Flanna and the Lawman

by Cathy Maxwell

  No matter what the night would bring, she would not regret giving herself to him.

  Ever.

  She slid her hand down to her belly. They were snuggled under the quilts, the sky and the cottonwoods their canopy. “I could be with child, even now.” The thought gave her a powerful sense of satisfaction.

  His hand covered hers, his expression darkening. “Flanna, if something happens to me—”

  She silenced him with her lips. “Nothing will happen,” she said. “They can’t get away with killing my father and you, too. A merciful God would never let such a tragedy come to pass.”

  “Sometimes, God isn’t always watching.”

  “He is now.” She rubbed her cheek along his. “He sees us and is pleased. He will be with us tonight.”

  Trace’s answer was to make love to her, again.

  However this time, they moved leisurely, savoring their precious moments together. Afterward, they dressed.

  The sun was beginning to set and they prepared to wait for Slayton.

  * * *

  AS THE MOON HIT the highest point in the sky the bottles tied to the line clinked softly together.

  “Shh,” Trace cautioned. “Wait.”

  Flanna nodded, her hands trembling around the Colt’s smooth handle. Trace stood, easing the rifle to his shoulder.

  They’d placed the dogs in the soddy. Trace hadn’t wanted them to warn their attackers.

  There was a splash in the stream. Flanna could hear horses breathing—and then object with a snort at finding the rope.

  Trace fired and she started firing with him. He’d told her to let off no more than three shots.

  She discovered why. She doubted she hit anything but chaos broke out among their attackers. They hadn’t been expecting the rope. A least one of Trace’s bullets hit and she suspected by the cursing and hollering, others did, as well.

  “I’m hit. I’m hit,” one man moaned while others shouted for a retreat.

  “Get down,” Trace warned, and pulled her off the porch of the house, pushing her under the foundation. “Stay here until I call you.”

  He disappeared into the night as riders charged over the bluff. She could make out their silhouettes and feel the thundering of hooves.

  Then the horses hit the barricade. The riders had not noticed it. Horses squealed warnings and skidded to a halt. Riders were unseated. Flanna could hear them holler as they fell.

  Then Trace started shooting. This time, there was no free firing, but the systematic crack of a sharp shooter choosing his quarry.

  Guns were being fired from the bluff now. Slayton’s men were fighting back. What if they saw Trace, standing alone in the moonlight?

  Flanna gripped the Colt and climbed out from her haven. She had to get to Trace, to help him.

  A second later a pair of strong arms grabbed her from behind.

  * * *

  TRACE WATCHED the last man of the attacking party run retreat.

  His plan had worked. The cowards had run.

  Several men were dead. He hoped Slayton was one of their number.

  He jumped down from the wagon. Bill and Spice raced around the corral, still worked up over the battle. The dogs barked madly inside the soddy. Even the chickens seemed upset.

  “Flanna!” He started toward the soddy to release Samson and Delilah.

  There was no answer.

  His hand on the door, he called again.

  This time he was answered but not in the way he expected. “She’s here,” said Slayton. He stepped out of the shadows of the barn. He held Flanna by the hair, a gag around her mouth, and his pistol pressing against the tender skin of her neck.

  Trace felt fear. The dogs seemed to sense what was happening. On the other side of the door, they started growling and acting crazy, wanting to be released.

  If Slayton noticed, he gave no sign. “I’m sorry you got involved, Cordell,” he said. “Hell, I’m sorry matters got so messy tonight. Maybe if you’d both been a bit more quiet, we could have parted company as friends.”

  “I doubt that,” Trace said carefully.

  Slayton’s mouth crooked into a smile. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” He sighed. “Well now, I’ve got to do what I must do.”

  “Let her go,” Trace said.

  “Maybe,” Slayton answered. “But first, you toss that rifle off to the side.”

  Flanna moaned her protest, twisting as she did so. Slayton viciously pulled her hair. “Settle down,” he warned.

  Trace threw the rifle aside. He had no choice.

  “Good,” Slayton said, and pointed the barrel of his gun toward Trace. “It was nice meeting you, Cordell.”

  In answer, Trace opened the soddy door. Samson and Delilah shot out of the house like Chinese rockets. Delilah moved toward Flanna but Samson went for Slayton.

  Trace dove for his rifle. Slayton released Flanna and fired off a shot at the charging dog, but he missed. Trace’s shot didn’t. He caught Slayton right in the chest.

  The man jerked back. Samson jumped on him, pushing him to the ground. Shaking, Flanna reached for her dog. Trace ran forward. “Samson,” he said, lifting Flanna into his arms. The animal obeyed immediately, falling back to his side.

  Flanna buried her face in his chest. “You told me to stay. I wanted to help.”

  He kissed the top of her head and then kissed her precious nose, her beautiful eyes and her stubborn chin.

  She was crying and he could taste her tears. He hugged her close.

  “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  A shudder went through her and then she relaxed in his arms. At the same moment a party of riders came up over the bluff.

  Trace pushed Flanna behind him and raised his rifle. Both Samson and Delilah tensed, ready to attack.

