by Eli Easton
Trace grunted. “Well. Can’t say as I ever gave it much thought.”
Robby laughed. “Honestly, I think I could fall in love with the West. There’s something addicting about the open spaces.”
“Got in your blood, did it?” Trace said with a smile.
Robby thought it was more than the West that had gotten into his blood. He traced the fur on Trace’s muscled belly. Damn, he loved that. He wanted to memorize it. He wished he could draw a picture.
“Maybe it’s not so awful if I can’t go back to New York. Assuming I can stay alive and shake the Bowery Boys for good, I’d like to go to San Francisco.”
“I had that notion once,” Trace admitted.
“Really? You should come with me.” Robby said it lightly. It was too soon to try to stake a claim, and he honestly wasn’t trying to. But the idea of traveling with Trace was appealing.
Trace stiffened. “Kind of lost my yen to travel. When I left Flat Bottom, I wanted to see new places. Thought I was gonna be a famous gunfighter, only for Uncle Sam. I saw enough out there to know it ain’t paradise.”
There was something in his voice that spoke of dark times. Robby frowned, but he didn’t probe.
“Anyhow, the quiet life suits me fine.”
“And then I show up.”
Trace smiled. “Yup. Then you show up. Trouble in a wide-brimmed bonnet.”
Robby smiled too, but he felt stupid now for inviting Trace to go along with him. Why on earth would he? They barely knew each other. Robby changed the subject. “I still want to act. Hopefully I can get roles in San Francisco. I never wanted to do anything else.”
“Never? How’d ya come up with the idea of actin’ if ya grew up on a farm?” Trace stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and dropped the butt. He put both arms around Robby’s shoulders.
Robby loved that Trace wanted to talk, that he seemed to find pleasure in learning about each other and not just in having sex. He snuggled deeper into Trace’s lap. “Winter nights are long and cold in Pennsylvania. My mother entertained us kids by reading and acting out stories. We’d take turns playing various roles, half the time with dishcloths on our head.” Robby smiled at the memory. “It was my favorite thing in the world. My older brothers got to an age where they refused to take part, but I never outgrew it. I only ever wanted more.”
“I can’t imagine growing up in a family like that,” Trace said with a hint of envy. “Your ma sounds real nice.”
“She was. Is. They came to see me perform a couple of times in New York. She was so proud.” Robby felt a pang of longing for his family. It’d been years since he’d taken the time to go visit.
“When ya were a kid, what sort of things did you act out? Bible scenes?”
“No. We had a big old book of plays. Shakespeare and a few other things. My favorite was Midsummer Night’s Dream. My brothers made fun of me because that was always my choice when it was my turn to pick. I loved playing Nick Bottom. I never did get to do that role on a real stage.”
Trace grunted.
“And Romeo and Juliet too.”
“Say somethin’ for me.” Trace asked so sweetly, and with such anticipation, that Robby obliged him.
He gave a huge sigh. “These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder which, as they kiss, consume.”
Trace squeezed Robby’s biceps. “Christ on a crutch. Your voice is like music. Like . . . like, I dunno, bells. And that sounds about like you and me. Fire and powder.”
“Except there’s nothin’ keeping us apart.” Robby suddenly felt unable to catch his breath.
“Except that we’re both men,” Trace said flatly.
That hurt. It shouldn’t. It couldn’t be truer or more obvious. But the way Trace said it, so final, with a hint of bitterness, it did.
Trace gave Robby’s shoulders another squeeze. “Now come on, Robby. I need to get back to town to see if there’s been any news from Santa Fe. And ya need to get back to the ranch where it’s safe.”
Yes. Robby’s momentary reprieve was over. It was time to become Rowena again.
“Can we meet back here tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure. But if ya have any trouble gettin’ away, don’t come. I’ll figure it out.”
“Believe me. When I want something, I can usually make it happen.”
Trace gave a bemused shake of the head. “Now, that I can believe.”
Chapter Nineteen
That night at supper, they’d all just gotten seated—Marcy and Emmie too—when Trace walked in. Robby was surprised. Trace hadn’t mentioned he’d be at the ranch again so soon.
“Two nights in a row?” Clovis huffed in disbelief. “To what do we owe this miracle of nature?”
“What’s the matter, ya need money or somethin’?” Roy asked.
Wayne said, “Bet there’s some woman in town he’s tryin’ to avoid. Did old Mrs. Jones decide she needed a new husband?”
All the brothers laughed as if that was hilarious.
Trace shrugged. “Get used to it. I just moved some things into the bunkroom in the barn.”
“Ya what, now?” Clovis looked astonished.
“Why would you do that?” asked Wayne.
“The stove got left open and it got all smoky,” Trace said with a shrug.
“Ya moved out ’cause of smoke? Ya practically crawled out of here draggin’ one leg behind ya not a year ago!” Roy sneered.
“I thought you were allergic to ranch work,” Wayne teased.
