Once an Outlaw

by Jill Gregory

  The older woman was chattering nonstop. The younger one stood quietly, tall, slender, and pretty as a sunflower, with golden curls spilling from beneath her bowed, feathered, and beribboned hat. As Emily watched and the older woman jabbered, the younger woman slanted a coquettish smile up at him and laid a gloved hand upon his arm.

  But the sheriff wasn’t looking at her. As the wagon rumbled past, he was looking at the dark hair and pale face of Emily Spoon.

  Emily jerked herself forward, staring straight ahead. Every nerve in her body jangled.

  She’d never thought she’d feel grateful to a lawman, any lawman. But if Clint Barclay hadn’t happened by that alley when he did …

  She shuddered, and reminded herself that she was safe now and unharmed, except for that disgusting kiss. But it unnerved her to know that even worse might have happened if not for Clint Barclay.

  She hated the idea of owing him anything—even so much as a single polite word of thanks.

  But the inescapable truth was—she did.

  WO DAYS BEFORE THE TOWN DANCE, Emily was working feverishly toward finishing her gown when Nettie Phillips came to call, pulling up in a buck-board as the afternoon sun waned in a cobalt sky.

  “Figured no one else had come by to pay you a welcome visit, so I decided to lead the way,” she announced as Emily hurried onto the porch. Spry as a monkey, she jumped down from the seat, then lifted out a basket draped with a red-and-white checkered cloth.

  “Strawberry pie,” she grinned, as Emily came out onto the porch. “You’ll like it, I reckon. Used to be my husband’s favorite.”

  Stunned to have a visitor, Emily gathered her wits enough to invite the woman in, then wondered what to say when Joey edged into the parlor, looking shy and scared.

  “Well, well, why didn’t you say you had a young’un? I’d have brought some of my famous sugar cookies. Come here, little man, and let me have a look at you,” the woman ordered with her customary candor.

  “It’s all right, Joey.” Emily smiled at the boy as he hesitated and threw her a questioning glance. “Mrs. Phillips is a friend.”

  Joey inched forward as Emily invited her guest to have a seat on the sofa.

  “Joey, eh? You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you?” She studied him carefully with those eagle-sharp eyes. “He doesn’t look much like you,” she commented, fixing Emily with a shrewd glance, then she reached into her pocket and handed him a penny. “For good luck,” she said. “You put that under your pillow, leave it there all night, and you’ll have good luck all year through,” she told Joey.

  The child’s eyes lit like miniature lanterns. He studied her small, wrinkled face, trying to discover if it was a trick.

  “Really?” There was deep hope in the single word.

  “Would I fib to a fine young man like you? You just try it, Joey boy, and see for yourself.”

  “Can I, Em-ly?” Joey turned eagerly to her. When she nodded, he broke into a broad smile, one of the few she’d seen since the night John Armstrong had attacked Lissa. “Oh, boy, wait till I tell Uncle Jake!”

  He raced into the back bedroom, clutching the penny in his fingers, looking so much like a normal, happy little boy that Emily could only stare after him, her heart lifting.

  “He called you Em-ly, so I take it you’re not his ma,” Nettie remarked, leaning against the horsehair cushions. “Whose is he? Your brother’s?”

  Emily shook her head, uncertain how to reply in the face of such blunt questioning. Nettie Phillips was nothing if not forthright. She seemed to speak whatever sprang into her mind. But Emily couldn’t help liking her, despite her startling candor. The woman had been the only person in Lonesome to make a friendly overture toward her, and she’d brought a smile to Joey’s face. Emily sensed her questions were well meaning. She suddenly found herself answering honestly.

  “Joey isn’t related to any of us, Mrs. Phillips. He’s the son of a friend of mine. She … had some troubles, and I offered to care for him a while—until it’s safe—I mean, until she can take care of him again.”

  “Troubles? What kind of troubles?”

