by Megan Besing
Her abductor groaned. “I can feel the life draining from me. There’s a tunnel ahead!”
The sheriff scratched his temple. “What’s happened to him?”
“What do you think happened?” The colonel inspected the man’s bleeding arm. “I shot him.”
Delia pressed her handkerchief over her lips and swayed. She’d never had much of a stomach for gore.
“He’s killed me,” the man groaned. “I’m going home to meet my maker.”
“Only if your maker is the prison warden.” The colonel grunted. “I barely winged you. It’s not even bleeding anymore.”
The sheriff’s scratching grew more vigorous. “Why did you shoot him?”
“Because he was attempting to steal fifty dollars from this man.” Colonel Morgan indicated the gentleman with the exaggerated mustache cowering near the bar. “While attempting to abduct this woman.”
“Is that true, miss?”
“Yes.” Delia lifted her chin. “It’s true. Ask the justice of the peace if you don’t believe us.”
With his papers strewn across the raised stage, Elroy cowered behind the table. He peered around his makeshift bunker. “Is everything clear?”
“It’s all clear,” Delia assured the frightened man.
With a mournful grimace, Elroy shook one of his papers. Ink-tinged whiskey dripped into an oily puddle. “Now that’s a real shame. That was a single malt.” He glared at the wounded man. “I’m charging you extra for the spilt whiskey.”
“You’ll never see a dime from Old Pete.” The injured man appeared rather robust all of a sudden given his earlier ominous predictions. “That feller still has my fifty dollars.”
Delia’s tumble down the stairs had left her aching and bruised, and her hat drooped sadly over her face. She adjusted the feathered brim, wincing as she lifted her arm. After securing her hatpin, she sorted through the various discomforts in turn. Though her head throbbed, nothing appeared broken.
The mustachioed man drained his mug of beer in one swallow and gestured with the empty glass. “That military fellow saved the little lady’s life.”
“Him?” she snapped. “I’m the one who tripped the outlaw down the stairs.”
“Near killed me,” Old Pete added. “I might have broken my neck.”
“Probably you ought to have thought that through, miss.” The mustachioed swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Old Pete was still holding the gun. He might have killed someone when you threw him off balance.” The man’s brow furrowed. “Say, your eye don’t look so good.”
While the sheriff hovered uncertainly, Colonel Morgan, who had already divested Old Pete of his gun, discovered a knife in the man’s boot. With the subsequent loss of each weapon, Old Pete thrashed and griped. The colonel ignored the outlaw’s complaints and tied a length of cloth securely around his wounded upper arm.
All of Delia’s bumps and bruises screamed for her attention, and she tentatively touched the edge of her eye, feeling a raised lump.
The colonel turned toward her. His face paled and he cupped the side of her cheek, moving her head gently toward the light. “You’re developing quite a shiner.”
“Old Pete jabbed me with his elbow during the fall,” she replied weakly.
The colonel’s eyes weren’t as dark as she’d thought at first. There were flecks of gold near the pupils, softening the hue. He retrieved a starched handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at the bruised spot. Breathless once more, Delia remained still during his ministrations.
“I should have known you had a plan,” she said by way of apology. “As a military man, it’s logical you’d react with precision given the situation.”
The colonel tilted his head. “You’re a very unusual woman, Miss Lawrence.”
“You don’t have to be unkind.”
“Why do you think I’m being unkind?’
“Because people tell me that I’m unusual all the time, but they don’t mean it as a compliment.”
“I do.”
Those two, simple words echoed the proxy vows they’d taken moments before, and her stomach did an odd little flip.
The colonel’s expression hardened. “Is there a doctor in this forsaken town?”
“Yes. Fetch the doctor.” Releasing his wound, Old Pete pushed upright, his legs stretched out before him. “Call the priest. I need Last Rights.”
“You ain’t even Catholic.” The man with the mustache guffawed. “And there ain’t no priest in Tobacco Bend.”
“I’m feeling weak. I’m slipping away.”
“The doctor isn’t for you.” The colonel emptied the bullets from the man’s gun in a clatter on the bar. “The doctor is for Miss Lawrence.”
“I’m not hurt,” she insisted. The excitement was wearing off, and her hands trembled uncontrollably. She clenched her fingers into tight fists. She wasn’t some namby-pamby woman who fell apart at the first sign of danger. “I’m only bruised. I don’t need a doctor. I’d prefer returning to the hotel.”
The pungent aroma of gunpowder curdled her stomach. She needed a little time to collect herself. Certainly she’d known of the dangers involved in traveling through the untamed territory; she’d simply underestimated the risk. No matter. With a few adjustments, she’d be on her way once more. She’d set her plan in motion, and there was no going back now. Perhaps she’d even purchase a gun.
She gave the colonel a sidelong glance. She knew nothing about firearms, but she was a quick learner. He might be persuaded to teach her, especially considering they were now related through marriage.
The justice scooted from his hiding place and dusted his knees. “I’ll bring paperwork for the marriage by the hotel in the morning.”
Since there was only one hotel in Tobacco Bend, there was little use in providing more information.
