The Outlaw's Return

by Victoria Bylin

  Maybe he did have something to offer her. He couldn’t promise her a life of leisure, but running a saloon would be easier than serving full meals. He wanted to blurt the invitation to come with him to California, but first he had to rekindle the old sparks between them. Leaning against the doorframe, he crossed one boot over the other and watched her set a match to the banked coals. When they caught fire, he shook his head. “You must work day and night.”

  She shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with hard work.”

  “No,” he replied. “It’s just…tiresome.”

  She gave him a quelling look, then removed a jar from the ice box, poured the contents into a pot and carried it to the stove. Facing him, she said, “This will take a few minutes. Let’s sit out front.”

  As she stepped through the doorway, her skirts brushed his boots. He followed her to the table, then moved ahead of her and held her chair. He didn’t know what it would take to sweep Mary off her feet, but fancy manners had always impressed her. He slid in her chair, then moved to sit across from her.

  The instant he hit the chair, Mary popped to her feet. “You must be thirsty. I’ve got sweet tea or cider. Coffee is—”

  “Mary, sit,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you serving me.”

  She sat, but she looked uncomfortable.

  At last, J.T. had the upper hand. Hoping to put her at ease, he used the crooked grin that had never failed to charm her. “What brought you to Denver?”

  She shrugged as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Denver is famous for its opera houses. I wanted to see it for myself.”

  Her gaze stayed steady, but he saw a flash of pain. He survived as a gunslinger because he could feel danger coming. What he saw in Mary’s eyes troubled him deeply. “I’m surprised you’re not singing somewhere.”

  “It didn’t work out.”

  J.T. knew this woman. Short answers weren’t her style. Unless he’d lost his instincts, she was hiding something. He kept his voice mild. “But you love to sing. You’re good at it.”

  She moved the fork a quarter inch. “I sing in church now. That’s all there is to it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Suddenly wary, she turned to the window and stared out the shining glass. When she didn’t speak, J.T. thought back to the early days of his search and his visit to the Abilene Theater. The new manager had heard of Mary but didn’t know where she’d gone, and her acting friends had moved on. When she’d left the rowdy cow town, she’d done it fast and quietly. He’d assumed she’d run from a broken heart. Now he wondered if she’d had another reason. “Talk to me, Mary.”

  She took a breath, a deep one. “You’re right. There’s more to the story. After you left, I had a run-in with Sam O’Day.”

  J.T. knew all about Sam and his brother, Harvey. They were bounty hunters, and they behaved like animals. “What happened?”

  “I shot him.”

  “You what?”

  “I shot Sam O’Day,” she repeated calmly. “Do you remember the pistol you gave me?”

  “Of course.” The two-shot Deringer had over-under barrels, pearl handles and a gleaming nickel finish. They’d taken a buggy ride to nowhere, and he’d discovered she didn’t know how to shoot. He’d taken the pistol out of his boot, taught her to use it and told her to keep it handy. They’d kissed for an hour and he’d pushed for more. She’d said no, but a month later he’d convinced her to change her mind.

  With her chin high, she described the encounter with O’Day. He’d been drunk enough to get thrown out of a brothel. When he’d seen Mary leave the theater alone, he’d called her names and cornered her in the alley. “He grabbed me,” she said calmly. “I told him to let go, but he wouldn’t.”

  J.T. saw the fear on her face, the determination that had enabled her to fight for her life. He knew how she felt, because as a boy he’d been pinned down in an alley with a knife against his scrawny chest. His older brothers had been vicious. “It’s a bad feeling.”

  “It is.” She took a breath. “I had your gun in my pocket. When he tore at my dress, I shot him. He died.”

  “Mary, I—”

  “Don’t say anything. What’s done is done.”

  If J.T. had been around, O’Day wouldn’t have dared to touch her. He should have been with her…. He should never have left. What a fool he’d been to go off with Griff Lassen. He’d been looking for a fight to keep his own rep from slipping. Instead he’d made an enemy of Griff. He’d gotten Fancy Girl out of the deal, but he lost everything else and so had Mary.

