He cleared his throat and motioned to the door with his hat. “I’ll just…” He exited without looking back.
He apparently needed a long dip in the snow-melt runoff that was Wyldhaven Creek.
It was dawn, almost a week after Patrick had hauled himself from the river. His right arm still pained him, but all his other cuts and abrasions were on their way to mending.
He rolled out of his bedroll and stood near the entrance to his cave, listening carefully. Birds twittered. The river burbled. Wind whispered through trees and grass. And somewhere in the distance he heard an elk bugle. But there were no sounds other than should have been heard on the back side of a Cascade Range mountain.
Satisfied that he was still alone at this particular hideout, he stepped through the cave entry and strode to the river to quench his thirst. The ice-melt water was so cold it made his hands ache and his face sting when he scooped some to his mouth and then patted his face to dispatch the last vestiges of sleep.
When he lifted his head, birdsong no longer embellished the morning. That was his first clue that he wasn’t alone. Carefully he withdrew the Bowie from the sheath at his waist. Every sense attuned to the landscape around him, he sank to his haunches. Where was the danger? Behind him and to his left, he heard a twig snap. He shucked the pistol that he’d kept when he let the Kastain horses go free. He’d known someone would find them and return them to their owners. They’d likely be glad to get their wagon back too. Now he wondered if that hadn’t been a mistake. Sure, he’d let the horses go several miles back just as soon as he’d assured himself he’d made it far enough from town to be close to several of his hideouts. But if the sheriff had tracked the horses to the spot where he’d let them go, it was conceivable he might be the one sneaking through the bushes right now.
He caught a flash of red above a white hand. He let the Bowie fly. It stuck fast into the tree trunk by the intruder’s head.
A loud curse rang out. “Blazes, Waddell! You could have taken my head off with that thing!”
Lenny Smith stepped out into the open, hands raised by his head.
Disgusted at the fear coating his tongue with metallic prickles, Waddell thrust the pistol back into its holster. Without a word he strode over and worked his knife from the tree. “You got word from town?”
Lenny shook his head. “I’ve been having to lay low too.”
Waddell’s curiosity piqued at that. Why would Lenny be having to lay low? He narrowed his eyes at the man. Was it Lenny who had betrayed him?
“You know? On account of the sheriff out hunting all of us down this week?”
The sheriff had been out looking for him, but he doubted he cared much about Lenny, who had only ever played a role of inconsequence in any job they’d ever pulled—like dropping the lamp chimney in the front aisle of the mercantile that day in Seattle so he could slip into the back room. He doubted the law had ever even heard of Lenny Smith. So why would Lenny care about staying out of the sheriff’s sights? He needed some time to ponder.
He pointed the Bowie toward the cave. “I got rabbit.”
“Sounds good. My belly’s just about ready to run off and try to find another mouth to feed it.” Lenny rubbed his stomach in anticipation.
Patrick sank down onto the stone he’d placed by his fire inside the cave and set to carving some of the rabbit he’d spitted and roasted the evening before. He offered the hind leg to Lenny and dug into his own portion while he tried to think. Lenny obviously hadn’t been part of the ambush last week, or he would have been arrested along with the rest of the crew, but how many of his men were still free?
He licked a finger and glanced at Lenny. “How many have been arrested?”
Lenny shook his head. “You ain’t gonna like it. That sheriff in Wyldhaven is smart. He set us up. They arrested Horace, Walter, and Dougal that first day.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “That leaves you and me, McTavish, Shade, and VanFleet.”
Lenny nodded. But he kept his gaze fastened to the meat he was voraciously consuming.
“How do you suppose the crew knew I was going to be on that stage that day? And why weren’t you, McTavish, Shade, and VanFleet arrested with the rest?”
There was the tiniest hitch in Lenny’s chewing before he caught himself and resumed. “You got me. I’d gone into Seattle to see if I could make me a little money at the tables in the Blue Moon. I think McTavish and VanFleet took a temporary job in the coal mines over near Black Diamond. Not sure where Shade ended up. Next thing I’d heard was the guys was rounded up. And I been lying low ever since.”