  “It’s private, I’m afraid. I can’t go into it any further. May I offer you some refreshment? A cup of coffee … or some lemonade …”

  “Pshaw, girl, no. If I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, just say so. Everyone else does.” Nettie turned her head this way and that, birdlike, surveying the cabin, and then gave a satisfied nod. “Very tidy. I like those curtains. This place has been vacant too long—as I told Bessie Smith and her husband today. Folks are talking abut you Spoons, that’s for sure, but I put in my two cents and said as we should give you a chance. People hereabouts tend to listen to me—because they know I’ve got good sense, and besides, they had a lot of respect for my husband, may be rest in peace.”

  “Did you lose him recently?” Emily asked, now that she could get a word in edgewise.

  “’Bout five years ago.” Nettie’s eyes shone. “Oh, my dear, what a man he was. He was a hero in the War between the States, I’ll have you know. Up and volunteered, he did, even at his age. Saved an entire regiment, before he got himself wounded. He recovered though—that he did, and came home to me … well, listen to me rattle on. I didn’t come here to talk about Lucas or about me. I came to tell you that you’ll be making a big mistake if you don’t come to our town dance on Saturday. Folks are curious and they want to get a look at you—and the dance is a good place to present yourself in the right light. But I can see that you’ve already decided to go. Very wise of you.”

  She was looking at the rose silk gown draped upon the chair, where Emily had been sewing black lace on the bodice when she heard the buckboard coming.

  “Yes, I’ve been sewing a dress for the dance—”

  Emily got no further before Nettie barreled off the sofa and over to the chair, bending over the gown. “I reckon you have, missy! Some dress this is too, if you don’t mind my saying. Why, this’ll take the wind out of their sails. I mean, Agnes Mangley’s and Carla’s sails, that is. They got themselves mail-order gowns from New York for this dance, but my, my, this pretty dress of yours has them beat.”

  She dragged her gaze from the soft folds of silk, the exquisite lace trim and sleeves, the graceful pouf of train, and stared with intentness into Emily’s eyes.

  “You’re going to look like a damned princess!”

  Flushing with pleasure, Emily spread her hands. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m happy you like it.”

  “Like it! Where’d you find the pattern for it, girl? Fetching, that’s what it is. As fetching a gown as any I’ve seen in my day!” Nettie raved.

  Through her amusement, and her pleasure that someone besides herself saw the beauty of her creation, Emily recognized her first opportunity as a dressmaker. “Truth be told, there isn’t a pattern. I did see many lovely gowns when I lived in Jefferson City, before coming here, and I’ve always had an eye for fashion. Fortunately, I’m more than a fair seamstress—my Aunt Ida taught me to sew when I was a girl, and—”

  “You’ll be the belle of the ball!” Nettie declared. “All those gals who’ve set their sights on Clint Barclay—well! Let me tell you, they’re going to turn green with jealousy when they see you in that gown!”

  “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Phillips, there’s no need for jealousy,” Emily said swiftly. “I could sew any number of beautiful gowns for any lady who’d like one. There are countless ideas in my head, and all of them revolve around the very latest eastern fashions,” she added.

  Nettie Phillips’s grin was wide as a canyon. “Clever girl. Enterprising too. I like that. And it’s not a bad way to endear yourself to folks in Lonesome, missy. Women here are hungry for new eastern fashions. Especially right now, when we have a passel of young ladies looking for a husband—one particular husband, I might add,” she cackled.

  “You mean Sheriff Barclay.” Emily’s tone sounded more grim than she’d intended, but Nettie was so engr
ossed in her own train of thought that she didn’t notice.

  “Yes, indeed. Why, Miss Berty Miller, who lives in my boardinghouse by the way, has some right fine gowns, several of ’em bought just to impress Clint, but nothing that compares with this.”

  “Perhaps she’d like to call on me.” Emily smiled and held the gown against her, knowing its cleverly gathered sleeves and gleaming jet buttons would be noticed at once by Mrs. Phillips. “It’s too late to sew anything before the town dance—it’s all I can do to finish this one for myself—but there is the box lunch social in a few weeks—”

  “That there is—we’re raising money to build a bigger schoolhouse and get some more books, desks, tablets, and other supplies.” Nettie Phillips jabbed a finger at her. “Once folks see you at the dance, you’re going to have more orders for dresses than you can handle.”

  That’s what I’m counting on, Emily thought, but she merely smiled and draped the gown back across the chair.