  Feeling bitter, he forced himself to meet her gaze. “What happened after you shot Sam?”

  “I went to the sheriff. He believed me, but I had to stand trial for murder.”

  He held in a cringe. “Did they lock you up?”

  “For a time.”

  Twice J.T. had spent time in a jail cell. No one knew it except Mary, but dark, closed-in places gave him nightmares. As a boy he’d been abused in an alley by his older brothers, often with a knife. More than once, Mary had comforted him when he’d been jarred awake by a nightmare. “I know what jail’s like,” he said. “It’s like being buried alive.”

  “It was awful,” she admitted. “The jury ruled it was self-defense, but Sam’s brother didn’t agree. When he threatened to kill me if I stuck around, I decided to leave.”

  J.T. let loose with a curse. “I’ll hunt him down. I’ll—”

  “Don’t.”

  “But, Mary—”

  “It’s over and done.” She looked into his eyes. “I worried for a while that Sam’s brother would find me in Denver, so I traveled a bit before settling here. Harvey O’Day never found me, so I figured he went back to bounty hunting.”

  “That’s most likely,” J.T. confirmed.

  “As for Sam, I forgave him a long time ago. Frankly, coming to Denver was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I made friends at a boardinghouse called Swan’s Nest. I have supper there every Sunday. That’s where I’m going next.”

  J.T. realized she hadn’t answered his first question. “Why not perform here in Denver?”

  “Those last days in Abilene were awful,” she said mildly. “The theater world is small. If I act here in Denver, the talk will start again. I can’t stand the thought.”

  He’d have chosen a whipping over the guilt he felt for leaving her. Not once had he considered Mary’s reputation when he’d set out to claim her. When she straightened her fork for the second time, he reached across the table and gripped her hand. His gaze dropped to their knuckles—hers red and rough, his scarred from brawling—and he felt the rightness of what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry I left. I should have—”

  “Don’t waste your breath.”

  When she tried to take back her hand, he held it tighter. “Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “I doubt that,” she said, tugging again.

  He had some convincing to do, and he had to do it with tenderness, not fighting. He let her go. “I don’t expect you to believe me. Not yet. But I’ve missed you. That’s why I’m here. Remember the dream we had about opening a saloon? Our own place in California?”

  She bit her lip, but her eyes said she remembered.

  “Come with me, Fancy Girl,” he said in a hush. “We can pick up where we left off.”

  She didn’t say yes to him, but neither did she slap his face. With his chest tight and his heart pounding, J.T. waited for her answer.

  Chapter Three

  Mary had pulled out of J.T.’s grasp, but the warmth of his touch lingered. Two years ago she’d yearned for what he’d just offered. That dream had shattered the night he’d left, and so had her hopes for marriage and a family of her own. Memories kicked in the place where the baby had nestled for three short months.

  She couldn’t let J.T. see the memory in her eyes, so she blinked hurriedly. “The answer is no.”

  “Why not?”

  Because you hurt me
, and I’ll never trust a man again. Because you broke my heart and left me with child. “I’m different now,” she said simply.

  “So am I.”

  She doubted it. He hadn’t mentioned marriage and he wouldn’t. A man like J.T. wasn’t the marrying kind. She’d known that all along, but she’d foolishly believed she could change his mind. She spoke with deliberate calm. “What we had in Abilene is gone. All of it.”

  Even the baby.

  Memories assailed her…the blood, the pain. The guilt had been worst of all. She hadn’t wanted the baby until she’d lost it. That morning she’d woken up with cramps. Instead of staying in bed, she’d gone to the theater intending to perform as usual. She’d miscarried just minutes before she was supposed to take the stage, and the gossip had started instantly. Tears pressed into her eyes. If J.T. saw them, he’d know there was more to the incident with Sam O’Day.

  Mumbling about the food, she hurried to the kitchen. Before she reached the door, he clasped her arms from behind. In Kansas he would have kissed her neck. She would have turned and gone into his arms. Today she felt trapped.

  His voice came over her shoulder. “Come with me, Mary. It’ll be good this time.”

