The Cowgirl Gets The Bad Guy (Cowgirl Mysteries Book 1)

by Susan Lower

  “I think we are all capable of cheating. Did you look at the man? He’s from out east, or maybe it was Mississippi. I think I heard him say something about a riverboat.”

  “You saw him leave. Did he come back? Did my father come back?”

  Her eyes fill with loss. Her grief most likely coming from the loss of the gambler and his deep pockets than my father’s exit from this earth. “Not that I saw, but I was pretty busy. Pierce said he was heading to get the preacher. I figured you were all off getting that settled. Wasn’t Reverend Carter around? Well, don’t you worry, he’ll be there tomorrow. It’s Sunday.”

  The fact Amaryllis knows the gambler on a first name basis cools my flesh and sinks a brick in my stomach.

  Of course, a woman in Amaryllis’s profession would have gotten to know quite a few men. I should have figured a man like the gambler would be no stranger to the ladies.

  Another reason I would be wise to avoid him.

  “If you get cold feet, send him my way, will you?”

  “Sure thing.” I follow her down the hall.

  “You shouldn’t let that one escape,” she says as she departs down the stairs and into the saloon. Outside, the late afternoon sun warms the windows.

  I have no intentions of letting my gambling man get away. I shouldn’t think of him as mine. The man is dangerous in more ways than one, and I plan on making sure he gets what he deserves. The only commitments he’s making in the future are twenty to life at the gray bar hotel. I snicker, thinking of the fancy pants gambler getting his hands dirty.

  Since Hank has my wagon as collateral, Jensen has the money on account for my supplies, and Earl lost our hard-earned cash in a hand of cards, I have one more place to visit. Ruby agreed I could stay at the boarding house; I have to work for the nights extra I stay. All I have left is the old spitfire rifle of my father’s. Normally, my father carried it or kept it in the wagon for safe keeping. I keep it tucked under my bed at the boarding house. The bullets are in the nightstand by the bed. Ruby moved me to a smaller room, no bigger than the water closet. It has a cot and a nightstand with a pitcher on top. I suppose I should be grateful I have any place to sleep at all. Not that I need much room, and the cost is cheaper per night. Since it is located around the corner of the stairs, no one would know I was there.

  As much as I want to go to that room and fall onto the bed and let my mind and my body rest after the day, I have yet to visit the undertaker. A shiver creeps down my spine thinking of seeing Earl’s dead body laid out in a pine box.

  Frank Harrison wears a patch on one eye, with a clean white scar straight down from it. His weathered face and grim expression sends a person’s internal instincts to fight or flight to run away. He isn’t tall and lean or even old, as one would expect. The man has three crooked fingers and a curve in his spine. The suspenders from his pants hang down over his hips and keep his arms covered in a sweat stain down his back. He works under the roof extended from his shop. Covering my nose with my hand, I approach him.

  “I’m here about my father’s body.” I force the ball of sorrow down my throat.

  “I’ll have his coffin ready tomorrow.” He spits off into the dirt. Glancing at me, he says, “Took you long enough to get here. That husband of yours took care of the cost. The boys are already out digging.”

  There is a breeze coming through the openings where there should have been walls giving a moment of fresh air. A smile flits on my face, thinking maybe a breath of fresh air is a sign things will go right from here on out.

  Frank grunts, picks up his handsaw and nods to the shop behind him. “He’s in there. Don’t bother going through his pockets. They’re empty.”

  “You went through my father’s pockets?” What kind of person goes through a dead man’s pockets?

  Frank wipes his nose, squinting at me from his one eye. “You’ll have to ask the sheriff and that husband of yours.”

  “Oh,” a feeling of depletion releases from me. The tightness in my chest twists as I leave Frank to head inside the shop.

  “The bodies are in the back,” he calls.

