Gambling on the Outlaw

by Margaret Madigan

  I hurried to the front steps, took them two at a time, and strode to the front door, not even trying to quiet my boots on the boards.

  The front door swung open easy. Before stepping inside, I hefted the hunting knife from its sheath on my belt and tested its weight in my hand. It felt good there, and I imagined how much better it would feel plunged into Dearborn’s dirty lying heart.

  Inside, the house was quiet as a graveyard and I had to work hard not to jump at every little creak of my boots on the stairs, or rustle of trees outside. I’d have rather had noise and been done with it, than all this blasted quiet. Maybe some sound would muffle my conscience telling me it wasn’t right to sneak up on a man and kill him in his sleep, even a rotten scoundrel like Dearborn. Even working as a hired gun I’d killed men face-to-face.

  Upstairs I shoved my conscience aside, reminding it of what Dearborn had done to me, and that I’d likely be as dead as Dearborn soon. My conscience seemed to accept that rationalization as fair payment, so I sidled along the wall peeking into empty rooms. I’d been in this house before, plenty of times, but never upstairs. There were more bedrooms than I’d imagined and I passed three empties before I found the first closed door, on the left. Unfortunately, down the hall were two more closed doors. I had no idea who else would sleep in the big house, but I was about to find out.

  I cracked the first door, but it was too dark to see more than just a raised form on the bed. It seemed big enough to be a man, but the room itself didn’t feel like somewhere Dearborn would retire for the night. I had no desire to sneak into each room for a closer look at the person sleeping inside. There were far too many chances to be caught and killed before I finished what I’d come to do. So I closed the door and moved on to check behind the next one. The room was empty. At the third door I finally hit the jackpot. When I cracked it open and peeked inside, not only was there a man sleeping on the bed, but on this side of the house the moonlight streamed in the window giving me a better view.

  It was definitely the kind of room I’d imagine Dearborn living in. The bed, fireplace, desk, and armchair were all top quality, bigger than anything in the rest of the house, and comfortable. I opened the door a little wider and walked in on my toes, shifting my grip on the blade to be sure I had it tight in my hand.

  His back was to me, and even though I was sneaking into his room in the middle of the night to kill the man, I’d never stab anyone in the back. Principles were principles, even for a reformed gunfighter like me. So I approached the bed and grabbed him by the shoulder, rolling him onto his back.

  “Dearborn,” I said, holding my knife to his throat.

  He blinked once before coming awake, and I had to give him credit for having grit.

  “Collins. You’ve got some nerve, that’s for sure.”

  “You got it coming, framing me for something I didn’t do. You know I’ve got no chance of clearing my name. I’ll spend my life running.”

  “So you’re going to kill me in my bed?”

  He stretched and yawned, hooking his hands behind his head.

  “Better’n giving you the chance to kill me first,” I said.

  Too late, I realized one hand had gone under his pillow. My instincts had gone rusty. When he pulled the revolver out and brought it up, letting loose a shot, I dove to the floor and scrambled to the end of the bed.

  “You’re a worthless, boot-lickin’ dog,” Dearborn growled.

  I heard the bed creak as he climbed off it, and from my place crouched on the floor, I saw his bare feet on the other side of the bed. He couldn’t see me, but there weren’t many places I could hide, so he stepped in my direction.

  “I suppose being one yourself, you’d recognize another,” I said, lunging at him from a crouch and driving my shoulder into his gut, shoving him backward.

  He grunted when we slammed into a large wardrobe, and tried to bring his gun hand up, but I slapped it away and sliced upward with my knife, hoping to connect with something.

  He sucked in a breath, so I must have cut him somewhere, but he gave me a shove.

  “Get off me, you bastard,” he hissed.

  Once more he tried to bring his gun up, but I lunged again, this time ramming my fist into his face. It felt so good I did it a couple more times, and his grunts added fuel to my need to make him suffer. I brought the knife back, ready to slice whatever I could reach, but his revolver came up out of the dark and clouted me in the side of the head. I saw stars and almost lost my balance. I had to shake my head to clear the dizziness, and by then he’d moved and all I could see was his silhouette against the moonlit window. I had to assume he had the gun up, aiming for my head.

