Flanna and the Lawman

by Cathy Maxwell

  For a second, he stood stiff, his refusal clear in his distrustful eyes.

  Please, she silently begged.

  His gaze narrowed. He frowned. Then he stepped back, grabbed at the noose around his neck, and yanked it up over his head.

  Flanna turned her attention back to the judge. “He’s a little irritated about the hanging,” she explained to her stunned audience.

  “I didn’t know you were married,” Judge Rigby continued as if the fact he’d almost hanged an innocent man was of little importance. He put his hat back on his head. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come courting.”

  “Well, Trace and I have one of those relationships.”

  The cowhands nodded. More than a handful of them had wives and sweethearts tucked away someplace, easily forgotten.

  Trace came down the rickety stairs and to her side. He took her elbow, his grip tight. He was not in a good mood. “We’ll be leaving now, sweetheart.”

  Judge Rigby blocked their way. “I just don’t know why I wasn’t told,” he complained. “I mean, I used to sit on your doorstep and drink tea with you.”

  “I—” Flanna started, not certain what to say. Some men accepted gracefully their attentions were unwanted, while others, the tiresome ones, of whom Judge Rigby was one, always asked for an explanation. She’d never quite figured out how to let them down gently.

  Her “husband” had no such pretense of manners. “You know how women are, Rigby. They either can’t make up their minds or every other word out of their mouths is a lie.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Curly quickly seconded.

  Trace sent him a look that could have crushed a rattler.

  Flanna’s temper flared at being publicly called a liar. “I’d forgotten what an arrogant bull you are—”

  “Oh, what a tender reunion,” Trace taunted.

  With a hard, steely glare of her own, she said succinctly, “A man whose wife just saved him from a noose around his neck had better watch his back.”

  Laughter broke out from the cowhands, as she’d known it would. She also knew the mighty Trace Cordell hated to be laughed at. She’d learned that little detail about him the hard way.

  “You’re not my w—”

  Flanna cut him off, pleading her case directly to her small audience with a skillful weaving of truth and fiction. “My father never liked him. The two of them got in a terrible fight. You all knew how stubborn Rory could be. I was forced to choose between my father and Trace.” She met his hard gaze. That was truth. But then, Trace had been the one to turn his back on her. Trace and his high-minded principles. Her father had warned her he would always be the lawman.

  Except something about Trace had changed. She’d noticed it the night before.

  Physically, he appeared the same: overlong straight dark hair that begged for a trim, silver eyes that could cut a person to pieces with a look, broad shoulders and slim hips. He seemed taller than she remembered, and harder. The lines around his eyes from the sun appeared deeper and his gaze lacked any of the warm humor he’d once possessed. Perhaps the change was the disreputable-looking two days’ growth of beard on his jaw. Or the scent of hard liquor lingering on his skin.

  Whatever the difference was, she sensed it went soul deep. This wasn’t the Trace Cordell she’d once fallen in love with it. This was the sort of man no wise woman would ever trust.

  But she had no choice.

  “And you chose your father,” Trace reminded her softly. “So that cuts me loose.”

  “Rory’s dead,” she said flatly. Grief welled inside her. For a second, she couldn’t speak.

  “Rory Kennedy dead?” Trace repeated with uncertainty. He glanced around as if expecting folks to contradict her. His grip on her arm softened and his hand came down to clasp hers. “I can’t believe it. I thought the old rooster would live forever.”

  “He would have,” Flanna said, unable to screen the bitterness from her voice, “if Burrell Slayton hadn’t shot him.”

  Judge Rigby jumped into the discussion like the lapdog he was. “Here now. It was a hunting accident. We all know it was.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “except my father was the prey.”

  “There’s no proof to your accusation, Miss Kennedy,” Judge Rigby said evenly, then paused. His gaze shifted from her to Trace. “Or should I say, Mrs. Cordell?” he added thoughtfully. “You know, it’s convenient of you to turn up married to one of the fastest guns in the West.”

  Panic rose in her throat, but Trace gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “Wonder if Rory would have had his hunting accident if I’d been around.”

