Once an Outlaw

by Jill Gregory

  “Night, Mama,” Joey said into the darkness.

  Emily’s throat tightened. She closed the door and tiptoed out to the main room of the cabin where a fire blazed in the hearth. She turned up the oil lamp, praying all the while that Lissa really was safe and on her way to California to find her family, praying that John Armstrong hadn’t found her … hadn’t…

  She closed her eyes and gripped the back of the old pine rocker beside the sofa. Don’t even think about that. Armstrong is not going to catch Lissa and he isn’t going to kill her. Even though that’s what he threatened to do, every day since she discovered what kind of a man he really was and broke off their engagement.

  A sudden gust of wind blew the shutters wide, and Emily started. She gave her head a shake at her own jumpiness and hurried to the window to secure the latch. Then, shivering a little from the chill sweeping down from the mountains, she crossed to the inlaid wood chest in the corner. Enough worrying, she told herself. You have work to do. Sewing those new lace curtains was first on her list. They’d brighten the cabin considerably—and the old place needed it.

  The lid of the heavy chest squeaked as she lifted it. Once the chest had belonged to Aunt Ida—and to Aunt Ida’s mother in Boston before that. It was deep and finely carved, made of fine rich oak and inlaid with brass and silver. It now contained all of Emily’s precious fabrics: calico and gingham, muslin and wool, yards of linen, squares of sateen and even a bolt each of velvet and silk—as well as scraps, buttons, ribbons, needles, and pins.

  It holds something else too, she thought, her heartbeat quickening.

  It held her dreams.

  All of Emily’s hopes and plans for the future revolved around the treasured and carefully accumulated contents of this old chest.

  Kneeling down, she rummaged through bolts of gingham and yards of bright-colored calico, seeking the crisp white lace muslin she needed for the curtains, but when her gaze fell upon the cloud of dusky rose silk she’d purchased in Jefferson City the day she’d left, she couldn’t resist pausing and lifting it out into the light.

  It was gorgeous—the most gorgeous fabric she’d ever seen. Easily as beautiful as anything owned by Mrs. Wainscott. It’s going to make a magnificent gown, Emily thought, her eyes glowing with anticipation.

  She could envision the gown already, finished and perfect, with its elegant fitted sleeves and black satin bustle and gleaming jet buttons. And when the women of Lonesome saw it, she thought dreamily, they would all want a gown just as beautiful, as sophisticated, as irresistible …

  I hope.

  A flicker of exhilaration ran through Emily as she stroked a finger along the silk, the dusky rose shade gleaming richly in the glow of lamplight. Unfortunately, the gown would have to wait, and so would her dreams. But not for long, she promised herself. Only until she’d made the cabin cozy and comfortable for all of them.

  Because no matter what it took she was going to make a success of her dressmaking business. She would make certain that whatever happened with this ranch, whether Uncle Jake and the boys succeeded in making it profitable or if they failed, she was going to earn enough money on her own to support all of them. No one would ever have the means or the power to take everything away from them again.

  We’ll never lose this land like we lost the farm, she thought, clenching the soft silk in her fingers. And I’ll never find myself forced to work as a servant again for the likes of Mrs. Wainscott.

  For a moment, memories of the Wainscott household flooded back. They were all unpleasant. She didn’t want to think about that place, or about her employer, Augusta Wainscott, the most demanding and twig-brained woman she’d ever met. Or about her aquiline-nosed son, Hobart, who had a proclivity for pinching servant girls every time he caught one coming around a corner.

  She wanted to think about the new curtains, and the rug she would buy for the parlor floor, about filling the house with homey things, like embroidered cushions for the horsehair sofa and for every chair, and pretty gold-framed watercolors to brighten the walls. She wanted to think about a spanking-new stove, and matching china plates and cups, and perhaps even a small pianoforte like the one in Mrs. Wainscott’s music room …

  She froze as she heard a noise from outside.

  A small noise.