  I haven’t ever seen a dead body laid out for viewing. Once in Tail Feather’s village, Chitto allowed me to witness one of their ceremonies for burning the dead. No matter how many years it’s been, he’ll always be my Chitto, and not Stands With Two Deer. That day, Chitto squished me between his pals Falling Rock and Yellow Cat, or at least that was the best translation I could give. I watched as one of the older warriors of their tribe was taken to the burial grounds. The people of their tribe believe a man needs his horse, his weapons, and a meal to take to the other side. They raised the body, wrapped in a beautifully woven blanket on stilts. I remember I cried, for the horse mostly. I didn’t know the man who died, but something inside me didn’t feel it was right to kill an innocent animal. Chitto tried to console me. He told me the horse would have died without its caretaker. I didn’t believe it.

  I’d been a stupid girl then, not knowing the genuine pain of death. I still didn’t. All I know is that someone shot my father, and while they might have shot him, they left an even bigger hole inside of me.

  A hole so large I never would have guessed the man I despised these last few years could cause such grief to me now.

  Thankfully, inside, my father isn’t hard to find. There are two other bodies inside their respective pine coffins and the lids halfway down. Not bothering to look, I go to Earl and immediately frown.

  Where is his left shoe?

  If not for the dark stain on his shirt, I would have thought him sleeping. Earl never was a peaceful sleeper.

  Glancing around the room, I slip my hand against his arm. “It’s not him,” I whisper. “He’s not here anymore.”

  I curl my fingers as I reach and uncurl them to slide down over his shirt pocket, which couldn’t contain anything because the fabric laid down, torn.

  Upon closer inspection, my father’s face has a purple and green discoloration around his right eye and his chin. He’d gotten in a scuffle with someone. Had he and the gambler got in a fight? The wheels turn in my head. Of course, they fought. Then the gambler pulled out a gun.

  A few stray tears trickle down my cheeks, clogging my throat as the ball of sorrow slips up on me.

  “You old coot. I warned you not to go drowning in the firewater.”

  I pat his pocket and go to reach in when I hear boots approaching. Peering over my shoulder, a jolt of heat shoots up from my fingertips. I jerk my hand back. Rubbing my fingers, I suck in my breath. There’s no way that came from Earl.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  The bounty hunter presses his shoulder into the door frame of the back room. “I think the better question, Dimples, is what are you doing?”

  The man makes me quiver in ways I didn’t know I could. “What am I doing? My father is here. He’s dead and I’ve got to arrange for his burial. And I had to see him. I couldn’t let them nail his coffin shut without saying goodbye. What kind of daughter do you think I am?”

  Those stone-cold gray eyes met mine. “Calm down. Dead men don’t talk.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Is he accusing me of something? Gosh, do I look guilty?

  “Exactly what I said.” He reaches inside that long jacket and pulls out a slip of paper. “Sheriff asked me to give you this.”

  “The sheriff asked you?” I’m hesitant to take it.

  “He rode out to the Triple D to talk to a cowboy who might know what happened.” The bounty hunter nods toward the body behind me. Tempted as I am to ask how many other bodies lying here are put in this state by him, I press my lips tight together. It is an old photo, a torn piece of a family album. I recognize the face of the woman who gave birth to me. My father carried this torn photograph in his boot. He always said he planned to keep my mother close to his boot because if she ever came back, he’d make her kiss his feet before he gave her the left boot on his foot.

  The one that is missin
g.

  “Thank you. Still not sure why the sheriff would have you deliver this.”

  “I told him I would.”

  “How did you know where to look?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Oh.” I stare down at the photo. “I didn’t think you would stick around once you got your reward money.”

  Not that I am complaining. The bounty hunter isn’t hard to look at. Under all that rough exterior, there has to be a sweet, caring part he hid. A part, I wonder if I search for long enough, I will find.

  Realizing where my thoughts have gone, I whirl around. Between him and the gambler, I have blushed and cried more than I have in a decade. I’d have a lot to attest to the next day. I promised Ella Mae I’d sit with her at church.

  “Some rewards are worth waiting for.” He pushes away from the door frame. “You shouldn’t linger here. It’s not good to dwell with the dead.”

  His words come out soft. I spread my hands on my father’s stiff leg and stare at that one boot on his foot. The one with the hole nearly worn through. “He’s missing a shoe,” I say. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  The bounty hunter steps close beside me, his sweet tobacco smell tickling at my nose. My heart racing a little.