Trace’s brothers gave him such a hard time that Robby got a good idea of the distance Trace had put between himself and his family. Only now he was moving back. Robby kept his focus on his plate, pretending he had no stake in this game. But honestly, it would be a relief to have Trace nearby.
Then again, it meant Trace was taking the threat of the Bowery Boys damned seriously. And that made Robby’s fear resurface in his belly like the fin of a shark.
Pa-Pa, seated to Robby’s left, looked down the table at Trace with a knowing set to his face. He didn’t seem surprised in the least. “Will you boys stop chafin’ your brother’s hide. Trace knows what he’s doin’. Maybe he’s seen some cattle rustlers in the area. Maybe he thinks they’ll be comin’ our way.”
“Cattle rustlers?” Roy said in a disbelieving tone. “Where have there been cattle rustlers?”
“Around,” Trace said dryly.
“If cattle rustlers are comin’, I’ll shoot ‘em dead!” Billy put in, his “dead” sounding like “day-ed”, which made Robby smile despite himself.
“Hush, boy,” Pa-Pa scolded. “Now y'all settle down. I don’t want Rowena to get the idea that any son of mine is not welcome in my house. Rowena, guess ya already met that scoundrel over there, but that’s my third boy, Trace. He was in the army and now he’s the sheriff of Flat Bottom.”
Pa-Pa said this with pride, like he was introducing a celebrity.
Trace looked down the table and nodded. “Miss Fairchild. Yes, we met in Santa Fe.”
Robby appreciated the cue because he wasn’t sure what Trace had told his father. “I remember. It’s a pleasure to renew your acquaintance.”
Pa-Pa cackled. “Ya see how fancy she talks?” he told Trace. “I paid two hundred dollars to get ’er out here, and you can see what kindy class she is.”
Robby gave Trace a wide-eyed look.
Pa-Pa turned to Robby. “Now ya might be wonderin’ how it is that my third son is single and yet you’re set to marry my fourth son, Clovis.”
Clovis wiped his beard in a frustrated gesture, looking not at all pleased.
“Well, ya see, Trace there don’t wanna get married. Not ever. No way, no how. Ain’t that right, Trace?”
“That’s right, Pa,” Trace drawled.
“But he’s not entirely a waste. He sure is a fine marksman. He was one of them sharpshooters in the army.”
“Was he, now?” Robby said with genuine interest.
&n
bsp; That shifted Robby’s view of Trace a bit. He’d said he’d been in the army, but the word sharpshooter brought up a vision of Trace on horseback in uniform, aiming a rifle as he galloped along. It was not an unappealing vision.
“Maybe it’s in the blood,” Pa-Pa mused. “I swear, there’s all kindy talent in the Crabtree family.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” Robby said.
“Clovis, for instance, he’s a good little woodworker.”
“He is. He made a rack for my clothes. I’ve never seen one so cleverly built. And Emmie said he made that high chair when Billy was born.”
Down the table, Clovis relaxed. He even looked at Robby and offered a shy smile.
Robby saw through Pa-Pa. He was warning Rowena off Trace, and for good reason. He was obviously the “good-looking one,” and poor Clovis couldn’t compete in that arena. If Robby were Rowena Fairchild, Trace might well steal her heart. Hell, if Rowena were here, she’d probably throw herself at Trace with arms and legs spread akimbo.
Which was ironic when Robby really thought about it.
That evening, Trace had unpacked a few sets of clothes, his comb, shaving kit, and other items from his saddlebags, and was just sitting down on the cot in the bunkroom to take off his boots when there was a sharp rap on the door. It opened and Clovis walked in.
He stood there looking at Trace without saying anything, so Trace continued to remove his boots. He stretched his grateful toes and settled back on the cot, his back to the wall. “What?”
Clovis grunted and closed the door. He leaned against the wall. “What the hell are ya doin’ back here, really?”
“Maybe I just missed your sorry face.”
Clovis snorted. “Right. Hope it ain’t ’cause there’s a pretty gal in the house.”
“What?” Trace scoffed. “Hell no.” But his voice sounded false to his own ears.
Fortunately, Clovis didn’t pick up on it. He took out a bit of wood and picked at his teeth. “What do you make of her? Miss Fairchild?”
“What should I make of her?”
“She sure is somethin’.” Clovis scratched at his scalp, though how he could even find it through all that hair was a mystery. “Ya should have seen it this mornin’. She told Pa-Pa she was drivin’ the gals into town, and to give her twenty dollars to buy fabric to make everyone new clothes, and he done it.”
Trace gasped so hard he choked on spit and commenced to coughing for several moments. He’d known about the shopping trip. But twenty dollars? That was a downright fortune.
Clovis nodded at him solemnly. “I know it. It’s like hell froze over, but I seen it myself. Rowena said the kids hadn’t a decent scrap to their names, and started talkin’ about fences and what her ma always said. We expected Pa to lay into her, but he just backed down.”
“Christ on a crutch. I’ve never seen Pa back down on anythin’.”
“Me either.”
