And she didn’t want anything on her conscience if that important moment finally came. Robby was the only thing standing between her and her father’s plans. Not that he need ever know about Randall kissing her. After all, it had been done for medicinal reasons, to end her hiccupping. It didn’t mean a thing.
It was only a kiss.
Of no consequence.
None at all.
Chapter Four
“Something piss in your coffee?”
Nat slashed Holt a dark look from where he stood by the fire. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. They should have been saddled up by now! The dim light of dawn was edging over the horizon. But Nat answered just the same. “The way you make coffee, it’s hard to tell.”
Holt didn’t spare him a glance; he just kept tying his bedroll. “Fine thanks I get for making your breakfast.”
“You’ll make somebody a good wife some day.”
“Ungrateful bastard,” Holt muttered as he rose to his feet.
Nat chuckled at his sulky tone. “No, you’re the bastard, remember. I’m the prodigal son who’s been disowned.”
“Well, if you weren’t such a bastard,” Holt threw over his shoulder on the way to his horse. “Maybe you wouldn’t have been disowned.”
“Can’t argue with you there.” That’s what his father called him—a stubborn bastard. Nat took another swig from his tin mug, then tossed the rest of the coffee on the fire. Yup, no doubt about it, it was going to be a long day. He hefted Diablo’s saddle over his shoulder, resisting the urge to groan. He hadn’t felt this stiff since they were pinned down all night behind that outhouse in Virginia City. He strode to the stand of pines where the horses stood munching grass, dreading the long day ahead.
After a night spent sleeping on the hard floor of the abandoned shack, every muscle ached. Holt slept outside under a cottonwood. If he’d had any sense he would have joined him, instead of giving in to a sudden uncharacteristic urge to have a roof over his head. For once, Holt’s snoring would have been a welcome distraction. Nat usually did his thinking in the saddle, but last night his mind just wouldn’t rest.
He had Christie Wallace to thank for that. If she’d stayed in Murdock and minded her own business, he’d have gotten a damn sight more sleep. Easterners! They were more trouble than they were worth.
But he had to admire her pluck. She was a feisty bit of fluff, all cream and honey one minute and sharp claws the next. And she tasted as good as she looked.
Damned if she didn’t.
Just thinking about her made him go hard. He swung up into the saddle then shifted his position to accommodate the bulge in his trousers. He should have thrown her down in the grass and taught her what happened to unprotected virgins in the west. It would have made for a more comfortable ride this morning.
A pretty thing like her wouldn’t last long around here—so slender and elegant, like a new stalk of wheat. But she had a way of looking down her perfectly straight nose at you, lips half parted, as though she was waiting for something—as though daring you to touch her. Then, when he did, she wanted to slap his face.
The way she’d lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye had stuck in his mind, robbing him of sleep—that, and the prospect of answering his father’s letter. He hated to put it off again. He’d like nothing better than to go home and have it out with the old man—put the past behind them once and for all. But that wasn’t possible right now.
Well, there’d be plenty of time to think about it in the hours to come. At least he’d had a good breakfast—thick slices of bacon, eggs, and biscuits. He’d made a point of relishing every mouthful. It was the last hot meal he’d eat for days. Once they closed in on the Everetts, there’d be no more fires. With any luck, they’d have the Everetts in their sights come nightfall.
Then, maybe the nightmares would finally end.
“They’re headed north,” Holt said, bringing his mustang, Caliber, up beside him. “Tracks stop a mile up river.”
“Their Aunt Bess runs a boarding house in Virginia City. My bet is they’re taking Hank there.”
Holt lifted a brow. “If he makes it that far.”
“I only winged him,” Nat said, attempting, but not quite succeeding, in keeping the irritation from his voice. “He’ll live.”
Holt continued in the same bland tone. “What happened to bringing them in alive?”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”
“Makes no difference to me how we collect the reward.” Holt shrugged. “But if you kill them, you won’t have the satisfaction of watching them hang.”
Nat’s mouth flattened. “We tried that once before, remember? They killed the only witness we had left.”
“Well, now we’ve got us another,” Holt drawled.
Nat’s blood went hot. “I told you, she’s not testifying.”
“She tell you that?”
“No, I told her.”
Holt grinned knowingly. “She doesn’t strike me as the type of lady you’d tell anything to. Besides, her snot-nosed cousin was yammering on about it all the way back to Murdock last night. Said he was looking forward to watching them hang after they tried to kill him. Said her testimony was going to be what tightened the noose.”
“She’s not going to Carson for the trial,” Nat gritted out. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Whatever you say.”
The laughter behind Holt’s words firmed Nat’s jaw. A click of his tongue set Diablo in motion. Christie Wallace might be determined, but she was no match for his stubborn hide. If she wouldn’t listen to reason, he’d have to try another tactic. What that might be, he didn’t know, but he’d have plenty of time to think about it during the long ride to Virginia City.
He’d be damned if he’d have the death of another innocent woman on his conscience.
