The food smelled good but it might as well have been Owyhee County alkali dirt. He sneaked another look at Miss Daisy, who had seemed quite horrified when her brother had asked Dugan’s intentions. Did she want to marry the fellow?
Simmering anger had every muscle at the ready since he’d first shaken Dugan’s hand. He gritted his teeth and worked on showing a polite appreciation of the meal he couldn’t taste. For two damned cents he’d go to that dance himself and whirl Miss Daisy around the floor right under Dugan’s nose. But he wouldn’t.
This fiasco showed once and for all why he needed to be shed of this town like a bad memory. Which he would, just as soon as he got those damned miners behind bars. Mike Flynn, too, if necessary.
Cole made it through the meal, even the gooseberry pie. He hated gooseberries. But he gritted his teeth, smiled and thanked the Gardners kindly. They had no idea how happy he was to get out of that house, away from the man who’d probably marry Miss Daisy, but most especially so he wouldn’t have to look at her in that sweet-looking green dress. That git-up made her look right fine, and any man would be proud to have her on his arm.
He strode toward the doctor’s office, planning his afternoon as he went—anything to get his mind off Miss Daisy. First, he needed to get Doc to look at Mike Flynn before they had a corpse on their hands. Damn, he never should have told Bosco to slip Flynn a second dose. After he talked to Doc, he’d head for the Branded Horse Saloon and work on tracking down Gib and Porker Rankin.
The bell tinkled as he opened the door to Doc’s office. Doc motioned him in.
“I was just about to go over to the marshal’s office to check on your progress.” Doc motioned Cole to the examining table. “You saved me the trouble.”
Cole shook his head and didn’t move into the room. “I’m not here for me. We’ve got a stranger in town who had a run-in with the Gardners’ dog yesterday, and ended up the worse for it. Got a bump on the head and knocked him out.”
“Where is he?” Doc grabbed for his black case.
“The boardinghouse. But there’s another problem.”
“Yes?”
“He had a little laudanum.”
“Shouldn’t hurt him. Might help.”
“A lot of laudanum. He hasn’t stirred for over eighteen hours.”
Just then someone pushed past Cole, nearly upending him. He regained his balance to see Miss Daisy dash over to Doc and scoop up his doctor’s bag.
“Doc, you need to come right away!”
“Hang on there, I’m talking to the marshal about a possible overdose case.”
She frowned. “There’s another one.”
“What do you mean, ‘another one’? Don’t tell me I have to pick which comatose body to work on first.”
Cole stepped forward and took the bag from Miss Daisy. “I think we’re speaking of the same patient, Doc. His name is Mike Flynn, and he seems to need a little help waking up.”
“Yes, it’s Mr. Flynn. I think you need to see him right away.” Cole didn’t appreciate the look of concern on Miss Daisy’s face. Did she think she overdosed Flynn? Did he dare tell her that he asked Bosco to slip him another dose?
She dug into her pocket and brought out another bottle of Dr. Liebig’s Lost Manhood Restorer. “This worked well on the marshal. When I gave him this medicine, he was bedridden. Now, just look at him, he’s standing there, erect as can be!”
If she only knew, Cole thought, remembering her firm, round breasts crushed against him. He’d thought his demonstration would show her that he didn’t need it, but the joke had been on him. What kind of man would deceive a woman like her?
Doc looked at him and chuckled. “He does look in fine fettle, doesn’t he?”
Fine fettle, my ass. Horny as a jackrabbit, more like it. “Let’s go.”
As they walked down the street, Daisy taking two strides to the men’s one, Doc said, “Marshal, I believe we’ll need a little help. Is Deputy Kunkle available?”
Cole sighed. Bosco never had been able to keep his mouth shut, and there was no reason to believe he would this time, either. Then Miss Daisy would surely want to know why it was necessary to give the stranger an extra dose.
But his problems were nothing compared to Flynn’s right now. You didn’t need to be a doctor to know something bad wrong had happened when a man stayed unconscious for the better part of a day. “I think he’s still at the office. I’ll get him and meet you at the boardinghouse.”
