  It couldn't be long before one of them matched her face to the poster that, until this morning, had been pinned to the wall behind the marshal's desk. Even though the handbill was now hidden in his gear along with half a dozen others he had collected, someone might make the connection.

  The sooner they lit out, the better he would feel. Unfortunately, feeling better about keeping Missy by his side was something that did not make him feel in the least better.

  To make matters worse, his conflicting emotions ought to tie him up in a sour mood, but he still felt like laughing. What had become of his sober-minded self? Where was the heart of brick that had seen him through the difficult years?

  This laughter, so ready to spout from his mouth, was new and almost frightening. It felt good, so good that it must be a weakness. But then, Missy didn't suffer from weakness and she laughed often.

  Soon, very soon, he would have to do something to set his emotions right, but not tonight. This evening he would enjoy being the man he might have been if his early life hadn't taken a bitter turn.

  This evening life sparkled, Missy sparkled and he was happy.

  * * *

  The walk from the restaurant to the hotel wasn't precisely a romantic stroll under the stars but fog swirled about Missy and Zane and wrapped them in a milky cocoon that Missy imagined shut out the rest of the world.

  Their muted footsteps whispered on the damp wood of the boardwalk. Lamps glowing from windows along Main Street cast yellow shadows into the night. Passing them by, one by one, Missy watched Zane's face. The smile on his lips held from one light to another.

  What would happen next, would he burst out in song?

  Something had come over him. It was wonderful, to be sure, but she wondered how long his easy humor would last. Seeing the world as rosy was not something that came naturally to the bounty hunter.

  Too soon, they came to the open door of the hotel and, most likely, a return to the usual tug of war between them. She stepped through the doorway but Zane stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. It felt firm. The warmth of his palm went through her cotton dress and heated her to the bone.

  "It's chilly, but would you care to walk for a while?" he asked.

  Would she! For the first time ever, Zane Coldridge had asked her to share his time and space. They had spent plenty of time together, this was nothing new. But before tonight, she had been forced upon him by circumstance. This was a new Zane, one who smiled and laughed and requested the pleasure of her company.

  What on earth had happened to make him so congenial? After letting Wesley Wage escape, she had expected at best a grumble, and more likely a good scolding. It would not have been a surprise to find herself locked in her hotel room, doomed to stare out the window until it pleased her eighty-percent partner to let her out.

  "The air does have a nip," she answered. Not much of one but she shivered on purpose.

  His grin, a compelling blend of high spirits and mischief, made her feel clammy and hot all at once. He laid his arm across her back, caught her shoulder in his palm and drew her close to his vest.

  "Even so," she said, "a walk would be just the thing."

  And then she couldn't think of another thing to say. How uncommon.

  Silence stretched up and down the street. No one was about on this foggy evening to make comment upon. Nothing new with the weather, either. Simply fog and more fog.

  How was she to form a compelling conversation when the man consumed her senses? So close, the smell of clean clothes and soap didn't quite mask the wild prairie scent of his skin. She heard the gentle rush of his breath and the whisper of his denims as he walked.

  Glancing up and sideways, she appreciated the fact that he had shaved for dinner. The hint of a cleft in his chin made him so handsome that she was feeling a bit queer, weak in the knees and short of breath, even though they strolled at a snail
's own pace.

  If a conversation didn't distract her in the next instant or two, she was going to melt into a puddle right here on the Foggy Johnson Creek boardwalk. That would give the townsfolk a thing or two to talk about.

  "Why is it, Zane, that you haven't locked me away in the hotel room?" His smile held. Not even the shadow of a frown wrinkled his brow. "Truly, I thought you would be furious with me for letting Wage get away."

  "Darlin'," he said then looked her in the eyes with a brown-sugar gaze that made want to her sigh.

  Oh! Had she actually done it? Out loud? She must have for he chuckled and hugged her to his chest.

  "I am...or I ought to be." His breath, laced with his dinner of steak, potatoes and beer, whispered against her ear. "But I think I've been bewitched."

  Missy pulled back and studied his eyes so that she could judge the sincerity of that statement.

  "As if by magic?" Surely he must be teasing, which in itself was as strange as him believing in magic.

  "As if by you." He turned a corner and led her onto a path that ended at the creek. "Magic is for foo--for other folks."

  At the end of the path was a bench. Without taking his hand from her shoulder he sat down, drawing her along with him.

  "Someday, Zane Coldridge," she whispered. "Just you wait."

  He didn't answer, but she felt the negative shake of his head when his hair, worn loose and midnight-shiny, brushed her cheek.

  Water in the creek rushed past with a playful gush and bubble. A frog croaked, then a night bird answered.

  This was magic, whether the strangely content man gazing at her lips as though he were still hungry, recognized it or not.

  "You must be, at least, a little upset that I let Wage go," she said, needing to clear the air on the subject. "If you are, I understand and I take the blame."

  "He won't get far, not with a needle stuck up his backside." Then Zane laughed all over again.

  When he quit, his eyes glittered as though they reflected starlight, even though there was none.

  He lifted his arm from her shoulder and withdrew the pin from her hat. The red feather bounced and danced when he lifted the hat from her head.