Western Ways

by Tysche Dwai

  “I don’t intend to draw it at all till I learn how to use it,” promised Jayne. Thanking Flannagan again, he stepped back into the sun-drenched street.

  Heat waves shimmered in the distance, and Jayne regretted not having the money for the hat, though his feet felt comfortable in the new boots. He strolled down to the squat, windowless jail.

  Might as well go on in since he was here. Jayne pushed at the door, and blinked against the shadows of the interior. “Hello?”

  A bullet whizzed past his ear, and Jayne dove out of the doorway, rolling behind the deputy’s battered desk. Heart thudding in his chest, he heard a muffled grunt of pain, and then Starr’s breathless shout, “Get out of here, Jay!”

  There was the smack of a hand on flesh, and a whimper from Starr. Jayne’s blood boiled. He drew his gun out of the holster and quietly eased it open. The chambers were filled. Locking the cylinder back into place as Flannagan had taught him, he rested the barrel on the edge of the desk. “Who’s there?”

  “This ain’t none of your concern, teacher-man. Just get on out of here. I have business with the sheriff.” The voice was young, still cracking on certain words, and shaking to boot.

  Jayne’s mind raced. “Seth? Seth Corrigon?” he guessed.

  “Never you mind who I am, teacher-man. You run on along. Me and my brother are taking the sheriff for a little trip.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Seth.”

  “I don’t see how it’s any concern o’yourn, teacher-man.”

  Jayne squinted at the shadows, trying to pinpoint the boy’s position. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the dim interior. His heart lurched when he saw the crumpled figure in the corner. He knew she was alive a moment ago...he had to trust that fact and focus on the matter at hand.

  Seth Corrigon was fumbling through a bunch of keys before a jail cell. A hulking figure inside the cell gestured impatiently for the keys.

  “Just give ‘em to me, idjit. I’ll do it myself,” growled the prisoner.

  That must be Duncan Corrigon. Where were the deputies? Starr shouldn’t have been alone. She had said one of the men was scheduled to ride with Duncan in the stage.

  “I’ll get it, Duncan!” Seth protested, rattling the keys some more.

  Jayne wracked his brains. There had to be some way to stall the prison break. He slowly rose to his feet—and a bullet cracked within inches of his head. Seth might be clumsy with keys, but he was a pretty good shot. Jayne felt sure he had missed on purpose.

  Diving back behind the desk, Jayne pondered the situation further. If only he could get to Starr. If he knew she was all right, he could think more clearly.

  He eased back around the desk. From here, he could see Starr laying half behind her own desk only three feet away. He dove across the gap, rolling behind the new cover.

  Catching his breath, he grinned ruefully to himself. He could get good at this if he kept it up...

  Leaning over to Starr, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her fully behind the desk. She groaned, and he helped her sit up.

  She raised a shaking hand to her head. “What happened?”

  “Seth’s trying to break Duncan out of jail,” he answered under his breath. “Luckily, he seems to be having a bit of trouble with the keys.”

  Starr reached for her revolver. “Damnation. They stole my gun.”

  “Here. Take mine.” He handed her his pistol.

  She did a double take. “Where—?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.” He kissed her hard. “Do your job.”

  She cleared the edge of the desk and squeezed off a shot. There was a cry of pain and a rattle of keys falling to the hard-packed floor.

  “Throw your gun over to the door, Seth, and kick them keys this way. Behave yourself, and you can go on over to the county seat with Duncan.”

  “No, give me the gun, Seth. I’ll take care of that little bitch,” Duncan growled from the cell, reaching out through the bars.

  Seth looked from one to the other, an expression of indecision on his face. Jayne could see the hesitation. The boy couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, and he was wounded to boot. Blood was soaking the sleeve of his rough-spun shirt.

  Jayne tensed as Seth made his decision and handed the gun to his brother. He was ready to push Starr out of the way and take a bullet if he needed to.