Despite her protests, the colonel insisted on accompanying her back to her lodging. Once in the hotel, they took a seat among the gathering of chairs and tables that served as the hotel’s restaurant, bar, and lobby. For a small fee, the clerk managed to rustle up some ice. Sean wrapped a generous block in his handkerchief and pressed the soothing cold against her rapidly swelling eye.
Oddly exhausted by the unexpected turn of events, she stifled a yawn. “Do you realize that you’re my brother-in-law now?”
“Hmm. I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing much of each other after today.” His warm breath puffed against her cheek, raising gooseflesh along her neck. “Your family lives in Denver and I’m stationed all over the country.”
“I don’t suppose we will.”
The idea left her inexplicably melancholy.
He lifted the ice from her temple and leaned back. “What are you hiding, Miss Lawrence? Why are you really here?”
Her heart stalled in her chest before she realized this man had no hold on her. He had no say in her plans.
She tilted her head and gave him a sidelong glance through her good eye. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you obviously didn’t come all this way for your sister.” He held up his hand to stay her protest. “I don’t doubt your loyalty to Becky. But as a man who thrives on completing a task, I can tell when someone is focused on a mission.”
“I’m here to interview Littlebury Helm for The Rocky Mountain News,” she declared, her chin set at a defiant angle.
“Littlebury Helm?” A fury of color suffused the colonel’s face. “The murderous outlaw?”
“That’s the one.”
“Over my dead body.”
Chapter 3
Are you out of your mind?” For the second time in a day, Sean struggled to regain legendary control. “The man is a killer!”
“I’ve been corresponding with him for months,” Miss Lawrence replied matter-of-factly. As though she hadn’t just brightly admitted the receiver of that correspondence was a murderous outlaw. “He’s finally agreed to an interview in person.”
“You’ve been writing letters to that
cold-blooded killer, Miss Lawrence?”
“You might as well call me Delia. We’re in-laws, after all,” she said. “Littlebury is extremely articulate. But I won’t be able to truly understand him unless I can speak with him in person.”
She was meeting with an outlaw. In person. Alone.
He felt as though the blood had drained from his body. “What does his ability to articulate a thought have to do with anything?”
“It’s part of his story, part of who he is as a person. I’m doing a personal interest exposé for the newspaper. An in-depth story into the life of an outlaw.” She splayed her hands as though she were unfurling a banner. “From rancher to outlaw.”
“A murderer is not a personal interest story. A personal interest story should evoke sympathy in the reader. Something with orphans or widows or baby animals. Why would anyone want to read drivel about an outlaw?”
“Because people are fascinated with criminals.”
A waiter appeared at their table, a piece of paper in one hand and pencil gripped in the other. “What’ll you have?”
The man was squat and grizzled with a grease-stained apron, crescents of black beneath his fingernails, and a smile that probably frightened small children.
“What are you serving?” Sean glanced around for a chalked menu.
“Dinner,” the waiter said. “Maud serves lunch, and we serve dinner.”
“Dinner sounds lovely,” Delia said.
Her angelic smile sent a blush over the waiter’s cheeks.
Sean rolled his eyes. “Then we’ll both take the dinner.”
With painstaking precision, the waiter carefully wrote the words two dinners.
Sean pressed the ball of his hand against his throbbing temple. “There are only two of us in the restaurant, and there’s only one choice for a meal. Perhaps you could simply memorize the order.”
The waiter twisted his lips into something that might have been meant to resemble a grin, and Sean recoiled. Definitely a smile only a mother could love.
“I don’t tell you how to do your soldiering.” The waiter capped his words with a flourish. “Save your advice for your troops.”
Delia dropped the hand holding the wrapped piece of ice, revealing her bruised eye. The lid was nearly swollen shut, and Sean winced.
The waiter scowled at Sean. “Takes a real coward to wallop a lady.”
“He didn’t hit me!” Delia gasped in protest. “This was an accident.”
“Sure, lady. Whatever you say.” The waiter scowled. “Two dinners.”
After he disappeared into the kitchen, Delia leaned closer. “I don’t think he believed me. If you’re not terribly hungry, I’d forgo dinner. Just in case.”
Sean crossed his arms over his chest. He’d given his life to protect those who couldn’t defend themselves. Having folks believe he’d abused Delia smarted. He stuck his index finger in his collar and tugged. Let them believe whatever they wanted to believe. He knew the truth. He certainly didn’t need the approval of a waiter who had to write down two dinners for the only patrons in the hotel ordering the only meal provided.
His expression softened. “I’d best take another look at your eye.”
“Why?”
“Facial bones around the socket are delicate. They might have been injured.”
He gently probed the area, but there was no sign of more extensive damage. She didn’t complain, though the injury must hurt something fierce.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice sounding slightly breathless.
“How do you plan on conducting your interview with Littlebury?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a man with an exaggerated attachment to law and order. You’d be compelled to tell the authorities if you knew his whereabouts.”
Sean flushed. Her ability to read his thoughts was unnerving. “Why do you think that?” he prevaricated.
“You’re a soldier. You like having a plan. You’re certainly not going to miss the opportunity to capture an outlaw.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider,” he said. “The interview is pointless.”