• • •
“There’s a letter for you.” Mr. Brooker, gave Christie a wink, quite recovered it seemed from the robbery a few days before. “Third one from the top, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Oh! Thank you.” Christie snatched up the bundle of correspondence from under the wicket before he could slide it half way through the slot. Then, remembering herself, she offered an apologetic smile. She glanced around the post office to see if anyone had witnessed her lapse in manners, but the place was deserted. It was late afternoon and most of the residents of Murdock had conducted their business early, so that they could help with the barn raising.
Letters in hand, she hastened for the door. No sooner had she stepped outside and popped open her parasol did she hear a familiar voice hailing her from down the street.
“Christie!” It was Leigh, striding straight for her with a bright feathery female in tow. “Wait!”
Christie’s cheeks flamed. The sultry sway of the woman’s hips and the sensual curve of her lips brought to mind her own recent behavior. Despite the days that had passed, she could still remember the feel of Nat Randall’s lips against hers. The fire in her cheeks spread lower. The shame of it made her want to run and hide. But there was no way to escape without seeming rude.
“I’d like you to meet someone.” Leigh beamed a wide smile. “Miss Candy, may I present Miss Christie Wallace, my cousin from Boston.”
After a slight hesitation, Christie extended her hand to the young woman encased in pink frills. “It’s a pleasure to meet you … Miss Candy.”
“Just call me Flossie.” She grasped Christie’s hand firmly to give it three vigorous pumps. Her black curls bounced up and down like the springs on a buggy under her bright, plumed hat. “Candy is my professional name. But all my friends call me Flossie. That’s my real name—Flossie Mae.”
“Flossie’s just off the stage from Carson City.” Leigh beamed from ear to ear. “I’m showing her around town.”
Christie smiled tightly. It took some effort to keep her voice calm. “I thought you’d be down at the livery helping Mr. Pike with the barn raising.”
> “We’re working in shifts. I told him I’d be there tomorrow. Besides, the whole town can’t come to a standstill just to build Ed’s barn.”
“Yes, you’re right. So if you will excuse me.” She gave a nod. “I must get back to the mercantile. Uncle Will needs my help.”
“I’m sure Pa won’t fall to pieces without you.”
The sarcasm dripping from his words grated, but she managed to maintain a stiff smile. “If you resent him depending on me so much, why don’t you start pulling your weight?”
“There’s no need to get snippy.” He gave Flossie a conspirator’s wink. “You’ll have to excuse my cousin. She’s not used to working for a living. I’m afraid the strain is starting to show.” He turned back to Christie. “You can tell Pa I’ll be there directly.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear it. He thought you were helping to raise the barn, so he’s loading the wagon to deliver an order out to the Sutton Ranch.”
Leigh sent forth a hoot of laughter. “And your knickers are all in a twist you couldn’t go with him, I suppose?”
“On the contrary, I’m quite happy to wait to enjoy Mathew’s company at the dance tomorrow night.”
Leigh’s jaw went slack.
“So nice to meet you, Flossie,” Christie said with a polite nod, before marching off across the dusty street. It was all she could do to contain her triumphant smile. Let him chew on that for a while. If denying her attraction to Mathew Sutton wouldn’t shut him up—perhaps confirming it would.
But it wasn’t Mathew Sutton who’d haunted her dreams lately, or even her dear sweet Robby—it was Nat Randall. Ever since his lips touched hers, he’d intruded on her mind night and day. Just remembering his cool blue eyes could freeze her thoughts and make her heart hammer hard against her breast.
A shout from down the street jerked her back to the present as she reached for the knob on the mercantile door.
“They caught one of the Everetts! They’re bringing him in now!”
Christie swallowed hard.
Very slowly she turned around. Her hand trembled as she pressed a stray curl back under her bonnet. She’d hoped to avoid fulfilling her obligations as a witness, but it seemed Nat Randall had done his job after all.
Men poured out of the saloon to gawk at the riders dismounting in front of the jail.
Christie lifted a hand to block out the bright rays of the afternoon sun.
Sheriff Brimley stepped out on the stoop to meet them just as Holt pulled his bound prisoner from the saddle like a sack of feed.
After exchanging a few words with the sheriff, Holt shoved him toward the jailhouse door.
Christie shifted her gaze, squinting passed them down the street.
But it was empty.
No more riders came.
Something sank in the pit of her belly.
Then her knees went weak.
Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Had the same fate befallen Nat as his last witness? She stood staring at the empty horizon, willing him to materialize, fighting back an overwhelming sense of panic.
Then her fighting spirit took hold.
She straightened her back.
No.
He couldn’t be dead.
Men like him didn’t die that easily. It was silly to get carried away by fanciful notions without knowing for certain. Besides, she had Uncle Will and the sheriff to protect her. It wasn’t as though the Everetts could just ride into town and snatch her away.
She turned the knob, then pushed the door opened with the toe of her boot. The mercantile seemed empty and lonely without Uncle Will there to greet her. A rush of homesickness swept over her, making her throat constrict.
The smell of freshly ground coffee and gunpowder seemed foreign today. She longed for the scent of bees’ wax, lavender, and windblown sheets—the sparkle of innocence in Evie’s eyes when she knelt at her bedside to say her prayers.
Then Christie remembered—the letter!