  It had been good last time, but not good enough. Giving herself to this man had caused her nothing but grief. She’d lost her heart, her reputation and her career. She’d wept alone over their lost child, and that had hurt most of all.

  As he tightened his grip, the smell of his unwashed skin reached her nose. She broke loose and faced him. “Leave me alone!”

  He released her, but his eyes held her more tightly than his hands. “I need you, Mary.”

  “What you need is a bath!”

  “I need more that,” he murmured. “I need you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Mary, I—”

  “Don’t talk to me!” Turning, she clamped her hands over her mouth. The secret burned like fire in her belly. She wanted to punish him for what he’d done, but she couldn’t. Not only did she have to keep the facts to herself, but she knew what it meant to need forgiveness. As much as she wanted to blame J.T. for wooing her into his bed, she’d gone willingly, even eagerly. God had forgiven her—she knew that. She thought she’d forgiven J.T., but the memories left no room for mercy. She couldn’t stand the thought of the scandal coming back to life. She desperately wanted J.T. to leave, but her anger left a sour taste in her mouth. They’d both sinned. If she sent him way in anger, she’d be a hypocrite. She took a breath to calm herself, then faced him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

  Relief softened his mouth. “I had it coming.”

  He stood still, waiting for her to make the next move. She glanced at Fancy Girl. She’d promised them both a meal, so she indicated his chair. “I’ll get the pot roast. Fancy can have a bone when you leave.”

  “Thanks.”

  She escaped into the kitchen, dished his food and brought a plate to the table. He smiled his thanks, lifted his spoon and ate. In Abilene they’d lingered over supper with quiet anticipation. Today she used silence like a stage curtain. It hid her memories the way velvet drapes hid the audience, but thoughts of a curtain reminded her of the career she’d lost. Yesterday Roy Desmond, the new manager of the Newcastle Theater, had asked her to star in The Bohemian Girl. Because of the scandal, she had decided to turn him down. If her name showed up on Roy’s fancy theater posters, people might become curious about her past. At the time she’d thought briefly of J.T. and blamed him. She couldn’t possibly sing on stage again, even though she’d been impressed with Roy. An actor himself, he had managed a theater troupe on a Mississippi riverboat. She hadn’t heard of him, but he’d been in Abilene and had heard her sing. He’d mentioned the trial and the gossip, then assured her he’d keep the information to himself. She trusted him.

  J.T. finished the pot roast, then broke the silence with a contented sigh. “You sure can cook. I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s a family recipe.” She reached idly to straighten the salt shaker.

  His gaze dropped to her fingers, no doubt noticing the roughness. Her hands embarrassed her, but she refused to hide them. He arched one brow. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into singing in that saloon in California? It’s a long way from Abilene.”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Would you think about it?”

  “There’s no need.” He’d push until he got what he wanted, and he wanted her. She had to give him another reason to move on. “My mother died a few months ago. I’m raising my sister and brother.”

  He didn’t like children, so she figured he’d leave her alone. Instead he seemed interested. “How old are they?”

  “Gertie just turned seventeen. Augustus is twelve.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “They’re not that young. Gertie’s practically grown. And Augustus—” He shook his head. “That’s a dreadful name for a boy.”

  Mary didn’t know what to make of his interest. “We’ve always called him Augustus.”

  “So give him a nickname.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes twinkled. “I bet we can think of something.”

  We? Mary had to set him straight. “Even if I wanted to go with you—which I do not—I have obligations. I own this restaurant. I have a mortgage to pay and women who work for me. They need the money. Frankly, so do I. I’m saving to send Gertie to New York.”

  He scowled, a reminder that he’d been left on those crowded streets to fend for himself. “What’s in New York?”

  “Theaters. Gertie loves singing as much as I did.”

  “You still love it.”

  “Yes, but not the same way.” She stood and lifted their plates. In Kansas she’d used his given name for only the most serious conversations. She used it now to make a point. “You’re two years too late, Jonah. I wish you the best, but I don’t want to see you again.”