Lenny never had been a very good liar.
Patrick moved swiftly. Before Lenny even knew what hit him, Patrick knocked the meat from his hands and pinned him to the wall of the cave. He tickled Lenny’s jugular with the Bowie and leaned in, speaking real soft-like. “I don’t believe you.”
Lenny licked grease from his lips, eyes so wide they bulged. “All right.” He cursed. “I’ll tell you what happened, but you gotta believe me that I tried to talk the guys out of the ambush idea.”
Patrick eased up the pressure just enough to let Lenny know he had permission to speak.
He gulped visibly. “I was in the alehouse down to Wyldhaven. The sheriff came in to eat dinner, and a few minutes later his deputy busted in to say he’d heard you were going to be on the next day’s stage! I swear I had no idea it was a setup! I waited till they left, and then I went up to the Turkey Gulch hideout to tell Horace what I’d heard. I was thinking something must have happened to you down in Seattle and you were coming back to split the profits with us like you promised. But Horace, you know Horace, he was having nothing to do with that!” Lenny stretched his neck like he might already be able to feel the slice of Patrick’s blade. “He’s the one who said we ought to ambush you before you ever reached town. But I wanted no part of that. Mick, nor Van either. They said they wasn’t gonna be part of it and took off for Black Diamond, just like I said. Bobby, well, he didn’t say a word. Just up and walked out, and I ain’t seen him since. You gotta believe me. None of the four of us were there! I swear. I stood up for you and said you was coming back just like you’d said. But like you know, the sheriff and his men were waiting. I still don’t know how they knew for sure the guys was going to be at that exact spot.”
Patrick cuffed him upside the head. “He had you followed, you idiot!”
Lenny’s expression scrunched into one of confusion. “But if he did that, why wouldn’t he have just arrested the crew and me at the hideout?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Because he also wanted me, dolt. And he needed proof—more proof than just poor innocent Tommy Crispin’s story—that it was us who robbed the bank. Proof that Horace freely gave to him when he showed up and set to shouting at me about splitting the bank money fair and square that day.”
“Oh, I see.” Lenny truly looked befuddled that he hadn’t thought of that before.
Patrick let the Bowie slide over Lenny’s throat as he considered. Was Lenny actually naïve enough to believe he would have come back to split the profits? Or… He worked his teeth over his upper lip. Was he shrewd enough to set the crew and him up, and think he could come back now and have this territory all to himself?
Lenny trembled, and by the gray pallor of his face and the dots of moisture on his brow, it looked like he could pass out at any moment. “You gotta believe me. I never meant to set you up.”
Patrick didn’t have to believe him, but in either scenario he had to admire the man—in the one Lenny’d stood up for him, and in the other he’d tried to take over. And besides, he needed him right now. Because whether Lenny had wittingly or unwittingly set him up, the lawman had definitely been the one to lay the trap. And that meant he had some retribution coming. He’d decide what to do with Lenny later. He loosed the man and stalked back to his rock. “I’ve got a job for you.”
Lenny’s legs must have given out from beneath him, because he sank to the cave
floor with his back still to the wall and scrubbed his quavering hands across his face. “You got it, Boss. Whatever you need.”
“Tell me about this Wyldhaven lawman.”
“I don’t know much about him except that his mother is a looker that lives in town. She runs a dress shop, but word about town is she’s as crack a shot with a pistol as she is talented with a needle and thread.”
Crack shot wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping for. “Anyone else the sheriff might care about?”
Lenny swallowed. “I snuck through town last night because I had buried a small stash of cash next to the livery and I was running plumb low on funds. Anyhow, I got my money, but when I was heading out of town, I saw the sheriff carrying a woman into Dixie’s Boardinghouse. She must be the new schoolteacher I’ve been hearing about, because I didn’t recognize her.”