  “Can’t say,” Rigby replied. “Mr. Slayton had made his wants known. Old Rory didn’t listen.”

  “I don’t know if my hearing is any better.”

  The gauntlet had been thrown down. The cowboys shuffled back while Rigby’s nervous henchmen edged closer. Their hands dropped to their guns.

  Flanna stepped forward between them all. Her fight was with Burrell Slayton, not the judge. Trace would do her no good if he was shot before they left Harwood. “Come, Trace. Let me take you home. We need to talk.” To her relief, he didn’t argue, even while a few “wooo’s” and catcalls met her words.

  “I’ll get my horse.”

  “Oh, your horse has been sold,” Judge Rigby said, cockily hooking his thumbs in his suspenders.

  “What?” Trace cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  The judge shrugged. “We had to pay for the damage to Birdie’s saloon.”

  “And you thought it would be me?”

  “We thought you’d be hanged,” Judge Rigby answered. “A dead man doesn’t need a horse.”

  His gallows humor drew a chuckle or two from the hard-bitten crowd gathered around but Trace obviously wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He said quietly, “I want my horse.”

  “You can have it,” the judge replied. “Your wife bought it.”

  Slowly, Trace turned to Flanna. “You bought my horse?”

  She was almost afraid to nod yes. “And your guns. And your hat. Everything is at the ranch. Well, except for the hat. I have it in the wagon.”

  “Good.” He took her arm and turned her around. “Let’s go get them and while we do that, I’m going to talk to you about taking your sweet time before speaking up. Five minutes later and I’d have been dancing on air.”

  “Well, I can explain.”

  “You are going to have a lot of explaining to do, honey.”

  “I hadn’t expected them to charge you with the murder,” she demurred.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  The cowboys and townsfolk moved out of their way but Judge Rigby’s voice called them back. “Wait a minute, Cordell.”

  Trace turned. “What do you want now?”

  “To give you advice. You know, Burrell Slayton isn’t going to take well to the news you’re married to Miss Kennedy.”

  “Who the hell is Slayton?”

  “A man you don’t want to cross. You might be wise to drift on.”

  Sliding a protective arm around Flanna’s shoulders, Trace said, “And leave my wife?”

  Rigby pushed back his bowler. “You already did once. `Course I can’t understand why any man would leave a woman like Miss Kennedy.”

  Trace’s lips twisted into a smile. “Have you lived with her yet?” His quick rejoinder was met with a smattering of laughter.

  The judge shook his head. “No, something is wrong here.” He waved his hands to include both Flanna and Trace. “This doesn’t feel right. I don’t know if I believe the two of your are married.”

  Before Flanna could protest, Trace asked, “Why should she lie?”

  “She might have her reasons,” the judge said, “reasons she’d best not pursue if she’s smart.” He put his cigar in his mouth. “After all, you two act like the furtherest thing from being loverly.”

  “‘Loverly’?” Trace’s voice dropped to a deadly note. �
�I’ve had a chair broken over my head, spent the night in jail, almost got myself hanged…and now you are telling me I’m not loverly enough.”

  “The two of you act like strangers.”

  Flanna opened her mouth. “We know each other well enough—” she started. But her words were cut off as Trace grabbed her arm, swung her around and, without warning, kissed her.

  For a second she couldn’t think. She couldn’t move. Having been caught in midsentence, her mouth was still open and the kiss was awkward.

  In spite of the vagrant life she’d led, her father had been overly protective. She’d allowed a few demure pecks on the cheek but nothing like having her mouth swallowed whole like this. And by the one man whose kisses she’d longed for.

  Her heart pounded in her ears. Her eyes were open. Everyone was staring. Stiff and unnatural, she waved her arms in the air, not certain what to do with them.

  Trace eased up slightly. The anger left him and his bruising lips softened, taking a more intimate turn.

  Now, this was nice. With a soft sigh, Flanna closed her eyes and relaxed. His kiss became hungry and she couldn’t help but taste him back.

