by Kaki Warner
She took a deep breath and let it out, wishing Pru was still there. But Thomas had come by an hour earlier to take her to Declan’s house to watch the children, which had sent her reserved sister into such heights of delight she had almost dithered. Edwina wondered if she’d recovered enough yet to utter a word to her stoic escort.
“You don’t think he’ll mind taking all of us?” Maddie asked, throwing a short caped jacket over her own shoulders. “I would hate to intrude.”
“You’re dying to intrude,” Lucinda argued, waving them into the hallway. “You can’t wait to see his face when he sees Edwina.”
In better times, Edwina had worn gowns of lace and satin and brocade. She had adorned herself with costly jewels, rather than a single tiny garnet ring that had once belonged to her grandmother. She had walked down elegant staircases under fine crystal chandeliers that shimmered with the glittering light of dozens of candles. Yet now, as she descended the uncarpeted staircase of the rustic Heartbreak Creek Hotel, dressed in an outdated frock and a borrowed shawl and wearing a simple ribbon in her hair, she felt as shaky and breathless as a debutant headed to her first ball.
Declan stood in the lobby, hat in hand, looking broad and solid in his slightly worn black suit and stiff shirt with its high, banded collar that fit too snugly around his thick neck. She couldn’t see his expression because he was looking down at the long fingers playing over the brim of the Stetson he was gripping in both hands. His dark, damp hair caught the light from the sconces, showing glints of red and gold and deep shiny black, and already it was starting to slide down over his forehead as it dried. He muttered something, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sighed so deeply she could hear his exhale from the top landing.
My husband, she thought.
The idea of that—of him—of his not knowing how to dance but still taking her to this shivaree—made her smile.
“Good evening, Declan,” she called to him.
His head came up. For a moment, he went utterly still. Then as she started down toward him, his lips parted on a deep breath. He didn’t smile, nor did his expression betray his thoughts, but she saw his big hands tighten on the hat brim until the edge curled in his fingers.
“Ed,” he said.
That’s all. Just Ed. But hearing it spoken in his deep voice, and feeling the impact of that dark, unwavering stare made her feel more beautiful than she ever had.
It was like herding turtles, Declan decided, as he steered the women down the boardwalk at such a leisurely pace he had to clench his jaw to keep from yelling at them to “git along now” like he did with laggard calves.
It was also disconcerting the way people looked at them as they sashayed by. Declan “Big Bob” Brodie—the notorious ex-sheriff who had banished his wife to a horrible death at the hands of savages—ushering three beauties dressed in their Sunday best to the social event of the spring.
He was in high cotton, for sure. And hated every minute of it.
Glowering at a drunk gawking at the women from an alleyway, he wondered why he had let Ed push him into this. He wasn’t a dancer, didn’t dare drink with three women to nursemaid, and even though they were still a block away, he could already sense the whispers and speculations and sly glances headed their way. Hell.
He ran a finger between his sweating neck and his too-tight collar and wished he’d sent the boys into town to sell the cattle without him.
In an effort to stave off impatience, he studied the women walking ahead of him. Ed was the prettiest, even from the back, and especially in that blue dress that matched her lively eyes and with his ribbon wound through her glossy light brown curls. He had debated buying it and had hesitated giving it to her, not sure what she would make of it. But now he was glad he had. Whether it was the ribbon, or the dress, or her own vibrant self, she looked extra pretty this evening.
They were all lookers. Well-featured women, with trim waists and straight backs and rounded hips that moved side to side with each measured step. Ed’s moved more than the others, probably because her back was longest. Or maybe because she had a perkier stride, coming off her heel with a little bounce before she stepped forward onto her other foot. No toe-dragger, his Ed, but a woman who led with her chin, like she was pushing against an invisible barrier and was chomping at the bit to get through it.
His Ed. When had he started thinking of her as “his”?
A voice called his name, and he turned to see Emmet Gebbers angling across the street toward him, his sad-eyed wife clinging to his arm and struggling to keep up.
Emmet was both the banker and the mayor of Heartbreak Creek. He and Mrs. Gebbers had always treated Declan fairly, even when all the talk started. Probably because they had lost two sons in the war and still carried that grief in their eyes. Slowing from his turtle pace to a full stop, Declan touched two fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Gebbers. Emmet.”
Emmet puffed up like he did whenever he was around Declan, as if that might lessen the substantial gap in their heights. “Declan.”
Mrs. Gebbers gave him that soft smile that had probably marked her as a beauty thirty years earlier. Now she just looked tired and a little broken. “Mr. Brodie,” she murmured.
The other three women turned back, smiling expectantly at the newcomers. Declan introduced them to the elderly couple, then watched Ed hook them with her smile and reel them in with a healthy dose of southern charm. He almost laughed, wondering if they would be quite so taken with his gracious, soft-spoken wife if they knew she had threatened him with a pitchfork.
After a few pleasantries about the fine weather and the shivaree they were attending, they continued on together, the four women in the lead, the men following along in their wake. Aware of Emmet beside him, Declan tried not to watch Ed’s butt too much.