  “But poor Sheriff Barclay,” her guest mused, returning to the sofa, her old eyes alight with laughter. “If that man thought he was in trouble before, you just wait.” She shook her head, grinning. “It’s only a matter of time, after all. One of these gals is bound to catch him, you know. Bessie Smith told me today that some of the menfolk are even taking bets as to who it will be.”

  Emily thought of the way Clint Barclay had come to her defense in the alley, the way he’d shoved Jenks away from her. Then she thought of how he’d treated Pete and Lester and Uncle Jake.

  “I can’t understand all this fuss over Clint Barclay.” Despite her efforts, she couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. “He’s not a bad-looking man, I’ll grant you that but—”

  “Not bad-looking? Are you blind, girl?” Nettie gaped at her, thunderstruck. “Why, I daresay he’s as handsome as my own dear Lucas was. And a braver man you’ll never meet.”

  “I don’t wish to argue with you, Mrs. Phillips, since you are my only friend.” Emily regarded her hopefully. “If I may call you that?”

  “You may.” The woman nodded. “And it’s Nettie. I do believe I’ve taken a shine to you.”

  “Thank you … Nettie.” Emily found herself smiling. “I believe I’ve taken a shine to you too. But perhaps we’d best not discuss Sheriff Barclay.”

  For the first time, Nettie sobered, and leaned back against the sofa cushions. “I heard about how he arrested your brother.”

  “That’s right. And … you may as well know,” Emily took a deep breath, “he was the man responsible for arresting my uncle seven years ago and sending him to prison.”

  “Well, well, you don’t say. Imagine that.” The woman pursed her lips. “I understand how you must feel, honey, but to be fair, it wasn’t exactly Clint’s fault that your uncle held up those stagecoaches, now was it?”

  Emily flushed. “No. Uncle Jake did wrong—he admits it. And he’s paid for it. But Clint Barclay …” She broke off and turned away, pacing to the window. “Let’s not talk about him.”

  Nettie jumped up from the sofa to pat her arm. “I can see how close to your heart all this is. You love that uncle of yours a lot, don’t you?”

  “He took Pete and me in after our parents died. He and Aunt Ida raised us, gave us a home. If it hadn’t been for them…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “I must say I like the way you stand up for your kin.” Nettie sighed. “And I think it’s a fine thing to be looking after your friend’s little boy. But I’ve got to tell you, Emily, you’re wrong about Sheriff Barclay. He’s a fine man. He faced down the Duggan gang all alone. Five of ’em, the meanest vultures—I won’t even call them men—you ever did see. And he nearly got himself killed for it. But he rousted them, and cleaned them out of our town.”

  Maybe so. But he nearly destroyed my family, Emily thought. She was spared from answering, however, when Nettie continued without missing a beat.

  “I’ll say just one more thing and then I’m done. And I’ll say it quick—because I know you have your work to do, and land sakes, so do I. I have to get supper on the table for fifteen hungry people at my boardinghouse—including Clint Barclay, and goodness me, that man can eat.” She gave a short laugh. “He lives upstairs of the jail but takes meals with me,” she explained as she moved toward the door. Emily followed her.

  “So you just think on this, honey.” Nettie grasped the doorknob and fixed Emily with a penetrating gaze. “Maybe you ought to give our sheriff a chance.”

  As Emily opened her mouth to protest, Nettie shook her head. “The same way you want folks to give you a chance,” she said firmly. “You might need him one day, a body never knows. And he’s the kind of man you can count on. Damn, honey, why do you think every gal in the whole valley who isn’t already hitched wants to get him to pop the question? Think on that a spell. I’m not saying you should marry him, heaven knows, but it wouldn’t hurt to call some kind of a truce, now would it?”

  She obviously didn’t expect an answer. Giving Emily’s shoulder a quick squeeze, she hurried on out to the buck-board, rattling on about the dinner she was going to prepare and how it looked like rain. When she’d gone, Emily returned to her sewing, still convinced of one thing: she was never going to change her mind about Clint Barclay. She’d spent too many nights kneeling by Aunt Ida’s bedside, stroking her hand, feeding her spoonfuls of soup, while the aunt she loved withered away before her eyes and called feebly again and again for her husband.