  A man called out, “Mr. Cordell, Miss Kennedy, it’s me—Gustaf! I brought the marshal from Dodge.”

  Flanna reached down to soothe the dogs. Traced lowered his rifle but still held it ready. The riders made their way around the barricade, their horses stepping over some of the boards that had been knocked down.

  A minute later Gustaf, the marshal, and two men rode into the yard. The marshal was a stocky man with a no-nonsense expression.

  Flanna lit a lamp and put water on to boil for coffee.

  “It looks like a battlefield around here,” the marshal said. “Some of Slayton’s men ran right into us. I have a group of men a mile or so down the road holding them in custody.” He walked over to Slayton’s body and then faced Trace. “Guess you better tell me what happened, Sheriff Cordell.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, an overcast one, Flanna and Trace rode to Dodge to give a formal statement at the marshal’s office. Trace brought up the belief that Slayton had rustled Kennedy cattle. The marshal promised Slayton’s herds would be searched.

  Then Trace walked Flanna down to the wooden church in the field at the edge of town. There, the minister heard their vows.

  But in Flanna’s heart, no promises carried more weight than the ones she and Trace had made to each other the night before. She told him as much as they walked out the church door.

  “And what do you think Rory would have said if I hadn’t given you a proper ceremony?” he asked, holding the door open for her.

  “I think he would have agreed you are the finest, bravest man I know,” she answered.

  As if in benediction, rays of sunlight burst through the clouds. She slipped her hand into his. “There, see?” she whispered. “Rory is smiling. Come, Mr. Cordell, and take your wife home. We have a house to build.”

  Trace set his hat on his head at an angle. “Not just a house, love, but the finest spread in all Kansas.”

  Flanna laughed, filled with the joy of living. Life held endless promise. “Yes, my love, the finest.”

  Together, they walked back to their wagon and headed home.

  * * * * *

  Dakota Territory, 1886

&n
bsp; Sheriff Jake McCrery gave up gambling years ago; keeping the peace in Founder’s Creek Township is all the challenge he needs. Until Stacy Blackwell arrives in town and soon becomes a frequent visitor to the Sheriff’s office. Her crime? Diverting the Sheriff’s attention with her beauty, charm and the mischievous light in her eyes that ignites a fire in Jake that can’t be extinguished. He wants her as he’d never wanted anything in his life—enough to make one final gamble to win her heart….

  The Sheriff’s Last Gamble

  Lauri Robinson

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the Dakota Territory, where Stacy Blackwell is a true gambler at heart, as I suspect many of us are. I know I love taking a gamble every once in a while. Buying that lottery ticket, or playing a friendly game of cards, even dropping a dollar or two in a slot machine. Stacy and Jake learn love is life’s biggest gamble and put their hearts on the table. I hope you enjoy their fast-paced game of hitting it big as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  If you have a chance, stop by my blog, www.laurirobinson.blogspot.ca, or find me on Facebook or Twitter (the links are on my blog). I’d love to hear about your gambles.

  Happy reading,

  Lauri Robinson

  Dedication

  To my dear husband, who has always backed my bets.

  Contents

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Booklist

  Historical Undone BPA

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  1886

  Dakota Territory

  “How long you gonna sit there staring at those cards, darling?”

  The endearment was meant to irritate her, but Winston Ratcliff was a sharper, a player who gave the game a bad name, and therefore he’d been on Stacy Blackwell’s nerves long before he’d opened his mouth. Blocking out his sarcastic voice, she went right on studying her cards. The odds were in her favor.…

  Know your odds, baby girl, but don’t count on them. Count on your gut, it’ll never steer you wrong. It knows more than your mind ever can. Those were Pappy’s words echoing in her mind, taught long ago on one of the many riverboats she’d grown up on, and often repeated—usually on a steamer chugging through muddy water.

  A hefty pot sat in the center of the table: gold and silver coins, paper bills, a cheap watch dropped in by Chester Marks. None of which made her question her instincts. The sapphire-studded locket Winston had placed right smack in the middle of all that money, however, had her hesitating. The long chain had coiled into a cone atop the stones and now glistened in the light cast from the wall lanterns like a pile of gold in Founder’s Creek—if there ever could be gold in a creek that was dry half the year.

  That necklace was hers, and she wanted it back. But the hard knot in her stomach said that, no matter what the odds, Winston had a better hand than her full house of aces over eights. Dagnabit! If he won this pot, he’d be able to play for hours without putting up the necklace again. She, too, could play for hours if not for Sheriff Jake McCrery. He was due back in town in less than an hour, and the first place he’d come looking for her was here, Ma Belle’s House of Worship. A completely different kind of worship than took place in the more respectable building with its towering steeple on the edge of town, but more regularly used in Founder’s Creek Township, Dakota Territory.

  “Come on, girl, we ain’t got all day,” Chester said, setting his empty mug on the table with a thud.

  Stacy flashed the farmer a glare that said exactly what she thought of him and his big toe gambling. Just because a man got an itch didn’t mean he should sit down at a table. It soured the game for those committed to gaming. Namely her.

  “What’s it gonna be, darling? You in or not?” Winston asked, lighting up another one of his long cigars and puffing up a cloud of smoke before blowing a single ring to hover right over the necklace.