  “Maybe.”

  I pull off the sock without thinking, nothing there. Either my father has swapped feet or… I didn’t hesitate. I grab the boot and start unlacing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “My father had a habit of keeping things in his boots.”

  “Like his feet?”

  “Like this…” I tug off the boot with the bounty hunter’s help. Almost gag at the smell of rotted toe fungus and peel down the sock.

  “You were saying?”

  I pick up the boot, shake it.

  Nothing.

  “It was in the other boot,” I say.

  “What?” Poor man doesn’t have a clue.

  “Whatever the killer wanted.”

  5

  I skip supper and spend the night in my room. There’s a pink dress on the bed and a note from Ella Mae. Mary left this when she ran off. Momma thought it might fit you for church tomorrow. I hold up the short-sleeved dress as if it were a dish rag. It’s pink with a lace ruffle around the neckline. Several pleats are in the waist, but it takes a lot of squishing and tucking to get the sisters to keep from popping out. For a tall girl like me, the dress is too short. I’m a head taller than most of the Carter sisters. At least my boots come up to my calves and cover what the dress doesn’t. If I were still a girl in the schoolyard, no one would say a thing, but I am not. I am a full-grown woman.

  When it’s time for church, I pull back my shoulders and wretch open the door. I come face to face with a wide chest blocking my way and stone-cold eyes breaking up a little in surprise. A man’s eyes are said to be the window to his soul. The ones looking into mine blink and close the gate on what might have been a second of compassion. They’re disturbing just the same. Not like those glinting emeralds of the gambler man, but penetrating as if it’s my soul, my heart getting probed.

  “Let me guess, you came to track me down again?” I pull my door shut. It isn’t his business to see my tiny room or my pants laying on the bed.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Dimples. I’m headed to breakfast. I hear the lady of the house makes a mean pot of porridge and if you’re early, you might grab a slice of bacon.”

  “My name isn’t Dimples, it’s Jo.”

  “Jo.” He steps back, taking in my pink dress, and my face heats to match. I cross my arms, self-conscious about the sisters getting loose. Maybe I can find Ella Mae and borrow a shawl. I’m half tempted to put my shirt back on over top. On second thought, that is what I plan to do.

  “Doesn’t suit. Dimples is better.”

  “Dimples?” No one has ever called me by a nickname before. Once Chitto said I should have a tribal name, as his so-called wife, he used my middle name, Willow. Having a nickname from a man seems inappropriate, especially given the circumstances. I have known him for a day.

  “Look in the mirror. You’ll see what I mean.”

  I take him up on the offer, only because I want to grab my shirt and pull it on. I don’t have a mirror, but the window reflects this time of morning and I stare for a long moment. Dimples. Yep, I have them. When I smile, they make me look so much younger than I am. The last thing I want is this man thinking I’m a girl.

  Why should I care?

  I do. I want him to see me as a woman. A strong woman. I tug my shirt over the sisters, leaving it open a bit, and sigh. There is a chill in the air coming down from the mountains. I see it through the window in my room. I doubt the day is going to get any warmer. Foolishly, I left my jacket up on our claim. My shirt will do. I take one last look in the mirror.

  I’m not here to impress anyone.

  Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to undo these braids. I look like an oversized schoolgirl, so I do.

  Back out in the hall, he’s gone.

  “Well, don’t you look pretty for church this morning.” Ruby stands with her hand on her hip and a pot of coffee on the other. She raises the coffee and I take her up on the offer. Thanks to the bounty hunter, I’ve got bacon on the brain.

  “I saved one for you,” she says, taking me in. Without another word, she shakes her head, and heads off into the dining room to feed the other boarders.

  Outside, the streets are quiet. People walk to church and a few horses trot on by. Deadwood isn’t usually such a quiet little town. I imagine the cowboys have all ridden back to their ranch or gone home to their claims if they’re not sleeping off the weekend activities here in town. Ruby has no tolerance for the rowdy bunch. Most of them find a place at Warner’s Hotel, the Swanson sisters, or stay passed out at the saloon.