Interesting. “She slender with the biggest bunch of brown curls you ever did see?”
Lenny pooched out a lip. “Seems about right. She had her arms draped around his neck, and her head on his shoulder, all cozy-like.”
Very interesting. Patrick folded his arms and considered the woman who’d been on the stage with him. And boy howdy, considering on her was no hard thing at all. Crack shot definitely wouldn’t be an issue with a woman like her. No sir. She was bone china, precious gems, and silk to her core. He smirked at the very thought of her with a gun.
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Lenny, I do believe I have a plan. We just need to let the hullabaloo die down for a few days, is all.” He stalked to his bedroll and sank onto it, angling his hat over his eyes to block out the daylight. A few more days of rest and healing would do him some good anyhow.
Doc Griffin had given her some powders that helped her sleep the whole night through, and when she woke the next morning, she felt like she’d been given a new head. The week passed in a flurry after that. Charlotte was pleased that the ladies had kept her in mind as she’d requested when assigning the projects, and there had been plenty to keep her busy.
Mr. Kastain had recovered well enough that he’d been allowed to travel home to his own bed just this morning. And Charlotte had been very relieved to hear the news. She hadn’t been quite able to convince herself all week that it wasn’t her fault the man had been shot, no matter what the sheriff had said.
She and Dixie had worked on decorations all week, and now the day of the boxed supper had arrived. Wagons had been trundling into town since just after midmorning, and Dixie’s dining room had fairly hummed during the lunch hour.
Reagan, with more than a little grumbling and muttering under his breath, agreed to organize both a lumber-sawing and a tree-chopping contest for the men. Each man would have to pay two bits to enter the contests, and anyone who wanted to watch would be charged one bit for a seat.
Women—including Dixie’s mother, Rose—had been planning, cooking meals, and baking pies all day. And the town was fairly alive with mouthwatering scents wafting from stoves and propped-open kitchen doors. The pies and dinner baskets would be auctioned off to the highest bidders for this evening’s meals. Charlotte’s own basket was already packed—all except the pot roast that was still simmering on Dixie’s stove.
There would be two tables of donated preserves, jams, jellies, and pickles for sale. As well as a dance following dinner, where two bits would be required for the use of the dance floor—which was naught more than a cleared section of field near the river that Ewan McGinty had worked to flatten and rope off, but the man had done an admirable job with the task he’d been given.
Now, Charlotte ventured into the boardinghouse kitchen. Both Dixie and Rose hovered over a steaming sink, their hands fairly a blur as they worked to diminish a pile of dirty dishes that stood shoulder high at one side of the sinks.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Charlotte asked.
“Oh, I’m glad you stopped by.” Dixie tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Still no more headaches?”
Charlotte resisted a growl of frustration. The last thing she wanted was to be treated like a glass doll. She’d already explained to Dixie numerous times that the headaches only seemed to come on after she ate certain foods. And she wasn’t about to tell her again. “What can I do to help?”
Dixie gave her a chagrinned smile. “I’d planned to go pick some wild roses this afternoon to finish up the centerpieces for the tables. But”—she swept a sudsy hand toward the dirty dishes—“neither Ma nor I expected such a crowd for lunch. Do you think you could take that pail”—a tip of her head indicated a galvanized bucket by the back door—“and go and pick a few for me? There are scissors in the drawer to the right of the door.”
“Certainly!” Charlotte was inordinately pleased with the task. All week she had wanted to get out and about to see the countryside, but planning for the boxed supper had kept her too busy. And since she was leaving on tomorrow’s stage, this would likely be her last opportunity to do so. Charlotte strode across the room, found the scissors, and picked up the bucket. “Is there any specific place I should look for wild roses?”
“Take the road across the bridge and then just follow the footpath. The field is just about a mile down on the right hand side. You can’t miss it.”
“All right then, I’ll be back after a bit. Happy dishwashing.”