  The glitter of the chain pulled at her. It was only thing she’d ever been able to hold on to. Proof she had a family—a parent, who in her own way, loved her. But she couldn’t let Winston know that. No one could ever know that. All the more reason she couldn’t let the good sheriff find her here.

  Hiding her frustration, she shot a distasteful gaze straight across the table. “I’m not your darling, Ratcliff,” she said, with enough ire to dim the triumph in his beady eyes.

  Setting her cards facedown on the table, she gathered her money, folding the bills before slipping them into the bottom of the satchel attached to her wrist. The coins went in next, all except for two gold ones. Those she’d give to Faith Hickcomb. Lord knows the girl deserved it after schlepping drinks all day and working the rooms above half the night.

  “Too rich for your blood, is it?”

  Ratcliff had won a fair bit since arriving in town, so he thought he was a master of the game. In actuality, he had a lot to learn, and someday she’d prove it to him and get her necklace back. Neither the cards nor her gut said today was the day, so she’d wait. Patience was another thing Pappy had taught her.

  Stacy retrieved her parasol from the floor near her feet and kept her eyes on Ratcliff as she pushed away from the table. “No game’s ever been too rich for my blood. Nor will it ever be.”

  Always affable, at least whenever possible, she included Chester Marks in her parting nod to the rest of the men at the table. “Gentlemen,” she said, amazed at how inappropriate a simple word could be.

  On her way across the room, she dropped the coins from her hand on the little table where Faith sat resting her feet for a moment.

  “Thank you,” the girl whispered.

  Everything in life is a gamble and no one had the right to judge another for the way they chose to play. Leastwise, that’s what Pappy had taught her. Smiling and giving Faith a wink, Stacy strolled out the hinged half doors into the bright afternoon sun.

  Parasol overhead, she set a course for the church on the edge of town, her satchel heavy on her wrist. The pot, the one she’d won before Ratcliff had dangled her necklace over the table, had been a profitable one and Father O’Reilly would appreciate the funds.

  A short time later Stacy pushed open the door to exit the church, her purse empty but her heart full. A tingling sensation stirred inside her stomach, and making no effort to hide the grin forming on her lips she sauntered down the steps toward the big palomino standing in the street.

  It was the man astride the animal that held her attention. Tall, broad, and with hair as golden brown as the horse’s, Sheriff Jake McCrery had to be the most handsome man in these entire United States, based on her experience leastwise, which was considerable. Pappy had hauled her to most every state and all the territories in their twenty-three years of living together. The past three months in Founder’s Creek Township was the longest span of time she’d ever spent in one place.

  Stopping on the bottom step, she pushed open the parasol that matched the mint-green linen dress, tailored just for her without the prominent bustle some women found so stylish. All that extra material made sitting much too difficult.

  “Hello, Sheriff.”

  Jake McCrery swung one leg over the saddle horn and landed on the ground as smoothly as an eagle swoops into its nest.

  “Miss Blackwell.” He greeted her with a slight nod.

  With her insides tingling, and without a doubt he’d follow, Stacy started walking along the road. “Tell me, how is dear Uncle Edward today?”

  “Fine,” Jake answered. “He’d like you to visit soon.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said flatly. There was no sense getting riled over Edward Blackwell. She’d told him exactly what she thought of him three months ago, shortly after arriving
. Her heart, not always in agreement with her mind, stung strongly enough to make her tighten her hold on her parasol.

  “Speaking of bets,” Jake said, “how much did you win today?”

  Stacy pretended to glance over her shoulder at the palomino at their heels; in reality she wanted Jake to see the smile on her face. “Now, Sheriff McCrery, this morning you specifically forbade me from gambling.”

  “That hasn’t stopped you before.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” She shook her head so the hair she’d spent an hour curling this morning fluttered around her shoulders. She’d learned years ago to style its mousy brown color to catch attention, therefore keeping people from watching her face too closely during an intense point in a game. Lately, though, thoughts of the handsome sheriff filled her head while curling the tresses—actually, while she did most everything. “We both know I never gamble while you’re in town.”

  “How much was it?”

  At times Jake seemed immune to her charms, and that had her wondering if she’d missed a lesson or two of Pappy’s teachings along the way—not that Pappy had taught her about men, but he’d taught her about life and the two went hand in hand.

  Shrugging, mainly to keep a sigh from slipping out, she answered. “A few hundred.”

  Jake caught her arm, and though the heat of his touch had her toes curling, fury flashed in his mahogany-brown eyes.

  “Gambling’s a dangerous game, Stacy. You’re going to get yourself shot.”

  His concern was genuine, and that warmed her heart, but not even Jake McCrery would stop her from playing. “I’ve played in far worse places than Founder’s Creek.”

  “Then go there to play.”

  An unreadable poker face was one of her most prized accomplishments, but keeping it on right now was a struggle. Not only did Jake sound exasperated, he said the words like he meant them. Wrenching her arm from his hold, she started up the street. Anger snapped inside her, but more painful was the possibility he wanted her to leave. “I can’t,” she said.