by Anna Zogg
“Yes.” Her word barely came out above a whisper as her hands twisted in her apron.
“Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for his birthday.”
“I will.”
“I just don’t want him to be angry because I didn’t say goodbye.”
“Don’t worry about him. We’ll be fine.”
Cole took a breath and held it. “I pray to God that remains true.” Now that he knew the truth about the money, his heart again softened toward her. He again dared to hope they had a future.
With the proof in his hands, he would end Hackett’s reign of terror. After a short stay in jail and even quicker trial, Cole expected the outlaw gang to swing from a rope. Not only for the bank robbery, but the two men they had killed.
Then Cole would come back for Lenora. If she wanted things to remain as she’d outlined in that contract, fine. He would finish the small building across the corral and call it home for a spell.
Then do everything in my power to win her.
“You will be careful, won’t you?” Lenora’s jaw clenched.
“Always.” Still he loitered, unable to make himself leave.
What if he didn’t live to return? Could he kiss her goodbye, knowing it would break her heart? He refused to make promises he couldn’t guarantee he’d keep.
Steeling himself, he grabbed the saddle horn and swung himself onto the sorrel.
“Cole.” She drew closer, hand resting on the horse’s shoulder. “Will I see you again?”
Her wistful expression nearly made him forget all about Jeb Hackett. For a moment, Cole felt as though the world screeched to a halt, and there was nothing in the universe but Lenora and him.
The next, he had dismounted and pulled her into his arms before he knew what was happening. With his hat pushed back, he kissed her with all the longing he felt.
Her lips trembled under his, but she yielded to his embrace. When he released her, she nearly staggered.
Before he abandoned his mission and stayed with her, he once again swung himself up into the saddle. “Lord willing, you will see me again. I promise.”
With tears filling her eyes, she smiled. It was the loveliest sight he had beheld in a long time.
He leaned down, fingers caressing her cheek and delicate jawline. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He managed a smile as he straightened. “Besides, I promised Toby a present.”
After a two-fingered salute, he backed Rowdy. A gentle squeeze to his sides and the horse moved from a trot to a fluid canter. When Cole reached the end of the road, before he disappeared down the hill, he reined in his sorrel and turned in the saddle.
She still stood where he’d left her.
Unable to resist showing off, he made Rowdy rear back on his hind legs. After a wave of his hat, he pressed on.
* * *
“Where can I find the sheriff?” Cole planted himself directly in the man’s path to force him to answer.
Shrugging, the man hurried away.
This was Cole’s third attempt to get information from the townsfolk. Everyone in Silver Peaks either dithered when he asked or outright avoided him. After he stopped again at the empty jailhouse, he walked up and down the street. He’d finally resorted to checking in the town’s one and only saloon. Besides the bartender, three cowboys played cards at a corner table.
With his eye on them and his back to the wall, Cole rested an elbow on the counter. “Seen the sheriff?”
The barkeep polished one spot on the countertop, over and over. His gaze shot to the three patrons, then back. “Can’t say as I have.”
Cole sighed, taking care to keep his hands where the man could see them. “If someone started shooting in here, I’m sure he’d show up right quick.”
Though the man’s eyes narrowed, he continued to wipe the surface.
Cole gritted his teeth. “Tell him someone needs to see him at the jailhouse.” Without waiting for a response, he headed back down the street.
Was this town so perfect they never had to lock up troublemakers? The answer seemed obvious—all the troublemakers worked for Hackett.
To the bartender’s credit, Cole waited only fifteen minutes before a flustered looking man appeared. As he entered the building, he tucked in his shirt and slicked back his hair. After sizing up Cole, he scowled. “What d’ya want?”
“You the sheriff?”
“Who’s asking?”
Cole pushed back his coat lapel to reveal his badge. “US Marshal Jesse Cole. I need you to gather six to ten able-bodied men for me to deputize so we can form a posse.”
He straightened and gulped. “I’m Leland Mackay. Who are we after?”
Cole deliberated with himself and decided to state the crime first. “Men who may be guilty of bank robbery and murder. I not only have evidence but a witness.”
“A witness? Here in Silver Peaks?”
“No, nearby.” Cole watched the man’s face as he spoke. “Lenora Pritchard.” He deliberately left off her new married name.
Understanding dawned on the sheriff’s face.
When he said nothing, Cole added, “A Cheyenne bank was robbed about six months ago. Two men were shot—and killed. One was a teller and the other a bystander.”
Something subtly changed in the sheriff’s demeanor. Brow furrowed and hands slowly unclenching, he seemed to stop breathing. Because he already knew about the robbery? Or suspected who the guilty parties were?
His Adam’s apple bobbed as his gaze sidled away. “And who are you planning to arrest?”
“Jeb Hackett and his men. Charlie, Dandyman, Leftie and Horseface. Those are the only names I know them by. But that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I see.” That was all the sheriff said, apparently thinking over what he’d heard.
Cole waited, but the man didn’t move.