  But he had underestimated Starr. Coolly, she drew a bead on her prisoner. “Don’t make me shoot you, Duncan. So far, you ain’t done much. Hitting a sheriff ain’t nothing compared to shooting one.”

  “I’ll take my chances. You kilt my brother without any call to. I figure you owe me a life.” He pulled the trigger, and both guns boomed almost simultaneously.

  His bullet went wide, slamming into the wall, but Starr’s found its mark. Duncan dropped like a stone.

  “Duncan!” Seth screamed, grabbing the bars and shaking them as hard as his wound would allow.

  “I’m right sorry about that, Seth, but I did warn him,” Starr called. “Now, you’re a good boy at heart. I know you don’t mean to hurt no one. Let me get you patched up and we’ll send you on over to the county seat. I’ll speak to the judge for you. Make sure you’re treated fairly.”

  Seth fell to his knees on the floor, sobbing as if his heart would break.

  Starr handed Jayne the gun. “Keep this trained on him,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about firing straight. I don’t think you’ll need to shoot.”

  Murmuring nonsense like one does to a hurt animal, she circled slowly over to where Seth knelt. “Come on, Seth,” she crooned, slipping an arm around the boy’s shaking shoulders. “Let’s get you patched up.” Awkwardly, she helped the taller boy to his feet.

  Jayne watched her, his heart swelling with emotion. This was one fine lady, and smart as a whip. She shouldn’t be dealing with criminals. She should be using those strengths to be the teacher she longed to be.

  Jayne holstered his weapon and moved to scoop up the keys. He opened the cell and checked Duncan’s vital signs. The man was dead.

  He’d have to get Starr to teach him to shoot. Especially if he was going to take away her job.

  * * * *

  It took some persuading, but Starr proved a quick student, and she soaked up all the teaching tips he had to offer. And she put them all to use making him ready to assume his new position. By the time Starr became Mrs. Kincaid, Jayne was a pretty good shot. He was sworn in as sheriff the day after the wedding, and when it was time to ring in the students to class for the first day of school, it was a beaming Starr who rang the bell, ready for her first teaching session.

  Jayne watched proudly as she herded the students into the schoolhouse. Things had certainly turned out differently than he expected when the lawyer had called him to his office. Thank heavens for fortune, or fate, or whatever had taken hold of his life.

  He glanced down at the shiny badge pinned to his chest. Who would have guessed he’d find a Starr for the teacher?

  THE END

  About the Author

  Tysche (TIE sh) Dwai was born to write erotica. Her other persona writes other stuff. She’s been at this for a number of years now, and is enjoying every minute of it.

  https://www.facebook.com/TyscheDwai

  To Tame a Gambler

  Nancy Pirri

  Chapter One

  Fortune, goodnight. Smile once more; turn thy wheel.

  -William Shakespeare

  September 1894

  Bozeman, Montana

  The woman had her nose stuck in a Bible from the time John O’Connell boarded the stagecoach twenty miles south of Bozeman. He envied her position. She’d been lucky in securing a corner seat beside a window, with only one person on the side of her. He was squeezed between two decidedly plump matrons wearing fake-fruit decorated bonnets and reeking of lavender water. Damned lucky he wasn’t any bigger or the three of them wouldn’t fit.

  “Bozeman’s right up yonder!” the driver called out cheerily.
>
  John dusted off his black pants and jacket, in the process jabbing both women with his elbows. Both glared at him.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “I think we’re all more than ready to get out into the fresh air.”

  “Amen,” said the woman on his left, giving him a near toothless grin.

  John shifted his gaze to the woman across from him, trying to estimate her age. Upon settling inside the coach, he saw her face in profile. She appeared young. Then she’d raised her Bible and hadn’t lowered it—not once. Between the book concealing her face and the small veiled felt hat on her head, he had no idea what she looked like.