  “You got what’s coming to you, boy. You caused trouble for me, that makes you the perfect scapegoat,” he said.

  My options were looking few, and I didn’t feel like conversation, so as quick as I could, hopefully quicker than he could pull a trigger, I tossed the knife up, caught it by the blade, and flung it at him. His yelp was evidence I hit him, but I didn’t know where. All I knew in the next second was the crack of the revolver and a burning pain in my shoulder.

  I recognized gunshot pain from my days in the war, and after, and I knew two things: first, with a gunshot shoulder, and in the dark, I’d never finish Dearborn off tonight; and second, if I didn’t get out of there fast, he’d kill me and I’d never have another go at him.

  I heard footsteps and voices in the hall blocking my escape, so I charged Dearborn, knocking him to the floor, and ran for the window. I threw myself at it, hurtling through the glass and rolling off the slanted first-floor roof below. I landed on the ground with a bone-rattling thud that sent a searing pain slicing through my shoulder. Somewhere I found the gumption to get to my feet and move. Likely it was the sound of boots on the ground and men hollering, forming up a search party that did the trick.

  I took off running for the nearest trees, feeling the wet heat of blood trickling down my chest and back. Dodging brush and branches, it wasn’t long before dizziness set in. If I had any chance of surviving, I’d need help, and the closest homestead was the one I’d left a few hours earlier. I wouldn’t lead these men to Beth Caldwell’s door, though, so I made for the nearby creek that cut just southwest of Dearborn’s spread. I hoped to lose them in the water, then find a place to hide out until they bypassed me.

  It wasn’t long before I heard the dogs, just as I splashed into the creek and stumbled, landing on my face in the water. The cold was enough to snap me back into action. I got my feet under me and forced myself to keep moving downstream, searching for any spot I could squirrel myself in to hide.

  The sun was inching up the horizon as I stumbled over the rocks in the creek bed, still searching. The dogs sounded uncomfortably close when I spotted what looked like a good place. Boulders and brush hung over the creek bed, and I noticed a dark space underneath. I threw myself into that darkness, hoping it was deep enough to hide me.

  It was.

  The flowing water of the creek had carved out a small cave in the rock foundation, just deep enough for me to crawl into. I’d never been so thankful for anything in my life, despite the wetness, dirt, and cold. All I cared about was staying alive long enough for Dearborn’s men to pass me by, and then getting out and staggering to Beth Caldwell’s place.

  After that, my life was in her hands.

  Chapter Three

  ~Beth~

  In the morning, before I went to town to check on Mary, I took breakfast to the barn. But when I got there, the stranger was gone. The dishes from the supper I’d taken to him the night before were neatly stacked, and he’d fed and watered the animals. All except Boreas, who had somehow managed to get out of his stall…and saddle himself.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  I removed his saddle and tack, put him in his stall, and fed him, all the while puzzling over the situation. The only logical explanation was that the stranger had taken him and somehow—either by escaping or being sent
back—he’d found his way home. Either way, it irked me. The stranger had stolen my horse. The fact that he’d returned mattered less than the original intent.

  “If I ever see that man again, I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” I told Boreas, giving his nose a final rub. I collected the dishes and headed back to the house where the ladies waited for a report on our mysterious stranger.

  “Well?” Daisy asked from the chaise on the other side of the room.

  “He’s gone,” I said, sitting at the table and picking at the bacon on the plate meant for him.

  “Just as well. The last thing we need is a strange man sneaking around,” Lydia said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Daisy said. “I miss having men around.”

  “You just miss the money,” Lydia said, tightening her lips in a disapproving line as she kneaded bread dough.

  Daisy unfolded herself from the chaise with her usual sensual grace and sauntered to the kitchen end of the room. She settled her round behind on the corner of the table near where Lydia worked the dough.