“Nonsense. Littlebury is a person, just the same as anyone else. He has a story to tell. Aren’t you the least bit curious about his motivation?”
“I’ll tell you his motivation,” Sean snorted. “Greed. Pure and simple. Greed combined with a lack of morality. Why not tell the story of one of the men he killed? Surely they have a story to tell, as well.”
Her expression shifted—a slight wavering that gave him hope.
“I understand your concerns,” she said. “And your comments are appreciated, but I’m going to interview Mr. Helm no matter what you say.”
The stubborn little minx. Sean admired her dedication, even though she was a fool to risk her life on such a worthless venture. “If you can’t tell me where you’re meeting, perhaps you can tell me when you’re meeting this outlaw?”
“Why?”
“So I can make arrangements for your funeral.”
“I don’t know when exactly.” She ignored his provoking comment. “There are difficulties, you understand.”
“I imagine law and order is quite tedious in your line of work, Miss Lawrence.”
“He’s going to send me a telegram stating the parameters for the interview.”
“I can’t believe you’ve managed to keep up this correspondence without either of you getting caught.” Perhaps admiration wasn’t the right word for Delia. Stubborn was the better word. “Let me guess. He’s sending the telegram to Tobacco Bend?”
“I didn’t say that.” Delia’s gaze flitted away. “I won’t let you trick me into revealing more. We have an elaborate systems of codes to protect us both.”
“And you used your sister as cover to make the trip?”
“Becky was determined to marry your brother. I simply exploited the travel to my favor. My father didn’t trust Becky traveling alone.”
“He should have sent a third person to look after you,” Sean mumbled. “Preferably a large, dangerous, armed person.”
And ugly. Perhaps with a hunchback and a receding hairline. The idea of a handsome, swashbuckling hero as her bodyguard landed like a rock in his stomach. The image changed and he pictured himself galloping to the rescue, her grateful smile beaming over him like heavenly rays. Blinking rapidly, he willed the fantasy away. He mustn’t be distracted from ferreting out her plans.
Telegraph operators gossiped worse than widows at a church picnic. He was owed a few favors, and the time had come to collect. As the man who’d brought the telegraph lines safely across the length of the state, he had plenty of contacts. With a few words dropped in the right ears, he’d trap Littlebury Helm and his gang of Innocents. Sean rested his hand over his holster.
Even the ironic name of the gang annoyed him. “Let me capture Littlebury and his men. You can interview them at your leisure while they’re safely behind bars.”
“They’re hardly going to speak with me if they think I’ve betrayed them.” She tsked. “Do you have some sort of personal vendetta against Littlebury?”
“No.” Her ability to effortlessly predict the direction of his thoughts was growing increasingly annoying. “I don’t believe in vendettas. I do, however, keep my promises.”
And he’d promised his two dead soldiers justice.
Delia blinked at him with her good eye, and his blood simmered. He’d been standing ten feet away from her, and he hadn’t prevented her injury.
He’d ensure Old Pete was prosecuted to the full extent of the law for that little stunt in the saloon. “And Becky’s marriage provided the subterfuge for this plan?”
Since she wasn’t giving him the full story, he might as well nip around the edges.
“Merely convenient. With Becky safely married,” Delia said, “my father will let me stay in Montana for a few more weeks. Just to help her settle in.”
“That’s a
terrible wedding gift. If your mere presence doesn’t put a damper on the honeymoon, your murder is going to end the festivities all together.”
She glanced down before lifting her hands. “Oh gracious. I’m only wearing one glove. In all the excitement, I left the other in the saloon. I’d best fetch it.”
She half stood and Sean placed a restraining hand on her arm.
“Later,” he spoke, his voice more clipped than he’d intended. He wasn’t letting her traipse through the saloon alone. By now, the rest of the men had returned from the break with their various grievances simmering just below the surface. There’d be another brawl before day’s end. “You’re an independent-minded woman. Why beg for your father’s permission at all?”
“According to the State of Colorado, he can send the law after me if I leave home without his permission. He’s even threatened as much. You don’t understand, because you’re a man. A woman doesn’t have any rights. The only way of escaping my father’s authority is by getting married myself.”
The mere idea of her marrying another left him inexplicably furious, but he kept his emotions carefully concealed. “Then why not simply find a husband?”
“Ugh.” Her nose wrinkled. “You’re jesting, I presume.”
He wasn’t curious for his own purposes. Merely pecking around the edges of her plans while deciding how to quell her motivation.
Motivation.
That was the key to dissuading Delia. She wanted to feel important. She didn’t want to die in obscurity. Did she truly want to prove herself to the whole world? Or merely the one person she saw as suppressing her liberties? Her intentions were all too familiar, and he tugged on his collar again.
He’d entered the army at sixteen with a note he’d forged. He’d spent the past dozen years proving he was a better soldier than his father. A better man. What had he gained in all that time? Promotions and medals. He’d also drifted away from his family. He hadn’t seen his father in years. He only spoke with Paul when his brother contacted him, and their interactions invariably ended in an argument.