“Glad you’re here, Declan,” the older man said after they’d walked a stretch. The banker-mayor was one of the few who used his given name rather than Big Bob, which Declan appreciated. “With Tom Hamilton leaving, we’re out a sheriff.”
The collar seemed to tighten around Declan’s neck.
“You interested?”
“No.”
“I know things were a little rough when you left,” Emmet rushed on. “But most folks have put all that behind them. Water under the bridge.”
Declan didn’t respond.
“You were a good lawman, Declan. And if the railroads decide to reroute through Heartbreak Creek, we’ll need a good lawman again.”
Declan watched the sway of Ed’s hips and thought about Sally, and the ugliness of the past, and wondered how his hot-spirited wife would have reacted to some of the things that had been said about him back then—and some of the things that might yet be said about him tonight. “I’m a rancher now, Emmet.”
“You were a sheriff, too.”
“I’ve got kids. A new life.” A new wife.
“Think about it. That’s all I ask. And I’m not the only one asking. Aaron Krigbaum—you remember him, he owns the mine—he’s concerned, too. With the ore giving out, he’s having to let men go, and they’re starting to grumble. He’d like someone around to keep an eye on them so they don’t damage any equipment on their way out.”
Declan barely remembered Krigbaum. When he’d been sheriff before, the mine had been a lot busier and Krigbaum had stayed pretty much either up at the mine office or at home. The Krigbaums weren’t a particularly social couple.
“Just think about it,” Emmet pressed.
“All right. But don’t hold your breath.”
The party was already in full swing when they arrived. Not the usual old-fashioned shivaree with all the noise and revelry of a rowdy send-off for the newly wedded couple, but more like a combination good-bye gathering and wedding dinner, with food and music and dancing, as well as punch for the ladies and enough free-flowing whiskey behind the smithy’s shop to keep the men from running off home the first chance they got. The music was lively, the musicians
more enthusiastic than talented. The piano player and his piano had been brought down from the Red Eye Saloon and were joined by a fiddler, a harmonica player with a tambourine, a man with a washboard, and another who beat a tempo on a collection of overturned buckets. More noise than tune, but everyone seemed to enjoy it.
It didn’t take long for their group to attract notice. Even as Declan herded the ladies toward the food table, glances were shifting from him to Ed and whispers were starting. He was accustomed to it, but he regretted that he hadn’t warned his wife that not everybody would be in a welcoming mood. Especially Alice Waltham, who was marching toward them, her mouth pursed so tight it looked like a drawstring pouch.
Hoping to shield Ed, Declan stepped forward.
But Lucinda Hathaway and the Englishwoman flew past him like swooping hawks. “Why, Alice Waltham!” Lucinda Hathaway cried, hooking the other woman’s pudgy arm and neatly spinning her around and away from Ed. “What a beautiful dress!”
“French, I’ll warrant.” Maddie Wallace took her other arm. “I’m so parched, aren’t you? Do let’s have some punch, and you can tell us which fashion house you favor. New York or Paris? I do so hope you’ll let me take your photograph for my collection.” And before Alice seemed aware of it, they had steered her halfway across the room.
Which opened the path to all the men who’d been eyeing Ed.
And that’s when Declan’s real misery started.
It rankled that even with him standing guard, every man still on his feet thought he had a right to ask his wife to dance. And it rankled even more that his wife seemed so delighted to accept. In morose silence he watched her charm the townsfolk who had been so quick to think the worst of him a few years ago. People. Hell.
After an hour of kicking up her heels, she finally came back to him, her face flushed, her curls coming loose and sticking damply to the back of her slender neck, and her blue eyes dancing with life.
“Oh, Declan,” she said breathlessly, grabbing his forearm with both hands. “Isn’t it grand? I declare, if it got any better I’d have to hire someone to help me enjoy it. My feet are in agony.”
“We can go if you’d like,” he offered hopefully.
“Don’t be silly. You haven’t danced with me yet.”
“I don’t dance.”
Her grin turned wicked. “You will.”
“I won’t.”
“Stubborn as a blue-nose mule.” She looked past him, then stiffened, her nails biting through his suit and shirt and into his arm. “Oh, no!”
“What?” He jerked around, half expecting to see a war party bearing down on them. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s coming over here.”
“Who?”
“That stinky man.” Suddenly all aflutter, she grabbed his other arm and yanked him around to face her. “Quick. Dance with me.”
“I told you I don’t dance.”
“You have to! He smells horrid. And look.” Releasing his arms, she thrust her hands into his face. The gloved palms were damp and grimy and smelled faintly of . . . wet dog? “He’s filthy. Now hurry before he gets here.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Pretend, for mercy’s sake!” Grabbing his right hand, she slapped it onto her left hip, then gripped his left hand in her right, and thrust it out as far as her shorter arm would allow. “Just stand there and sway. Dancing isn’t that complicated.”
He looked down at her, trapped by those blue eyes and the feel of her hip beneath his hand. “I know.”
“What?” She drew back. “You know?”
“I do.” And before she could cut loose at him, he wrapped his right arm around her back and pulled her so close he could smell her flowery scent and feel the heat of her body from his belt buckle to his chest. “Hold on,” he said and, grinning down into her surprised face, took the first step.