  Like a twig crackling, Emily thought. Or perhaps just the wind. But that chill prickled down her neck again, and she drew in her breath.

  She ran into the kitchen and grabbed the rifle down from the shelf. Swiftly, she checked the chamber for bullets, then paused and listened again.

  Silence.

  There was no one there.

  Emily waited a bit longer, wishing she could stay put inside the cabin. These log walls were old, but they were thick. They held safety, comfort. Warmth and light. But she had to check, had to be sure. She’d never fall asleep tonight if she didn’t know for certain.

  Swallowing down the acid taste of fear, she forced herself to walk to the front door. She eased it open, wincing as it squeaked. Her finger curled around the trigger as she stepped out into the cool darkness, the deep shadows lightened only by a fuzzy half-moon and a sprinkling of dazzling white stars.

  It was only a matter of seconds before her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she did a quick scan of the yard and the trees and the ridge beyond. No sign of any horses, of any movement at all.

  She turned toward the dilapidated barn and the corrals with their broken posts and saw the barn door ajar, swinging wide in the wind.

  The barn door. Lester had warned her about that.

  She shook her head. So much for noises in the night.

  She started toward it, relief flooding her.

  And that’s when someone lunged at her from behind, wrenched the rifle away as though it were a toy, and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “If you scream, lady, someone’s going to die.” The low, hard voice growled in her ear. Powerful arms encircled her. Imprisoned her, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. “Now answer me and make it fast. Where are the others?”

  IS HAND WAS JAMMED ACROSS HER mouth so hard her lips were crushed against her teeth. So much for screaming, Emily thought desperately. Twisting and writhing, she fought him, unable to break free.

  For a split second, a jumble of thoughts spun through her mind. Was it John Armstrong? Had he somehow followed her and Joey? Or was this some enemy of Uncle Jake … or Pete … or Lester…?

  Or just an outlaw passing through, looking to steal some money or a horse, or seeking a place to hide out? she wondered through the roar of blood in her ears. Or maybe there was more than one … maybe a pack of them, like wolves…

  It didn’t matter, Emily told herself, struggling against the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, fighting the bile and the gut-punch of fear. Whoever this was, she wasn’t going to let him hurt that little boy sleeping in the back room. She’d stop him. Somehow …

  Suddenly he began dragging her toward the barn, around the side, and with easy strength pushed her up against the wall. For the first time she had a glimpse of him: a big man, well over six feet, wearing a black Stetson and a gray duster that billowed about his powerful frame. He suddenly eased his hand from her mouth and pinned her against the barn.

  “The Spoon gang. Answer me. How many are inside?”

  Emily stomped down as hard as she could on his foot.

  He grunted in surprise and for a moment his grip on her slackened. It was all she needed. She shoved at him and made a grab for the rifle. He held on without any apparent effort as Emily fought desperately to wrench it away.

  “Get… off… my … land!” she gasped, still clinging to the gun, though it was clearly under his control. “I don’t know … who you are … or what you want… but if you don’t leave now, you’ll be sorry!”

  He stared down at her and in the faintness of pearly moonlight she saw keen, storm-blue eyes that were colder than glaciers, set within a rough, unshaven face. His jaw was lean, his f
eatures sharp and handsome. Heaven help her, she’d never seen a man so handsome. He exuded an overall impression of strength and will and power, perhaps because he was so tall, she thought dazedly—taller than either Pete or Lester or Uncle Jake. But there was something more—something indefinable, something that breathed danger.

  He looked like a man who always got what he wanted. A man who didn’t scare easily—if at all.

  Not surprisingly, her threat didn’t seem to frighten him. In fact, after she voiced it, he visibly relaxed, though his grip on the rifle remained as firm as ever.

  “You’re alone then,” he said softly.

  “I… no. Yes. I mean, what makes you think that?” Emily blurted.

  He yanked the rifle out of her reach with finality. “If someone else was here, you’d have screamed for help.”

  “You told me not to.”

  “Never yet met a woman who did what any man told her to do.”