  “You’re right, Lydia,” Daisy said, leaning in so that Lydia could hardly miss Daisy’s cavernous cleavage.

  A deep red blush bloomed on Lydia’s cheeks, and she kneaded faster.

  “I do miss the money. But more than that, I miss the sight of smooth, broad shoulders by lantern light, and the scent of musk and leather.” Daisy drew in a deep breath as if, lost in her own imagination, she could smell the last man she’d been with.

  Lydia swallowed hard, but otherwise ignored her. She kept her eyes on the dough, focusing on digging the heels of her palms into it over and over.

  Daisy chuckled.

  “There ya go, Lydia. At least you’ve got the rhythm down right.”

  I didn’t think Lydia could blush any more, but her cheeks turned the color of ripe plums.

  “Mmmm,” Daisy continued, closing her eyes. “And I do like the scent of a man hard at work.”

  I couldn’t argue with her there. Frank hadn’t spent much, if any, time at hard labor, but as a cowboy, our barn stranger was likely a hard-working man. Because I couldn’t shake the image of him from the night before, or the thoughts he’d sparked in my imagination, I closed my eyes and pondered what he’d smell like if we were laid out together in the fresh hay. No doubt the same musk and leather Daisy had mentioned. The thought sent a thrill through me.

  Lydia continued her determined effort to ignore Daisy, probably hoping that if she didn’t respond Daisy would lose interest in teasing her. But Daisy didn’t give up that easily.

  “You know what else I miss?” Daisy asked without a lick of shame. She leaned in close and reached for a loose curl of Lydia’s tawny hair, twirling it around her finger. “I miss the salty taste of male skin under my tongue.”

  Lydia’s tongue darted out of her mouth to wet her lips, then disappeared back inside just as quickly. Her eyes glanced at Daisy over the top of her wire-rims before focusing again on her kneading, but not before I caught a glimpse of what I could swear was desire. Or maybe just curiosity.

  “And, oh, Lydia, I miss the sounds men make when they’re inside me. Sweet Jesus, those grunts and growls and moans drive me mad with pleasure.”

  Lydia squeaked, and I bit back a grin at how easy it was to shock her. But Daisy had a habit of shocking just about everyone. It was one of the things I loved best about her. It added spice to our lives.

  She wasn’t quite done with Lydia.

  “And when I hear a man groan when he comes inside me,” Daisy said, leaning back and shrugging innocently. “I just can’t help myself. I’ve got to come, too.”

  “Well I never!” Lydia choked out, her flour-covered hand fluttering to the lacy collar at her throat like a white dove ready to perch on her shoulder.

  Daisy smiled. “Now that, I believe.”

  I remembered making love with Frank, and the way he’d watch me when I came, triumph in his eyes at what he’d accomplished. I felt a twinge of lust in my belly, and before I could stop it, a little groan escaped my lips.

  Daisy shot me a knowing glance and chuckled.

  Just as fast an image of Clay in bed appeared in my imagination, and I wondered what sounds he made. My belly remained silent at the thought.

  “See? Beth knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, Beth?”

  Then I pictured my barn stranger and wondered what he looked like naked by lantern light. What did his skin taste like? What kind of sounds did he make when he came? More than just a twinge of curiosity swirled in my belly, making its way lower to warm the space between my legs.

  “Yes, I know exactly what you’re talking about, Daisy,” I said, clearing my throat—and my mind. “But you really need to rein in the colorful language around Lydia and Nellie. They’re more delicate than you and I.”

  “I am not delicate,” Nellie declared from her favorite chair in the corner. She turned her dark, somber gaze on Daisy. “You’re quick to name the desirable qualities of being with a man, but have you forgotten the men who are as eager to hit as caress? Those who prefer to humiliate? To spit on you? To take you by force?”

  “Of course not,” Daisy said, frowning. “That’s one of the reasons I retired. But there were plenty of good ones worth remembering.”