  He breathed a relieved sigh when he glanced out the window and saw people walking the streets, coaches being pulled by horses, buggies rumbling by. Ah, the sounds of city life—exciting and exotic!—the noise of people living life to the fullest. He couldn’t wait to leave the coach and set foot on solid ground.

  They’d reached the Bozeman Coach Station. The coach door opened, and the driver leaned in to help the first woman out. “Lord, it’ll be wonderful to stretch our legs a bit, won’t it?” she said.

  John nodded. “You are correct, ma’am.”

  He pulled himself easily out of the coach after the woman, then turned and helped the woman who’d been on his right. She gave him a simpering smile. He sighed, mindful of the fact that women—young and old—were attracted to him. He was handsome enough, he supposed, but it wasn’t his looks that attracted them, it was his polite, respectful manners, instilled in him by his gentle mama. Though, when angry, that tiny woman wielded a switch better than a two-hundred pound man.

  The last person he assisted from the carriage was the bookish gal. She accepted his hand then quickly dropped it with a murmured, “Thank you,” once her feet touched the ground. John felt his heart quicken when he got his first good look at the pretty young woman who stood no taller than his shoulder.

  She took a step, stumbled and dropped her Bible.

  He reached out a quick hand, cupped her elbow to steady her then released her when he was certain she was steady on her feet. When he bent to pick up the book, she did, too, and they bumped heads. “Sorry, miss. Just trying to be help...” he began, pausing when he looked at the Bible and saw another book tucked inside. A small one, its pages bent and ragged.

  Still crouched, he glanced at the Bible’s owner who bent down facing him. Looking at her, John felt as though he’d been struck by lightning. He was drawn to the clear-eyed sign of intelligence in her eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed metal spectacles.

  He reached for the book. She did too, and her hand landed on top of his. She tried pulling the book from his hand but he kept a grip on it, curious to know what she’d been hiding in the Bible.

  Tearing his gaze away from her pleading expression, he glanced down and closed the smaller book to reveal the cover. Murder and Love in Tucson City. She’d concealed a trashy dime store novel between the pages of her Bible. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, just held out her hand.

  He gave her the book. Without a word, she tucked it back inside the Bible. Staring at her a moment longer he saw she wore a veiled hat that came down over her eyes. Beneath the veil, her nose was small and slightly pointy.

  They rose simultaneously. He said, “I’m curious about—”

  She murmured, “Please, don’t ask.” Her soft, gentle southern drawl intrigued him.

  He’d met several southern belles since the Civil War years, and all of them were pleasant and well-mannered, not to mention undeniably feminine.

  It was disappointing that she had been reading a ‘penny dreadful.’ He’d read a few himself to see what all the fuss was about. In his opinion, they equaled trash—unmitigated trash. Why would a perfectly respectable woman read such an unsavory book?

  She walked quickly away from him to the stagecoach station. Striding after her, he said, “Ma’am? May I assist you to your lodgings?”

  She raised one finely shaped eyebrow and glanced at him over her shoulder, her foot on the first step. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  “I insist on accompanying you. Where are you staying?”

  “At the St. Angel’s Home for Women,” she said.

  The coachman brought over her bags, taking three trips to do so. “Think that’s everything,” he muttered before stalking away, kicking up dust in his wake.

  John looked down and sighed. The woman had packed three enormous valises. “Excuse me a moment.”

  He entered the station building and, for a few dollars, found a boy willing to haul their luggage and them in a carriage to St. Angel’s. Good Lord, John hoped the place wasn’t a nunnery. Then he thought about her choice of reading material and decided it was highly unlikely.

  He stepped back outside and their gazes collided, hers direct and intent.

  Her eyes didn’t appear a bit myopic, which made him think she didn’t require spectacles. Frowning, he wondered why a pretty woman would conceal her eyes behind a pair of spectacles if she didn’t need to. She was an enigma.

  “I’m John O’Connell.”

  “Grace Morgan,” she murmured.

  John bowed, taking her small, gloved hand in his. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Morgan.”