Dixie snorted, and Charlotte chuckled as she stepped out into the afternoon sunshine of what could not have been a more beautiful end-of-summer day. The sun hung high above the treetops, spreading gilded kisses on the mountains across the green valley, and birds chirped lustily as they darted through the air in an apparent game of tag.
She looped the handle of the bucket over one arm and took the path across the rickety bridge. On the other side, she paused to turn and look back at the town. A wave of melancholy washed over her.
Throughout the week, as she had met and worked with women on various projects for the supper, she had tried to keep an emotional distance, knowing if she grew attached to these people it would make things all the harder when it came time to leave.
And yet despite her best efforts, she was feeling the impending arrival of tomorrow’s coach with a great deal of dread.
Last night as she’d been lying in her room, pondering the doings that would take place today, Charlotte had rehashed all her reasons for staying and for returning home. She’d run into the sheriff yesterday when she’d gone to check that the area for the log-sawing contest was cleared and ready. He’d once again impressed upon her that going back to Boston was in the best interest of all.
Even now she gritted her teeth. It was one thing to know something herself. It was quite another to have a muleheaded lawman telling her she wasn’t sturdy enough to survive in his town without causing him a lot of trouble.
So last night as she’d been lying in her bed, all her stubbornness had risen to the fore, and she’d longed to march right down to his office and tell him she’d changed her mind and would be staying whether he liked it or not! But reason had soon taken over—thanks to the many lessons she’d learned the hard way over the years due to just such rashness—and she’d soon recognized the foolishness in her desire to prove her mettle to the man at the cost of living in Wyldhaven.
With a huff, she put her back to the town and stepped out with purpose. “You make no sense, Charlotte Brindle. Just go home with your pride tucked into your satchel like a prudent woman would.”
Reagan stepped out of his office and surveyed the street. Wagons had been arriving in a steady stream since early this morning. Everywhere he looked, small clusters of people stood chatting and laughing. Looked like Dixie and Charlotte’s idea was going to be a big hit. He hoped the fundraising went as well as the socializing.
Despite the happy occasion, a simmering tension had held him in its grip all day. This was just the kind of doings a man like Waddell might use to work some sort of trickery. And if not Waddell, then some other group of outlaws bent on taking over some territory, perhap
s. He’d instructed Joe to be on high alert all day, and he planned to do the same.
Movement across the bridge caught his eye. A woman with a basket swinging by her side just disappearing into the shadows of the forested path. He narrowed his eyes. It was a yellow dress he hadn’t seen her wear before, but he’d recognize that pert little stride anywhere. What was Miss Brindle doing, heading off alone into the forest on a day like today?
He growled low and set off after her. There was no time to fetch his horse from the livery, which lay in the opposite direction. She apparently needed someone to instruct her that strolling through the forest in these parts was not like taking a stroll in a Boston park.
All week he’d been doing his best to keep tabs on her and make sure she was safe, and all while keeping her innocent of the fact that some members of the Waddell gang had targeted her as responsible for Waddell’s death. And now that Reagan knew the man was alive and hiding out in the area somewhere, the danger to her could be even worse. He’d spent the better part of two days trying to backtrack the Kastains’ wagon and horses to the place they had been given their heads to return home, but a rain squall had made the task all but impossible. Waddell was still out there. Reagan wasn’t taking any chances on what type of revenge members of the gang might seek to take. But neither did he want to make Charlotte fearful and feel like she constantly needed to be checking over her shoulder.
He’d learned rather quickly this week just how zealously the woman could flit from one project to the next, and it had taken more of his time and innovation than he’d thought possible to keep tabs on her, all while keeping her from realizing it. He still had a little paperwork to do because of the arrests they’d made last week, even though he’d been at it all morning. But he was certainly glad he’d stepped outside to take this quick break. It looked like the paperwork would have to wait.
She’d disappeared completely from sight now, and a premonition of impending trouble curled a fist in his gut.
He picked up his pace.
Not a Sparrow Falls (Wyldhaven Book 1) Page 16