  Dust motes hung in the light, swirling like ash from a burning bridge in a ray of sun coming through the window. The glare lit one side of his face and put the other in shadow until he pushed back the chair and stood. “I see.”

  When he looked at his dog, Mary remembered her promise to Fancy Girl. “I’ll be right back.”

  She carried the plates to the kitchen, selected the meatiest soup bone she had, wrapped it in paper and carried it to the dining room. “Here.” She handed it to J.T. “This is for Fancy.”

  He took it but hesitated before calling the dog. If the mutt refused to go with him, Mary didn’t know what she’d do. With his brow tight, he spoke in a gentle tone Mary knew well. “Let’s go, Fancy Girl.”

  When the dog ambled to his side, Mary breathed a sigh of relief. He took his hat off the peg and opened the door. With sunlight fanning into the room, he pulled the brim low and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Mary blinked, and he was gone.

  J.T. turned the corner, stopped and looked at his dog. “What now, girl?”

  Fancy nudged the bone with her nose. J.T. wished his desires were as simple. He wanted a drink. The escape wouldn’t last, but it would stop the ache in his chest. He’d wake up feeling even worse than he did now, but who cared? Without Mary, he had no reason to stay sober. As soon as he bought supplies, he’d leave town. Tonight Fancy could chew the bone in front of a lonely campfire.

  “Come on,” he said to her. “We’re getting out of here.”

  He went to the livery for his horses, paid the owner and put the bone in a saddlebag. He secured the line to the pack horse, climbed on his buckskin and headed to the boardinghouse to fetch his gear. As the horses plodded down the street, he looked for a place to buy whiskey. He saw one closed door after another, then the gray wall of a large stone building. The granite gleamed white in the sun, and gargoyles jutted from the eaves. As he rounded the corner, he saw a sign that read Newcastle Theater.

  “Hey, Quinn!”

  He slipped his hand into his duster until it rested
on the ivory grip of his Colt Navy, then he scanned the street for the person who’d called him. When he saw Roy Desmond, he wanted to spit. He knew Roy from the faro tables in Dodge City. The man cheated. Even worse, there was talk he’d killed a saloon girl. J.T. had no desire to speak with Roy, but he couldn’t ignore him with Mary in Denver. The man had bragged about his life as an actor, and J.T. worried he’d seek out Mary. She’d sent J.T. away, but he wouldn’t leave until he knew what Desmond wanted.

  “Hello, Roy.”

  “This is a surprise.” The man flashed a grin. “It’s been what? Three years since Dodge?”

  “More or less.” J.T. had known Roy before Abilene, before he’d been with Mary. “What are you up to?”

  Roy indicated the stone building behind him. “You’re talking to the manager of the Newcastle Theater. I’m a legitimate businessman now.”

  Only a snake like Roy would need to announce he’d become legitimate. J.T. took in the man’s sack suit and pleated shirt. A gold watch dangled from his pocket, and his shoes were newly blacked. His hair was still dark but thinner than J.T. recalled, and deep lines framed his mouth. Nothing about Roy could be trusted, not his appearance and not the words dancing off his tongue. If Roy had any dealings with Mary, J.T. would have to think again about leaving Denver. He needed information, so he feigned interest in the man’s venture.

  “Legitimate, huh?” He grinned. “Does that mean no faro?”

  Roy chuckled. “I’ve got other cards to play. In fact, you’re just the man to help me play them.”

  It was just like Roy to speak in riddles. “What do you have in mind?”

  “It involves a mutual friend of ours.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary Larue.”

  Live or die, J.T. would do anything to keep Roy away from Mary. “What about her?”

  The man indicated the door. “Come inside and we’ll talk.”

  J.T. swung off his horse and tied off the reins. With Fancy Girl at his side, he followed Roy into the opera house. Trying to look bored, he entered the cavernous foyer as if he walked around such places every day. He didn’t, and the opulence stunned him. Thick carpet covered the floor, and the walls were crimson with gold stripes. Brass wall sconces caught the light from the open door and shimmered like flames. Even the air felt like velvet.