Had he fallen asleep with his eyes open? He merely stared out the window, thick lips alternately pressing together or hanging open. That was the only indication that his mind was working besides the occasional blink.
Finally he looked at Cole and sank into his office chair. “Sorry, Marshal. I can’t help you.”
Had he heard right? “What?”
“I said I can’t help you,” the sheriff repeated, his voice decidedly louder. His gaze shot at Cole, then to the surface of his desk. “Nary a man in this county isn’t beholden to Eli Hackett in one way or t’other. Nobody dares raise a hand against him or his son, Jeb.”
Cole clenched his jaw. “Including you?”
Shoulders hunkering, he shifted in his chair.
“So you’d let criminals go free so you can protect your own hide?”
The sheriff’s face hardened. “I guarantee it’d be just us two. Against how many? Jeb and his buddies—plus whoever Eli has nearby? It’d be suicide.”
Cole leaned his knuckles on the desk. “So you’re giving up before you lift a finger.”
The sheriff’s palm scrubbed his chin—like he missed a beard that once had been there. “You go find an army, and I’d be glad to help.”
“Very well.” Cole straightened. “I’ll be sure to save you a spot in the back. Where you’ll be safe.” He turned on his heel.
As he stomped down the street, he contemplated his options. Next to none. He wouldn’t put it past the sheriff to warn the Hacketts since it sounded like his job relied on their good graces. Even if Cole left immediately and traveled to Cheyenne, he wouldn’t get back with a posse before the gang went to ground.
Could he count on soldiers from Fort Laramie? Technically, he couldn’t order them to assist. However, asking seemed his best option. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
Changing direction, he strode toward the telegraph office, a tiny building at the end of the stre
et. Two people were inside. A gray-headed man with an imperial mustache and beard sat at a desk filled with telegraph equipment while the younger, sporting bright red hair, sorted through messages on a slotted shelf. The inside of the building was well kept and orderly. A small door led out the back.
The older man spoke. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to send a telegram. Official government business.” Cole revealed his badge.
His eyes widened. “Yessir. Would you care to dictate your message?”
Cole glanced at the younger man who paused in his task, shoulders stiffening. Because he was listening? “I’ll write it out.”
The man shoved a sheet of paper at Cole who quickly composed his message to the commanding officer at Fort Laramie. As an afterthought, he added a request for a response as soon as possible so he would know how to proceed.
As the older man read the message, the blood seemed to drain from his face. He peered at Cole. “You want this sent right away?”
“Yes.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the younger man. “Red, why don’t you run down to the mercantile and get yourself a soda water?”
The younger turned, a frown on his face. “What?”
“Just do it.”
He glared at his employer, then slouched out the door.
“Just a safety precaution,” the man explained. “Mind keeping an eye on him for a moment?”
Peering out the window, Cole watched the young man stride diagonally across the street toward the nearest mercantile. Hands in his pockets, he kicked a rock.
“He’s on his way.”
Behind him, the man tapped out the message. “There. It’s done.” The gray-headed man lifted his chin, mustache curling under a pressed lip.
“How long should I wait for a reply?”
His eyes shifted. “Don’t know. Could take an hour.”
Really? Cole gripped the door frame. He didn’t relish hanging around the office that long. Frustration—along with its twin, tension—coiled inside him. The longer this process took, the more his nerves skittered on edge.
Something wasn’t right. His gut tightened.
Making up his mind, he said, “I’ll be back in half an hour.” With that, he strode away.
The sun, high in the sky, baked the dusty, brown street. Most folks who’d been sitting under porches were now absent, hiding from the heat. Cole avoided the dark and cool saloon. Too many a lawman had been shot in the back as they’d lingered where outlaws hung out. Besides, he got the distinct impression it was one place the Hackett gang favored.
That left a couple mercantiles, including the one where he’d had a run-in with Mr. Richards. Cole chose the other place, the one the redhead had entered.
In the cool dimness, several patrons lingered. Their conversation abruptly halted the moment he stepped inside.
The proprietor nodded a greeting in his direction.
“I’ll take what he’s having.” Cole indicated the telegraph worker, whose eyes widened. Like he had been found out?
Scared glances passed between him and the three other patrons—all male. No one said a word as the proprietor retrieved a soda water. “Red” muttered something about going back to work before slipping out the door.
Cole paid for the drink, then looked around as though considering what else to buy. The longer he loitered, the heavier the silence. Finally, one of the locals murmured something about the unseasonable hot weather. Another replied how a drought would affect the crops.
“Anything else?” The proprietor flattened his hands on the counter.
Cole took his time turning, like he suddenly realized the man was talking to him. “Not that I can see. Unless you can tell me the time.”
“Three twenty-three.” A patron had his pocket watch out faster than a vulture could spot a carcass.
Because they wanted to get rid of him?
“Guess I’ll be moving along.” Cole finished his drink and set the empty bottle on the counter.