  There isn’t an establishment in town open on the sabbath until the lunch crowd.

  I find Ella Mae in church sitting front and center with her beau, Lincoln. He must have shaved off the beard after the long winter. Throughout service, he runs his hand on the smoothness of his chin. Ella Mae watches that hand and I figure she’s counting down the minutes for her father’s sermon to end so she can pull him away somewhere private to test out the smoothness around those lips. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t envy her. I figure by the end of summer I’ll come back into town and find them married.

  Lincoln holds his cowboy hat on his lap and keeps his eyes on Reverend Carter. I have a feeling he knows Reverend Carter keeps an eye on him. Or maybe it’s the sermon. According to the good reverend, we’re all going to experience a heat wave if we don’t change our ways, and it won’t be from the weather.

  Ella Mae leans into me and whispers, “Are you trying to stir up gossip?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’ve done it.” Ella Mae wiggles back on the hard wooden seat of the pew.

  “Done what?” I hiss, and suddenly Pearl leans forward from the other side of Lincoln. Her scolding look makes me clamp my lips together.

  Ella Mae waits a moment, until Reverend Carter’s voice rises higher in his conviction, and whispers in my ear, “Killed your father.”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  Lincoln leans in, pressing his finger to his lips. He bows his head and I realize we’re supposed to be praying. I huff, squeezing my eyes shut tight, and Reverend Carter’s words become a blockade behind the storm of my own thoughts. Lord, please don’t let the gambler get away with murder. He can’t take our hard-earned claim. Please protect Tail Feather’s tribe. They don’t deserve to have to stay cooped up on that reservation all day. I squint and look over at Lincoln, sliding his hand toward Ella Mae. Don’t make me get married either, at least unless I chose. I sigh with an amen.

  Somehow, I can’t picture myself married to the gambling man nor can I picture him with dirt on his hands working our mine. What’s a man like him want with my father’s claim, anyway?

  Probably thinks he can sell it. Guys like him ar
e always after cash, cold hard cash, or at least I think they are.

  Soon, the congregation is filing out of the church. As I’m in line to make my way out, I see Grace, who owns the dress shop, is looking at me. She’s got her golden tresses pulled back and coiled in a bun. The way her eyes are fluttering up and down has me closing my shirt more. No sooner do I take a step forward, than I catch the scent of yeast. When I glance back, Pearl, Ella Mae’s mother, is behind me.

  She rests her hand on my arm and leans in. “Don’t you worry none. I’ll speak to Grace, and we’ll get that gown altered to fit.”

  As squished as the sisters are, I doubt any amount of altering is going to fix this dress.

  Outside, I catch up with Ella Mae, who is speaking with Hannah Baker and Lottie Larson. Beside Lincoln is a familiar bounty hunter. My insides twist and before I can reach them, another familiar figure blocks my path.

  “Don’t tell me this is the dress my money bought?” Pierce Weston holds out his arms widely. There is no side-stepping the gambler.

  “You don’t like it?”

  He gets this sideways grin as his arms lower. His hands take me by the arms, and I know that look. It must be universal. Those lids hang low, and he leans in. Leaning back, I glance around, hoping for some help.

  Hannah and Lottie gaze my way, and soon they have the attention of Ella Mae, and even Grace is watching.

  “Pink isn’t your color, darlin', but don’t you worry. It’s what’s underneath that counts. Come on, the preacher is here and so are we. We’ve got plenty of witnesses, and when it’s all done, we’ll go see the dressmaker together. The wife of Pierce Weston should have the latest fashion befitting a woman of her status.”

  What’s underneath? Status? My brows furrow together. Suddenly, things are feeling a little drafty. “I’ve got to go.”

  As I head in her direction, Ella Mae waves and tries to go around the gambler. She has her arm around Lincoln. But the gambler is not letting go. Oh no, he’s pinning those sparkling emerald eyes on me like a prize turkey in fall. Under any other circumstances, I might feel flattered. However, there is the little matter of my father’s death and the fact I very much believe he’s the killer.