  Now she understood why everyone liked kissing so much. This was beyond pleasant. It made her vibrate with things she’d never felt with anyone else save him—need, desire, wanting.

  She wrapped her arms around him. He responded by gathering her closer. His possessiveness sent a shiver of anticipation through her. But when his tongue stroked hers, she couldn’t help a start of surprise…until she discovered she liked this.

  He sucked lightly and she felt the tug all the way to the deepest recesses of her woman’s body—and she wanted more.

  Time stood still. She lost all awareness. The dusty street, the watching crowd, even the earth beneath her feet faded from consciousness. Nothing existed save this kiss and the heady feeling of his hard body melding against hers. They fit perfectly like spoons. Her good bonnet fell back, the ribbon around her neck. Her hard, tight nipples pushed against his hard chest. His erection pressing between them gave evidence of his own reaction.

  Dear God, she could kiss him all day—

  Trace broke off the kiss. He stepped back and Flanna would have fallen to the ground, her legs unable to support her weight. He held her steady with an arm around her waist. “Satisfied?” he asked Judge Rigby.

  The judge stared as slack-jawed as everyone else and Flanna realized she and Trace had given them quite a show. Rory must be turning in his grave!

  A flood of heat burned her face. Self-consciously she fussed with her bonnet, attempting to set herself back to rights.

  Trace smiled at the judge. “We’ll be leaving. Flanna and I have some unfinished business to attend to.”

  Low whistles and jostling met his proclamation. Judge Rigby didn’t say a word, but Flanna could feel his hard gaze on them as she and Trace headed for the wagon parked in front of the Mercantile.

  He helped her into the seat without a word, then climbed up beside her. She reached for the reins but his hand covered hers. His eyes were like slivers of ice. She wondered what he was thinking.

  “I’ll drive,” he said.

  She nodded and sat back. With a whack of the reins, he started the horse forward, heading out of town. The judge, his compatriots and the small crowd followed their every movement.

  Within moments they were alone. Trace drove in silence until they were a good mile away from Harwood. He stopped the wagon.

  “Now what the hell is going on?”

  His expression was anything but loverly.

  Chapter Three

  “THEY SHOT HIM,” Flanna said, the corners of her mouth tight, her eyes bright. “He was unarmed, Trace. He went to talk to Slayton, to work out a compromise, and they shot him cold. They didn’t even bring him back to me but buried him in Harwood quick as a cat can blink.”

  Surprisingly, grief washed over him. There’d been no love lost between himself and the wily Irishman. As her father, Rory had believed no man was good enough for his daughter in spite of his own two-bit swindles and petty schemes. He’d flat-out told Trace that when Flanna married it would be to a better man than some whore’s son who’d made a name for himself with a gun—even if he was a lawman.

  Trace had countered he didn’t know how Rory thought he was going to meet such a man for his daughter while peddling rotgut disguised as medicinal tonic and getting thrown out of every town they drove through. He had as much right to Flanna as anyone.

  Besides, Flanna loved him…or so he had thought.

  In the end, Rory had proved him wrong. She’d left with her father without a backward glance.

  Still, Trace hadn’t wished the rascal dead.

  “I warned him,” he said tightly. “I told Rory he’d better change his ways or someone would put a bullet through him.”

  Her gaze hardened. “He did change, Trace. After we left Loveless…” Her voice trailed off. She turned her attention to the line of the far horizon beyond the green prairie of the high plains. “After we left Loveless,” she began again, “I told him I didn’t want to live that way anymore. I thought about what you’d said, about how out here in the West a person could have a second chance to be whatever he or she wanted to be. No past, no regrets. Just move on and make yourself into someone new, someone meaningful.” She swung her gaze to him. “Do you remember?”

  He’d always talked that way. It had been his “sheriff” sermon, his friendly advice to those on the wrong path. The words sounded foreign to him now. “Yeah.”

  She crossed her arms tight against her middle. “After…after what happened between us, when we parted—”

  “Oh, you mean you’ve finally remembered we are not married?”