  “That has not been my experience,” Nellie said, shifting her infant son from her breast to her shoulder, and patting his back.

  Daisy bristled. “Everyone’s experiences are different, Nellie. I’m sorry yours was exceptionally bad, but I’ve always tried to make the best of what life has given me. I prefer to remember the good more than the bad.”

  “Well, good or bad, our mysterious stranger is gone, which means it’s back to life as usual around here,” I said.

  I wasn’t really interested in another confrontation between Daisy and Nellie. They were both painfully straightforward in their own ways, which meant frequent arguments. The only saving grace was that Nellie had a very long fuse, which I’d always assumed was by nature of her native heritage, but however she came by it, it meant she spoke little and kept to herself until she felt it was necessary to speak. One thing I did know, without a doubt, was that despite Daisy and Nellie, and even Lydia, occasionally rubbing each other the wrong way, we were a family by choice and for all of us, family came first.

  Clay’s offer came to mind just then, and how I’d be forced to leave if I married him. I couldn’t imagine my life anymore without these women in it. They filled my heart with love and made this house a home again. If Silas hadn’t shown up to demand payment of Frank’s debt, I might have still been able to refuse Clay’s offer of marriage and keep our land. Clay would try to find another way to take it, but we could fight him, and I felt good about our chances of winning. But now that Silas had showed up to collect on Frank’s debt, and given his threats to take the homestead in payment, it seemed I should consider Clay’s offer more seriously.

  Damn him for sweetening the pot and doubling down. If he could pay off Frank’s debt and guarantee my family a safe, comfortable home together, even if it was without me, that had to be worth some amount of sacrifice on my part. On the other hand, I didn’t trust him to go out of his way for the girls. If he turned them out, would they be able to stay together? Or would they be forced to go their separate ways and find their fortunes elsewhere, alone? Was a piece of land really worth losing my family?

  I tried to put the decision aside for now. I had a lot to think about, but didn’t want to make a rash decision.

  Lydia had regained her usual composure and put her well-kneaded bread on to rise.

  “What are your plans for the day, Beth?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron and pushing her glasses up her nose.

  “I need to go into town and check on Mary Dawson and her babe.”

  “I’d like to go with you. I need to pick up some supplies.”

  “Then get yourself ready. I’ll go out and hitch up the buckboard.”

  I had my hand on the latch, read
y to head for the barn, when someone pounded on the door, startling me.

  We all shared an anxious look. Nobody ever came out to visit, certainly not this time of morning. Besides which, fists pounding on the door were never a sign of anything good.

  I lifted a finger to my lips to indicate the girls should be quiet and calm.

  “Sheriff’s deputies,” a deep male voice said from outside. “Open up in there.”

  When I lifted the latch and opened the door, four men from town stood on my porch. Robert Summers led the pack, wearing a shiny new deputy badge. He leaned a hand on my door, pushing it open far enough to enter, without my invitation. The rest of the men followed and, without saying so much as a word, began to search the house.

  “Since when are you a deputy, Robert?”

  He moved into the kitchen, imposing his presence on us, but I planted myself in front of him, fists on my hips, and glared at him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Calm yourself, Beth. Isaac Collins is on the loose and we’re searching for him.”

  “He’s that stage robber, isn’t he?”

  “And murderer,” Robert reminded me, puffing out his chest to flaunt his newly appointed status.

  “Why would you search for him here?”

  “He attempted to kill Clay in his own home last night. Clay shot at him and is certain he wounded him badly. Since your place is closest to Clay’s we’re starting our search here.”

  “And you think I’d purposely hide a murderous fugitive?”

  Robert scanned the room, his gaze settling on each of my friends, not hiding his distaste for any of them.

  “You have a habit of taking in the dregs.”

  My palm itched to slap the condescension off his arrogant face, but instead I pasted on a superior smile of my own.

  “Well, I suppose like attracts like.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  From one of the bedrooms I heard something crash to the floor and shatter. I poked Robert in the chest.