He walked with Miss Daisy and Doc to the corner, then turned right toward the marshal’s office, all the time debating with himself whether he should tell Bosco to keep quiet about the whole thing, or not. Upon reflection, he decided not to, because then Bosco would blow it for sure.
Mrs. Proctor stood in the doorway of the marshal’s office. “Oh, Deputy Kunkle,” she twittered, “I so hope you enjoy the meatloaf and sauerkraut. I’ll have a custard pie waiting for you for supper at six.” She turned around and ran square into Cole’s chest. “Watch where you’re going, young man!” And she marched down the street toward her house.
“Some woman you got there, Bosco. Are you going to eat at her house tonight?”
“Yup. And the Widder Courtney’s for breakfast.” He shoved a bit of meatloaf in his mouth, closed his eyes, and savored the flavor. “Mmmmm. This here town is downright hospitable.”
“I’m afraid your meal will have to wait. Doc’s on his way to the boardinghouse and he thinks we’ll need your help with Mike Flynn.”
Bosco took another bite, but at least had the decency to look guilty about it. Then he placed the rest of the food back in the basket and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Damn,” he said as he looked at the crumpled napkin. “I’m getting plumb gentlemanlike.” He shook his head and stood, hitching up his britches and donning his bent straw hat.
They arrived at the boardinghouse only a few minutes after Miss Daisy and Doc. So far, Bosco hadn’t seemed too chatty, but Cole knew better than to count on it continuing.
Doc bent over Flynn and lifted his eyelid, then turned to Miss Daisy. “Get lots of coffee, and pour it into saucers so that it cools.” He waved at Bosco. “We need to walk him around, but there’s not enough space in this room, so we’ll have to get him downstairs.”
So far, so good. Bosco hadn’t said a word. Cole threw the blankets off Flynn. “Bosco, you take the head end and I’ll take the feet.”
Doc shook his head. “Nope, you can’t be lifting yet, marshal. Bosco and I will carry him.”
Miss Daisy stood there, when she was supposed to be getting coffee. It’s as if she could hardly wait to see a man humiliated. Doc still treated him like a damned invalid. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“No,” Doc repeated. “I won’t have it.”
Bosco strode over and, with a mighty heave, threw the hefty Flynn over his shoulder. “Are you two old hens gonna chatter all afternoon, or are we gonna wake this here fellow up?” He wobbled a bit under the weight, but made his way down the stairs and out the door.
Miss Daisy gathered her skirts and bounded after him, then dashed into the kitchen. In a flash, she rejoined the men on the dusty street. “Mrs. Howard had some leftover coffee that’s cold and rather stout.” She held up her prize, a blue enamel coffeepot.
Just as they passed the horse trough, Bosco stumbled. Flynn sailed into the trough with a mighty splash. He gurgled a bit before Cole grabbed his head and lifted it out of the water. Then Flynn spluttered and opened his eyes.
Doc chuckled. “Well, Bosco, I guess you took care of the problem. With a little coffee, he’ll be right as rain.”
“He don’t look near as purty as the last critter I saw in a horse trough,” Bosco said with a grin.
Miss Daisy shoved the coffeepot on Cole’s hand and turned on her heel. “Oh!”
Doc looked at Cole. “What was that all about?”
All Cole could do was shake his head as he watched Miss Daisy promenade down the boardwalk. “I have no idea.”
Bosco snorted.
Chapter 8
Cole helped Bosco and Doc haul Flynn to the doctor’s office, then beat a hasty retreat. Miss Daisy’s company boded no good at all to a man who didn’t belong in her town. She’d make a good wife—certainly an interesting one. Not only did she rouse him at every glance, she always had a project in the works that no other woman would even think of.
Life seemed worth living when she was around. He couldn’t help but get caught in her snare eventually, and he knew he’d better get things moving with those miners so he could make his own escape. The very thought slowed his pace. He wanted to be snared by her, and he wanted to be marshal of this town. Still, neither could come to pass, especially when it came to light—and it would, as soon as Iris came back for the Fourth of July celebration—that instead of a marshal, he was, in fact, an accomplice to a bank robbery.