  “Especially a man who attacks a woman on her own property in the middle of the night!” Emily was about to kick him again, but one look at those intimidating eyes made her think better of it.

  “This your property?” The stranger’s gaze narrowed on her. Even through the darkness, only faintly broken by the luminosity of stars and moon, he could see how pretty she was. Blue-black hair, wild and wavy, sweeping to her waist, a slender figure beneath that dark gingham gown, with mouthwatering curves in all the right places, and a face like an angel. But those smoke-gray eyes with sparks shooting out of them were pure devil. Not to mention that soft-looking mouth of hers that was temptingly parted and trembling just a little …

  What the hell does this gorgeous woman have to do with the Spoon gang? he wondered, and then his stomach tightened. Don’t get distracted, he told himself. Or you’ll end up dead. Jake Spoon and the boys could still be hidden here somewhere and they’d shoot you in the back just as soon as look at you.

  And this girl would probably fix them coffee while they buried you … if they bothered to bury you …

  He jerked a thumb toward the cabin. “I have it on good authority that the Spoon gang is living here. So just who are you?”

  “Who are you?”

  Emily’s heart was still thundering like a runaway train, but some of the fear was subsiding. This was not that low-down cowardly bully John Armstrong, thank heavens. She didn’t know who he was, but at least he wasn’t after Joey. He was looking her over as if she were an apple he was deciding whether to pick, eat, or toss aside as wormy and beneath notice. Her chin came up. He had her cornered here, hemmed in, outsized and outmatched in strength—he had her gun, and she was alone—but she’d be damned if she’d let him see her snivel and cower.

  “You heard me,” she repeated, icy as Mrs. Wainscott in her haughtiest mood. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the one with the gun,” he said coolly, “so I reckon I’ll ask the questions.” He gripped her arm. “Let’s just go back to the cabin and step inside and—”

  “No!” She wrenched free of his grasp.

  “Something you don’t want me to see inside?” Those hard eyes pierced her. If she’d been naked, he couldn’t have studied her any more closely. “Or someone?”

  “No!”

  Suddenly, he had the rifle up, leveled in the direction of the cabin. “Then let’s go. You first.”

  “They’re not here, really.” If Joey woke up and saw this man, saw the gun, he’d be terrified. “There’s no need to go inside,” Emily said desperately.

  “I reckon we’ll see about that.”

  He gave her a push toward the door. That’s when the moonlight glinted off something pinned to his duster—and she saw it. A star. A silver star.

  Shock hit her like a brick. “You’re … the law!” Emily gasped. She stopped dead, fury sweeping through her. “I should have known!”

  “You have something against the law?”

  “You’re damned right I do. Get out of here. Get out right now.” Emily’s fists clenched. “You can’t just barge into someone’s home—”

  “And here I thought you were inviting me.”

  He had the nerve to smile, a cold, hard smile that made her long to punch him.

  “I’d rather take a bullet than invite a lawman into my home.” Her fury was making it difficult to breathe. Her blood seemed to be on fire. The law.

  “How dare you come here. My uncle served his time, damn you. Now he’s free to do as he pleases. You just leave him alone!”

  Potent heat, all fury and passion, seemed to blaze from her. Those big gray eyes smoldered as if they would incinerate him with silver fire.

  “Jake Spoon is your uncle?” he asked, forcing himself to concentrate on her words, not her beauty.

  “I’m not answering any of your damn questions. Give me back my gun and go!”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  He caught her arm as she made a grab for the rifle. Even through the gingham, Emily felt the warmth and strength of his grip, though he didn’t hurt her. But he didn’t release her either.

  “Let me go”

  “I’ll think about it. Look.” Suddenly his voice sounded weary. And patient. As if he were a teacher speaking to a recalcitrant and not very bright child. “I just got back into town. I’m tired. I’m not in the mood to fight with you. I just want to ask your uncle some questions.”