  Her hesitation evaporated at his sarcasm. “I had to cobble together a story for why I was searching for you. I couldn’t let Judge Rigby be thinking I wanted you to bring Slayton to justice. They’re all afraid of him and his friends.”

  “But to claim we’re married?” He shook his head. “That was more than a bald-faced lie, Flanna. It was—” It was what? An insult? An injury? A reminder of what he couldn’t have?

  “I hated choosing between the two of you, but he was my father. You couldn’t have expected me to turn my back on him?”

  Yes, he had. “You can skip the explanations.” He swung his gaze away from her, preferring the ruts in the dirt road to the face of the woman he’d once loved. “Anything between us is in the past. I’ve managed fine without you.” He started to pick up the reins but her tart words stopped him.

  “Yes, I can see you have. When did you last shave, Trace? Or bathe? You smell of the bottle.”

  “I’m sorry, m’lady, but I’ve spent the night in jail, I was almost hanged, otherwise I would have taken a perfumed bath for you. Eau de lillies.”

  “I doubt that. The high-and-mighty Sheriff Cordell doesn’t put himself out for anyone. It’s his way or no way.”

  “I would have married you,” Trace charged. “I offered you everything I had, but it wasn’t enough.”

  “Aye, and you would have reminded me every day of what grand favor you did not throwing me out of town,” she replied. “Rory warned me. He said you were too self-righteous. A prig.”

  “He called me a pig?” Anger felt good. Anger offered protection.

  “Not a pig,” she corrected, her Irishness coming out. “A prig. You ken? A sanctimonious, rigid, know-it-all who must have his own way.”

  “If you felt that way, why didn’t you let me hang?” He’d almost prefer hanging versus sitting here in the sun taking a tongue-lashing off the one woman he’d ever wanted and couldn’t have.

  “Because I need you,” she told him bleakly. “No one else will help me. They’re all afraid of Slayton. And then, just when I was ready to give up, I heard from a passing neighbor that the great Sheriff Cordell was sitting in Harwood playing cards. It was an omen, Trace. God sent you here to help me.”

  “God had nothing to
do with it.” He slapped the horse with the reins. “I was passing through and I’m going to keep moving, Flanna. I’m not looking for any fights. I’ve had enough.”

  “You’ll change your mind once you hear my story,” she insisted stubbornly.

  He ignored her.

  “Besides, it’s all your fault.”

  He held his tongue.

  She glanced his way and then added, “If not for you, Rory would still be alive.”

  Temper seared through him. Trace pulled the wagon to a halt. He faced her. “How do you figure that?”

  With a haughty lift of her stubborn chin, she said, “Because we wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. I didn’t want to wander aimlessly anymore. I wanted a home, honest work, and a place that I could put down roots. Have you ever wanted such a thing?”

  Yeah, he had. With her. “So what did Rory do, swindle this Slayton out of land and earn a bullet for his efforts?”

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “No. We decided to change our lives just like you advised, Sheriff. Rory bought this parcel of land from a man who was selling and we decided to change who we were. We’re ranchers now and doing well even in such a short time. We have fifty head of cattle.”

  Trace didn’t like hearing she was fine without him. His life hadn’t been worth a damn since she walked out. “So what did happen? What did Slayton have against Rory?”

  “Nothing against him. He wanted what Rory had—water. Here on the high plains, water is like gold. The parcel we bought has a stream that runs right into the Cimarron and a spring that bubbles with the sweetest water you can ever imagine.”

  “Sounds like a prime stake.”

  “It is. And Slayton wants it. He needs the water for his herds. Turns out the man we’d bought it from had been chased out by Slayton’s threats, but Rory was not one to run, especially since we were making a good go of it.” She placed her hand on Trace’s arm. “I have a rage in me for vengeance that could shake the heavens. Rory was no saint, but he didn’t deserve to die like that, either. Slayton expects me to sell, but I won’t. He’ll have to kill me to for my land. And that’s why I need you. You are a man of justice. You’ll stop Slayton.”