He could throttle Bosco for getting him into this fix, although he had to admit that he’d never have met Miss Daisy, and he’d never have considered himself useful for anything but cowpunching until he found himself in a whole new world. He kind of liked this marshaling business.
He picked up his pace to the Branded Horse. A whisky to numb his longing and a little conversation with the saloon regulars ought to get him back on course. He might even see the Rankin brothers, or at least find out where the hell they were.
“Cole!” His older brother sat on the buckboard, waving.
Cole swore under his breath. Well, damn, that’s all he needed—another complication. He ambled across the street to the wagon, raised his foot and rested it on a wheel spoke. “What in the hell are you doing here, Thomas?”
“Haven’t seen you in a month, little brother. Etta and I were worried. I went to Silver, but no one there had seen you, so I came down this direction. Thought I’d check out Winnemucca next.”
Cole paused to consider just how much he should tell his brother. “Drive on over to the saloon,” he said, pointing down the street, “and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Hop up.” Thomas patted the seat beside him, just like he did when they were boys.
But Cole needed to think, not ride. “Naw, I’ll walk. Need the exercise.” He backed away from the wagon and headed down the street, hearing Thomas holler at the mules to follow. Why the hell had he invited his brother to join him for a drink? No doubt his brother would be asking leading question—questions that he couldn’t answer at all, let alone in public.
The only soul in the dark, stagnant saloon was the barkeep. Cole had seen him around town, but this was Cole’s first venture into the local drinking establishment. A little noise would have been better. He might as well forget about finding anything on the Rankins, but with his brother there, it was just as well. Thomas didn’t need to get involved in matters as dangerous as jailing the miners, and the sooner Cole convinced his brother to leave town, the better. He walked up to the bar.
“Howdy, marshal.” The bartender wiped the bar in front of Cole, even though the wood shined clear enough that a man could see himself in it.
Cole touched the brim of his hat. “Pete.”
“Drink?”
“Two.”
The barkeep put two glasses on the counter and filled them. “Four bits.”
Cole tossed a fifty-cent piece on the counter, took the glasses and put them on a table by the window. “Not much business today, huh?”
“Nope. Farmers are farming, ranchers are ranching, and miners are mining. They’ll be here later.” He took the towel from his shoulder and wiped the already shiny bar again. “You need some female company? I can go get Loretta Sue.”
“Nope.” But the very notion sounded damned good. Maybe it would get his mind off the bewitching Miss Gardner. Memories of her body plastered against his, the lavendar scent of her hair, and her pink tongue darting over her upper lip quickened his heart. Damn and damn again. “Maybe next time.”
“Good. She’s sleeping. But let me know if you or your friend will be needing her, and I’ll drag her lazy butt out of bed.”
Thomas limped into the saloon and sat beside Cole. He took a sip of whisky and let out a deep sigh. “Hot out there. Driving a buckboard is thirsty work.”
Cole nodded.
“So, what made you up and leave us?”
“Can’t go into it here.”
Thomas took off his hat and laid it on the table. “When you coming back?”
“A few days.” Cole downed his shot. “Is the creek running good?”
“Yup. Clear water, and lots of it, like Sinker Creek was two years ago. Haven’t seen the miners around all spring.”
“Maybe they left.”
“Maybe.”
“Calves doing good?”
“Fine, fine. Not much winterkill. They’re chubby and frisky as hell. If they keep growing at this rate, we’ll have our hands full in the fall round-up. Might even make a few dollars this year.”
“Etta?”
Thomas smiled and cocked his head. “Gonna have another baby. We’re hoping for a boy, this time.”
“Callie?”
Thomas chuckled and took another drink. “She sorely misses her Uncle Cole, all right. Keeps her mama busy, too.”
Cole waved the bartender to bring more whisky to mask the pang of lonesomeness.
“Two drinks—in the middle of the day?” Thomas asked. “You’ve never been much of a drinking man.”
An understatement, Cole thought. He’d never had much capacity for alcohol. But today, he needed a distraction for Thomas. “It’s a thirsty day.”