After stepping into the bright sunshine, he allowed his eyes to adjust. If anything, the street seemed even more deserted. The horses that had been by the saloon earlier were now missing. Only Rowdy stood, head lowered as he dozed, not far from the sheriff’s office. The wind stirred the dust, creating a brown wave that raced a tumbleweed down the street’s center.
Where was everyone?
A prickle of unease crawled across the back of his neck. He gave a low whistle to Rowdy. His horse’s head jerked up, yanking the reins from the hitching post.
As his gelding clopped toward him, Cole watched his twitching ears. Though Rowdy focused on him, he could clearly see the horse sensed something farther down the street.
“What is it, boy?” He spoke in a low voice. As he patted his neck, he draped the reins over his sorrel’s withers so that he wouldn’t accidently step on them. Watching his horse’s response, Cole pretended to adjust the cinch strap.
Yep, something—or someone—Rowdy didn’t like was down the street, out of sight.
“Come on, boy.” Cole crossed to the other side, walking beside his horse, opposite where danger might be. When he got to the hitching post not far from the telegraph office, he remained next to the gelding, again pretending to check the saddle.
In an alley diagonally from him sat a buckboard wagon. Several barrels clustered against a building. Though Cole couldn’t see anyone, he trusted his horse knew something he didn’t. In another building, a curtain fluttered. From an open window above, he heard a woman talking, then a sharp “Hush.”
Again, he draped the reins over the post, confident Rowdy wouldn’t wander but could come if he whistled.
The telegraph office was a good thirty feet away. He would have to walk alongside one building and past a small alley before he reached the door. After pulling his hat snug, he sauntered toward his goal. His scalp tingled as he approached the alley.
Movement along the base of one building had Cole ducking before he realized it was merely a piece of paper, fluttering along the ground. At the same time, he heard the distinct click of a gun being cocked.
He dived as a crack resounded. Wood splintered nearby. A woman shrieked.
Another click as a hammer cocked. The sound distant.
In seconds, he rolled inside the telegraph building. Still low, he slammed the door as a bullet pierced the flimsy wood. A third shot shattered one pane of the window.
Cole drew his gun, then swiveled when a sound startled him.
“Don’t shoot!” Red peeked from behind the desk, eyes wide and hands raised above his head. “I’m unarmed.”
“Keep ’em where I can see them.”
“Yessir.” Red gulped convulsively. His hands remained in sight while his head lowered.
A glance told Cole he had no gun. But that didn’t mean one wasn’t nearby. Where was the gray-haired man? The back door was open a fraction. Because he’d fled?
Though no more shots came from across the street, Cole remained crouched out of sight. “Where’s your boss?”
“I—I don’t know. He was gone when I came back from the mercantile.”
“Is that usual?”
“No. He never leaves.”
So, graybeard knew about the trap?
Cole moved closer to the young man, just in case his would-be assassins decided to storm the door. “What were you doing under the desk?”
He pointed. “A wire came loose. I was going to fix it.”
“That happen before or after the shooting?”
“Before.”
Cole studied him. “So my telegram wasn’t sent?”
“Don’t think so.” He shook his head. “Nothing would have transmitted with that wire unhooked.”
“Are you able to send
a message?”
Red shrugged. “Yeah. But I usually don’t.”
“Do it. Only keep your head down so it doesn’t get shot off.” When the young man got in position, Cole had him relay his earlier message except he added, “Meet at the Pritchard ranch, thirteen miles due east from Silver Peaks. Matter of life and death.”
Chapter Twenty
As Lenora stepped off the porch, she yelled for her son. Where had that boy gone? Probably skinning something or gutting fish with his new bowie knife. Hadn’t she told him to stay close? The yard remained dismally quiet, the landscape glowing with a golden cast from the late-afternoon sun. No response echoed her one call. She shielded her eyes as she panned the area. Nothing. Despite the warmth, she shivered.
Over four hours had passed since Cole left. She’d given up pacing in the house and could no longer concentrate on her mending as she sat on the porch. A brief interval of working in the garden couldn’t settle her nerves. The thrill from the kiss she and Cole had shared slowly faded, replaced by a growing unease.
Was he safe? Had he accomplished his mission?
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Lord, please watch over Cole. Please bring him back to us. To me.”
When she opened her eyes, a flash from a nearby hill caught her attention. What was that? At first, she imagined it was the sun as it sent out brilliant beams of dying light. Then she thought it was Toby. No, it couldn’t be. He would never wander that far without permission. When she saw nothing else, she scanned the rocky hills. Another gleam, from farther away, sent a shaft of fear down her back.
Someone was signaling another person. With a mirror? It seemed obvious that the message was about her. And about the ranch. Did they know Cole was gone?
“Toby,” she shrieked. “Toby, where are you?” She raised her voice. “Answer me this instant.”
“Coming.” His young voice reached her from somewhere behind the house.
She ran around the building. “Toby, get in here. Hurry.”
From the distance, she could see he’d been fishing. He wore a happy smile, three or four fish dangling from a line in one hand, his pole in the other.
“Toby, run!”