  When Saturday night arrived, the gown was ready. From the moment Emily slipped it on and began to fasten up each of the tiny jet buttons, her pulse began to race.

  She hadn’t been to a dance since she was fifteen. At that time, she and Aunt Ida had still been struggling to keep the farm, and everyone for miles around knew that Uncle Jake was in prison, that Pete and Lester were on the run. It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

  Emily had been a late bloomer, thin and awkward, and when she’d finally found the courage to step inside the little Missouri schoolhouse festooned by colored lanterns and bursting with fiddle music, no one had said a word to welcome her.

  And not a single young man had asked her to dance.

  She’d left the festivities early, ridden home all alone, and returned her mare to her stall in the barn. Then she’d climbed up into her favorite place, the hayloft, huddling in the sweet, hay-scented darkness and thinking about all the young people laughing and spinning across the school-house floor. Later, when she’d returned to the farmhouse, she’d told Aunt Ida that the fiddle players hadn’t been able to keep a tune, that the refreshments were sparse, and that the company was boring.

  She’d been grateful when Aunt Ida didn’t ask her many questions.

  Shortly after that night, they’d lost the farm, and moved to the boardinghouse in Jefferson City. She’d gone to work for Mrs. Wainscott—and her days of attending dances had ended.

  But tonight she was going to a dance in a new town, where she’d already made one friend. And she was no longer young and thin and awkward. And in this dress …

  She peered at herself in Aunt Ida’s old bronze-framed mirror, which Pete had hung over the pine bureau in her room—and felt a sense of wonder at her own transformed image. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she could pass herself off as a young woman of means and education and privilege—not as plain old Emily Spoon.

  Her hair had been tamed for once—it was tightly coiled atop her head, held in place with a dozen pearl hairpins that her mother, according to Aunt Ida, had worn on her wedding day. Only a few delicate curls had been permitted to dangle, softly framing her face.

  The low-necked dress hugged her body enticingly, but decorously, she felt. The rose silk fell in graceful folds, its rich color accenting the creaminess of her skin and the natural rosy hue of her lips.

  The lace sash made her waist look tiny, and it didn’t seem to matter that she didn’t have matching rose kid slippers but merely plain black ones. The dress was enough.

>   “Whoa, Emily—don’t you look like something the angels dropped down from heaven.” Uncle Jake’s deep-set eyes shone as she stepped out of her room, feeling absurdly shy. Her uncle set down his playing cards and snatched his cigar out of his mouth—then gave a long appreciative whistle. Joey, in exact imitation, did the same, though only a slight wheeze came from his lips.

  “You sure do look pretty, Em-ly!” he added, as if to make up for the whistle.

  “It’s the dress. It did turn out well, didn’t it?” Emily twirled around for them to see, absurdly proud of her accomplishment. Lester came forward, his face scrubbed, his hair plastered with pomade, his good blue-and-yellow plaid shirt buttoned up to his neck.

  “I’m going to have to stick by your side and fight off every man in the room wanting to dance with you all night!” he declared, looking worried.

  “Don’t be silly.” Emily tucked her arm through his. “You don’t have to stay by me—or dance with me. You go find yourself some pretty girl to flirt with—I’ll have Nettie Phillips to talk to, and maybe she’ll introduce me to some other ladies in town—ladies who will want me to make dresses for them.”

  “I promise you, Em.” Lester steered her toward the door. “You’re going to be doing a lot more dancing tonight than talking. I just hope Pete finishes up at that tournament and gets over to the dance in time to help me.”

  Pete had made it into the final rounds of the poker tournament, and the winner would be determined tonight in a private upstairs parlor of the Gold Gulch Hotel.

  If he won, Emily knew, he’d be raring to celebrate. And if he lost…

  Well, she’d just have to see that her hot-headed brother didn’t get into any kind of a fight with the winner.

  By the time she entered the Gold Gulch Hotel, Emily’s heart was pounding. She didn’t know why. It was only a dance. Just because it was the first dance she’d attended since she’d blossomed into a woman, and because she was wearing a gown every bit as spectacular as one Augusta Wainscott had worn to a ball in honor of Missouri’s governor, was no reason to feel so nervous—or so excited.