  “He’s not here. You’ll have to come back another time—maybe in daylight, out in the open, instead of skulking around in the dark, like a… a rat! Unless you’re too frightened to ride up and show yourself?”

  A short laugh broke from him. Emily realized how foolish she sounded. From the swift, sure way she’d seen him move and the tough, dangerous glint of his eyes, he didn’t appear to be a man who was frightened of much in this world. Maybe of nothing.

  “I learned early in this job to be cautious,” he said softly. “It’s what’s kept me alive.”

  “Isn’t that a pity?” She glared at him, wishing he would let go of her. His touch was disconcerting. It wasn’t just that he was so strong, she thought, it was something else. Something indefinable.

  In the darkness, he lifted a brow.

  It annoyed her that he didn’t seem to mind her animosity in the least. In fact, he looked almost amused. But still wary, careful. Almost as if he were expecting someone to jump at him or shoot at him out of the dark. Something told her that if someone did, he’d be ready for it.

  “The thing is, like I told you, I’ve been away,” he continued in a quiet tone. Without her even realizing exactly how he did it, he backed her against the barn wall again, his body hemming her in. “Just rode in this evening. And first thing, before my horse is even unsaddled, one of our citizens tells me Jake Spoon showed up in the general store. He was followed back here, to the Sutter place.”

  “So? What of it?”

  Her tone was defiant, but her heart was sinking down to her toes. Emily had been hoping against hope they could just kind of settle in, blend in, that no one would really notice or care that three members of the Spoon gang were setting up ranching outside of Lonesome. But if folks were already noticing—and following—and sending the sheriff…

  “We don’t want any trouble.” She tried to control the quaver in her voice, but it escaped and she flushed, hating the sound of it.

  The lawman’s cool blue gaze fixed itself on her face. “Folks in Lonesome don’t want any trouble either,” he said evenly.

  Suddenly he released her arm. Then to her amazement, he handed her back the rifle. “You heard of the Duggan gang?”

  She nodded, her fingers clutching the rifle, even though she knew he could take it away again if he chose to.

  “They took over Lonesome a while back. The town hired me to clean them out. I did.”

  “If you want a medal, go to the governor.”

  For an instant she saw the quick spark of amusement in his eyes, then it was
gone. His voice stayed even, maddeningly even. “Lonesome has been quiet since then—a nice, clean, upstanding town—real safe. Folks like it that way. So do I.”

  “I’m really not interested—”

  “So if the Spoon gang has any ideas about—”

  “My uncle isn’t the head of the Spoon gang anymore,” she interrupted. “There is no Spoon gang anymore. We’re just a family looking to set up ranching. We don’t want any trouble either.”

  “Jake Spoon and his outfit are bad news.”

  “Not anymore.” Emily met his gaze squarely. A sudden gust of wind lifted her heavy hair and blew it across her face and she shoved it back with a hand that shook, but her voice was steady. “If you and the rest of the stupid town just leave them alone, leave us alone, you’ll find out that they just want to go straight and make an honest living.”

  His lip curled sardonically. “Ahuh. And I own a parcel of land in a Mississippi swamp that’s just brimming with gold.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “And you are?”

  She lifted her chin. “Emily Spoon.”

  Emily Spoon. There was something spunky and alluring about the name, just as there was about her. How in hell did Jake Spoon end up with such a beautiful spitfire for a niece? he wondered, vaguely distracted.

  “And who else is living here with you and your uncle, Miss Spoon?”

  “I’m not answering any more questions, Sheriff. It’s late, I’m busy, and you’re trespassing on my land.”

  At this, his eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. Emily took a step back.

  “Got a deed for it?” the sheriff asked, an edge to his voice.

  “For … what?” Every time he got close, she seemed to lose her train of thought.

  “The land.”

  “My uncle has one.”

  “Tell him I want to see it.” The lawman’s tone was curt. The weariness was gone from his face and he suddenly looked cold again, harsh, like a man who’s heard too much, seen too much. “Tell him to come into town and show it to me. I have a few questions.”