Thomas nodded, and Cole thanked God his brother let the subject drop.
“We need to talk about Etta and you, Cole. I know I done you wrong, and what Etta and I did was, well, what we did was fall in love. That ain’t wrong. It just ain’t, so I can’t apologize for that. But you don’t know how sorry I am that you got hurt over the whole deal.”
This subject was no better. “Let’s not talk about it.”
The bartender brought their drinks, and Cole put another fifty cents on the table. He was glad for the interruption, glad that he didn’t have to respond right then. Etta had been his woman, and Thomas, his own damned brother, stole her. Which led to Thomas’s accident and permanent disability. All Cole’s fault. He could never make up for maiming his own brother, no matter what the cause.
“How’s the leg?”
“Fine, fine. No pain. My git-around is pretty good, nothing for you to worry about.” He looked down at his knee, frozen straight. “Been able to do a lot more lately.”
Not enough, though, Cole knew. Thomas could never do a day of man’s work again. He tipped his hat back. “Well, you oughtta get back to the ranch and take care of things. I’ll be there in a week or so.”
Thomas reached over and tapped the badge on Cole’s chest. “What’s this all about?”
“Just a part time job while I round up the miners. Porker and Gib are here in Oreana.”
“Up to no good, I expect.”
“I expect not,” Cole said, plenty happy the talk had veered from unpleasant subjects.
Just then, the saloon doors clattered and a man stumbled in, collapsing on the floor.
“Strange place,” commented Thomas. “Most places, drunks stagger out of the saloon, not in.”
Before he’d said his piece, Cole sprinted over and kneeled by the man’s side loosened his collar, then checked his breathing. No liquor smell. This man wasn’t drunk—he was sick.
“Barkeep, help me load this man into my brother’s wagon.”
Daisy spooned strong, cold coffee into Flynn’s mouth. He swallowed and waited for more. Although he hadn’t made an effort to move, the look in his eye seemed much more alert than his motions indicated. She didn’t trust him. Not one whit.
The Doc had stepped out to get a bite to eat at the confectionery, and Deputy Kunkle had left for the marshal’s office, muttering something about a meatloaf sandwich. She felt very alone.
While she felt uncomfortable with the stranger, she still had a job to do. The sooner she proved that Flynn was indeed the culprit who had shot the marshal, the sooner he would propose. Time wasn’t slowing down any, and she didn’t know how many more suitors she could fend off before her parents became downright testy. Her refusal of Patrick Dugan, who was decidedly good-looking and well set up, would be hard to explain away.
Oh, why had her parents decided to push a man on her now? If they’d only given her a little more time, she’d have the marshal caught, bridled, and saddled.
She expected a proposal any time—she only needed to prove her value to him as a detective. Then she could spend her life helping her husband solve crimes instead of slaving over a soap kettle or chasing chickens for the soup pot. She’d be in town, where she could buy soap at the store and meat at the butcher shop.
The clip-clop of hooves and the clatter of the freight wagon caught her attention and reminded her the fingerprinting kit ought to be included with this shipment. She gazed out the window, then to Flynn’s hand, dumping the spoon of coffee beside his mouth. It trickled down his cheek and pooled in his ear.
She jumped away so the brown liquid didn’t stain her dress, although it was more reaction than actual threat. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” She dug into her purse, producing a tiny mirror that her mother had given her for Christmas. She removed it from the case and wiped the glass clean. Lowering the mirror to Flynn’s hand, she pressed first his thumb, then his forefinger to the glass. Mike Flynn would be her first effort at producing a print.
Dismissing the nagging thought that prints did no good in this case, since she didn’t have anything to compare them to, she placed the mirror back in its case.
At her earliest opportunity, she’d track down Porker Rankin and get prints from him. The marshal seemed to have a fixation on catching the boot thief, and she’d produce the very evidence needed to make a solid case. Again, how a fingerprint would help, she’d figure out later. But this new technique would certainly be the way to the marshal’s heart.
“That’s mighty touching, sweetheart.”
Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) Page 10