  She smiled back. John noted how it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “I’m new in town. How about you?”

  She gave him a brilliant smile. “Oh, yes, quite new.”

  “Will you be staying long?”

  “I’m...I’m not sure yet.” She added, “I’d like to leave for St. Angel’s, if you don’t mind. I’m exhausted.”

  “Of course you are,” he said and solicitously took her arm.

  The boy came around from the back, driving a buckboard loaded with their bags. He jumped down, leaving John to drive.

  John assisted Miss Morgan onto her seat. When he climbed up beside her, she brushed her skirts out of his way. He sank against the back of the seat and enjoyed the soft brush of her arm against his. She looked away and he took the opportunity to peruse her curves once more. When he raised his gaze he found her staring at him, her lips formed into a twisted little smile, her eyes sparkling with humor.

  “You, I believe, are no gentleman, sir,” she said softly.

  He grinned. “There’s no crime in looking, is there? Besides, I’d be less than human to ignore a pretty woman.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose there isn’t, though I believe I read more than mere admiration in your eyes.”

  “No chance of that. I’ve been accused of having the best poker face around.”

  “Did you say—poker?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you, perhaps, a gambling man, Mr. O’Connell?”

  John’s smile widened. “No. I’m a teacher.”

  Grace breathed a relieved sigh. A teacher—not a gambler. Good. One less person with whom to compete. She’d heard of the tough competition in the gambling establishments across the west before setting out from her home in Atlanta, Georgia. She considered herself just as tough. Not only had it been said that she possessed the best ‘poker face’ around, she usually won every hand she played. A seasoned player, she’d not only acquired the skill but had been blessed with amazing good luck. Gambling was her legacy from her father.

  She earned her living by gambling, but her passion was writing penny dreadfuls. And while she had written and published three thus far, writing had proven not to be as lucrative an endeavor as gambling.

  Grace thought about how Mr. O’Connell had found her reading the novel. The book was one of the better ones she’d read of late. It was important she keep abreast of her competition. She didn’t like that John had discovered her secret. Curiosity had stolen across his face. Thankfully, she’d been able to squelch his questions.

  His arm brushed against her and she glanced up at him before turning to the view once more. John O’Connell was big, rugged, and handsome, and seemed to be oblivious of the fact. A nice trait she decided as she thought a
bout some of her past beaus. They had possessed an unbearably annoying amount of narcissism, which was not a bit to her liking.

  Pulling her wayward thoughts away from the handsome gentleman at her side, she took great delight in the sights and scents of Bozeman as the buggy swept past buildings painted in bright swathes of color. Shops galore lined the streets. It had been a long while since she’d purchased any new gowns, and a pure feminine longing filled her. She knew, though, when the time came to purchase new clothing, they would be work attire such as a frock coat and, the latest rage for men, a woolen felt bowler with a contrasting hatband ribbon around the base of the crown.

  Her life, and that of her aunt and brother, had been a constant battle for survival during the past year, so, when she won, she saved her winnings. Her luck at the gambling tables had held out in the last two cities she’d left behind. There was still a lot more territory to cover and money to win on the way to reaching her final destination—San Francisco. Then she would send to Atlanta for her fourteen-year-old brother, Robbie and their unmarried Aunt Lucinda.

  Yet, as she perused Bozeman, a feeling of having come home assailed her. She shook her head. No. Bozeman was not San Francisco.

  In a city like San Francisco, she knew she could make a better life for herself and her family. Atlanta held nothing for them any more but poverty and pestilence since the carriage accident a year ago. Her parents had left behind a mountain of debt as well as their two children. Grace had been forced to sell the family home. At the age of nineteen, she’d had much responsibility thrust upon her.

  She kept her head turned away from her escort, not wanting to encourage further conversation. The less he knew about her the better. Hopefully, the man would believe her shy and reserved and would leave her to her thoughts. Until the buggy stopped, he thankfully did just that.