And suddenly Edwina was flying in a whirling, sweeping waltz, around and around, dip and turn, until she felt like her feet were floating above the ground, and all that bound her to the earth was his strong arm around her waist and his dark eyes smiling down at her.
It was heaven. It was the best of the past come alive again. It was youth and joy. It was wonderful.
When the music finally slowed, she settled back to the earth, breathless and grinning and wishing it could go on forever.
“You said you couldn’t dance,” she accused as she struggled to catch her breath.
“No, I said I didn’t dance.”
“Why not?”
“I look like a circus bear.”
“You silly man. You’re anything but a circus bear.”
Some of the amusement left his eyes as he looked around. “I doubt they think so.”
She pivoted to follow his gaze and saw the faces staring back at them. Some in envy. Some in derision. Most in amusement.
“I don’t like making a spectacle of myself,” he muttered, a red stain inching up his neck. “Or you.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, Declan, sometimes you’re so sweet I could just eat you up with a spoon.” And to prove it, she rose on tiptoe and planted a quick kiss on his cheek, which brought a chuckle from the nearest gawkers, and a deeper flush to his face. Turning, she waved past the staring townspeople to the piano player and the ragtag musicians gathered around him. “Another waltz,” she called gaily. “I want to dance with my husband.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
She laughed. “But, Declan, it’s so much fun.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant dancing was so much fun or goading him into doing it was. Either way, he couldn’t resist the teasing challenge in her lively blue eyes. At that moment, he would do near anything she wanted.
“I warned you,” he murmured against her rose-scented hair. And anchoring her in his arms, they danced. Around and around, clearing the other dancers out of their way with their exuberance, bobbing and dipping and twirling to the rhythmic clapping of the watchers. Until she was panting, and even Declan was out of breath.
Until all the gawking faces were forgotten, and it was just the two of them holding on to each other as they twirled around and around.
Until a scream cut through the magic, and a blood-drenched man with a wooden leg and an arrow sticking out of his back staggered into the light and collapsed at their feet.
Declan stumbled to a stop, instinctively clutching Ed tight to his chest.
Then a man shouted, “Good God, that’s Chick! Indians got Chick!”
And instantly Declan’s experience snapped him into action. Spinning Ed around, he pointed her toward Lucinda and Maddie. “Go to the hotel. Lock the door and don’t open it to anyone but me or Thomas.”
“What about Pru and the children?”
“I’ll get them. Go. Now!”
Bending over Chick, he began issuing orders. “Send for Doc Boyce,” he told one man. “You,” he said to another. “Get the women out of here. Hamilton, have the men who can shoot get rifles and meet outside the bank. The rest of you, barricade yourselves inside until we know what’s going on.”
People scattered in a rush. Shouts echoed along the canyon walls. Horses ran past, buggy wheels kicking up dust.
Doc ran up, his black satchel in his hand. Shoving Declan aside, he rolled Chick onto his side and cut open the shirt to reveal that the arrow had passed through Chick’s back to emerge just under his collarbone in front. Both wounds were starting to clot, which Declan took as a good sign.
“Chick,” he said, trying to distract the boy from what Doc was doing. “What happened? Who did this?”
“L-Left me for d-dead.” The cowboy’s voice was a wobbly rasp. His eyes rolled in their sockets. “Tore up the p-place. Looking for you. Oh!” His body twisted, his spine arching as Doc probed the entrance wound on his back. “Sweet Jesus, take me now!”
“Quit whining,” Doc ordered. “You’re not dying. You,” he called to two men grabbing food off the table, “stop stuffing your faces and come c
arry this man to my office.”
“Who?” Declan prodded as the men came to lift Chick to his feet. “Who was looking for me?”
“T-Tall. Busted nose. A-Arapaho. Holy Christ that hurts!”
Lone Tree.
Heart pounding, Declan shot to his feet. He spun, looking for a horse, didn’t see one, and started to run.
Edwina stopped pacing and stared at the closed door, willing it to fly open and for Declan and Pru and the children to come bursting inside.
It didn’t.
She resumed pacing. “They should be here by now, shouldn’t they? It’s been hours.”
“It’s been less than fifty minutes,” Lucinda reminded her, looking serene and composed in her chair opposite Maddie by the window, the only sign of her agitation being the way her fingers traced and retraced the seam on the grip of the tiny four-barreled pepperbox pistol resting in her lap.
“I should have gone to his house to help with the children.”
“You don’t know where his house is,” Maddie pointed out.
“I could have asked.”
“He told you to come here.” Lucinda’s tone was edged with impatience. “And here is where he’ll come when all is safe.”
“I’m sure everything is fine,” Maddie soothed. “But I do wish you’d stop waving that huge pistol about, Edwina. It isn’t loaded, is it?”
“Of course it’s loaded. What good would it do if it weren’t loaded?” As soon as the words were out, Edwina wanted them back. Stopping mid-stride, she gave Maddie an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Maddie. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just so worried.”
“I know, dear.”
Edwina counted fifteen steps to the far wall, turned, and counted fifteen steps back. Two more laps and I’m going after them, by God.