She hastened to the counter to set down her parasol. One good pull on the string and the pile of letters scattered over the wooden counter. When she came across one with familiar handwriting, she let out a squeal of glee. Joy bubbled up in her chest. She tore it open and began to read.
My dearest Christie,
I hope this letter finds you well. Papa is very busy at the bank these days and so he asked me to write in his stead. Miss Elliot, the new governess, is very stiff, but Evie minds her well. Bess is very hard in her opinion of her, as she believes she has designs on Papa and would not see our futures compromised. Papa is off to Charleston to visit Mr. Cavanaugh tomorrow. I suppose they will discuss your betrothal.
I have attempted to plead your case, but you know how very stubborn he is. We went for a carriage ride in the park with Dr. Turner yesterday. He sends his regards. Please write soon, as I know your last letter by heart since Evie insists on me reading it every day.
Your Loving sister,
Meagan
Christie brushed the tears from her eyes. She refolded the letter with trembling hands. Dear Bess, their housekeeper, still playing the mother hen—her father, still working himself to death day and night.
Christie slipped the letter into the pocket of her gown with a shuddering sigh. News from home should have made her happy, or at the very least, relieved. But mention of her father’s proposed trip to Charleston sparked her blood to boiling. Why wouldn’t he listen to reason? Why could he not understand?
She gathered the rest of the letters, slapped them down on the counter, then strode to the closet for the broom to begin attacking the floor with a vengeance.
She didn’t care how many gold mines Mr. Cavanaugh owned! Or that he was a decorated war hero. He was a stranger. Not to mention the fact that he sounded too much like her father—successful and confident to a fault. Oh no, no, no, she wasn’t about to spend the rest of her life with another difficult, stubborn male. Not if she could help it.
She wanted someone to share her life with, someone she could talk to about art, politics, literature—someone who was gentle and kind, but inspired confidence and respected her opinions.
He was out there. She was certain of it. If only her father would give her a more time.
But no, he was bent on forcing the first man on her who came along!
What manner of man considered an arranged marriage in these enlightened times? A man that didn’t care who he married, that’s who! And she was supposed to say, oh, thank you very much, if he walks and talks I’ll take him. Never mind about compatibility. His money will do just fine.
Christie was so caught up in her silent tirade she didn’t hear the bell when it clanged against the door. The sound of coughing, followed by a loud sneeze finally made her cease her wild sweeping. By then she was lost in a cloud of dust.
Deputy Carter stood with his hat in his hand by the door, his ruddy complexion gone brilliant from his violent fit. “Afternoon, Miss Wallace.”
“Mr. Carter!” she expelled breathlessly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“No need to apologize. I can see you’re right busy.” His frog eyes blinked, as though in wonderment at the condition of the room. “The sheriff sent me to fetch you. He’d like you to identify the prisoner. That is, if you can spare the time.”
She clutched the broom tighter, staring back at him through a haze of dancing dust particles, ignited by the afternoon sun. Her mouth went dry. She had to lick her lips just to make them work, and when they did her voice had raised an octave. “I can’t come until I’ve locked up.”
The deputy nodded awkwardly. “I reckon that’ll do just fine.”
Christie stared at the door long after he banged it shut.
She should go now—get it over with. There were no customers to be had with everyone at the barn raising. But she’d already closed up once to go to the post office, and there were cans to be stacked from the crates that arrived on the stage that morning. There was inventor
y to update. And what of the floor? She had to finish sweeping it!
By the time the clock over the counter struck six, she’d completed every task she could think of—some twice. There was nothing left to delay her. It was time to close up shop.
When she finally stepped out onto the wooden walkway, the distant sound of hammering had ceased. The blue skies had changed to orange and mauve. The air was still warm, but it didn’t stop the chill running up her back as she strode slowly toward the jail across the street.
She drew her shawl closer and squared her shoulders.
She couldn’t allow fear to get the better of her.
Uproarious laughter slid under the door of the saloon where a dozen or more horses stood tethered to hitching posts.
The jail stood two doors down from the saloon.
Christie hurried on, waiting until she was well past it before crossing the street.
Her steps slowed as she approached the jailhouse door. One quick look, that’s all it would take. Perhaps it wasn’t even him. She took a long deep breath, then pushed opened the door.
The sheriff sat at his desk behind a half empty bottle of whiskey. Another man sat in the shadows with his back to the wall. He stood as she closed the door. The soft glow of the lantern swinging overhead revealed his hard features.
Randall’s cool blue gaze made the breath hitch in her throat.
He was alive!
Relief washed over her. And here she was wearing the oldest plainest gown she owned—a pale green, chintz day dress. Not that it mattered. Why should it matter?
“Good evening,” he said, eyes never straying from hers. He wasn’t looking her up and down like the ragged, dusty miners who stumbled into the store, half starved for the sight of a woman. His gaze searched deeper.
He must not have liked what he found. His mouth flattened in a grim line. He didn’t look pleased.
But she wouldn’t be swayed. She had to see justice done. It was the right thing to do. And dash it all; she was going to do it!
She looked away, pushing her fear and uncertainty aside.
“Evening, Miss Wallace.” The sheriff picked up the black iron ring of keys on his desk. “He’s right through here.”
Loving the Lawmen Page 33