“Plus, he let ’em go alone,” Trace said. “I saw ’em in town.” He’d been so upset, he’d forgotten to ask Robby about how he’d pulled it off.
“I know it. Rowena said they couldn’t wait till Saturday, and how they had to make dresses for the wedding and, sure enough, she got her way.”
Trace knew why Pa-Pa would never let the gals go to town alone. And he’d figured that paranoia ran deep. The thought of his mother still hurt. It stung in a peculiar way, a sort of bewildered way, as if every part of Trace had grown up, but that specific feeling was still four years old and just didn’t understand. Trace didn’t even remember much about his mother. It was more like he remembered the idea of her. Knowing that she had loved him so little she could just walk away—to this day he had a hard time believing it. As an adult, he knew better than anyone how being around Pa could drive a person to madness. He himself had run off as soon as he could. But that old pain was still there.
“What do you make of it all?” Clovis asked.
“I think Rowena has a lot of sand.”
“Sand? What the hell does that mean?”
It was a word Trace had heard Robby use. “Gumption. Grit. Balls.”
Clovis grinned. “She sure does. Wanna know somethin’? She scares me a little.”
Trace snorted a laugh. Truth be told, Robby scared him too, but probably for entirely different reasons.
Then the fact hit him anew that “Rowena” was supposed to marry Clovis. Marry. Clovis. And all humor faded. He’d lain with Robby just that afternoon, had taken him in every way a man can take another man. And he wanted more, still craved Robby with a fever.
He felt like a heel. He knew Clovis’s tastes, knew he wouldn’t want Robby the way he really was, wouldn’t want a man. He’d been female-struck from a young age. But it still felt like the deception was a sure-enough rotten thing to do.
“Do ya like her?” Trace asked, needing to know.
Clovis didn’t answer for a moment, his entire face pursed in a frown. “I dunno. She’s beautiful. And smart. But I can’t see that she fits me. She ain’t nothin’ like Miss Stubbens.”
Clovis didn’t know the half of it.
“Once the weddin’s over, I reckon I’ll warm up to it. But . . .”
“But what?” Trace pushed.
Clovis frowned some more. “Aw, nothin’. Just don’t wanna always feel I ain’t good enough for my own wife. She’s a bit fancy. Can’t really see her bein’ happy here.”
Trace wanted to tell Clovis he was good enough for any gal. And he wanted to reassure him his bride would be lucky to have him. If this were any normal woman, Trace would buck up his baby brother. But this was Robby they were talking about, and that wedding was never going to happen.
“I think that’s smart,” Trace said carefully. “Not to get too attached just yet. She might not stay.”
Clovis looked at him sharply. “What makes ya say that?”
“No reason. I’m just agreein’ with ya, idjit. Smart to wait until all the chips are on the table.”
“Somethin’s goin’ on. What is it?”
Trace just looked at him.
“You movin’ back here is weird. Hell, I couldn’t drag ya to the ranch with a lasso these past months. Ya said ya had to be in town of an evenin’’.”
“Stan’s keepin’ an eye out for me in town. Like Pa said—”
“Don’t give me that bull about cattle rustlers. Tell me the truth, Trace.”
Trace wanted to. He was lying about enough things to Clovis. Besides, his brothers should know what was coming. So Trace told Clovis about the fugitive on Rowena’s wagon train, the Bowery Boys, Stoltz’s slit throat, and about how they might come looking to question Rowena.
“I need to be close. And we need to get ready in case that trouble comes. Thought we should do some target shootin’. Maybe tomorrow after chores.”
Clovis, surprisingly, was excited. “Well, hot damn! I always envied you goin’ off to the army and havin’ all that fun.” He grinned. “Now it looks like a fight’s gonna come to us, right here on this ranch. How lucky can a fella get?”
Chapter Twenty
Friday
Robby was helping Marcy and Emmie clean up after breakfast when he heard gunshots outside. Terror struck his heart and he raced to the window. He expected to see the Bowery Boys on horseback riding up the lane, just as he’d seen them coming up to the wagon train. But there was no one on the lane or the distant road.
He heard another shot and peered around. Standing in an open area next to the pigpen were Wayne, Roy, Trace, Clovis, and Pa-Pa. They were shooting at peach and bean cans arranged on four barrels.
A surge of relief rushed through Robby. The shooting wasn’t the Bowery Boys. But as he watched the men aim and fire, it occurred to him that this wasn’t a usual thing they did on a Friday morning.
Trace was preparing for a possible fight. Robby tore off his apron.
“Where ya goin’, Rowena?” Marcy asked.
Robby pointed at the window and left the house.
&n
bsp; Outside, he marched toward the men. He saw Trace step up to the firing line, which was a toed trench in the dirt. The cans were arranged in a pyramid shape with four cans in the bottom row. Trace stood with his hands open and hanging by his side. In an instant, he had both guns out of their holsters and bang, bang, bang—the heavy cans went flying. It looked like he’d hit one that had destroyed the pyramid and two more as they blew through the air.
“Oh, my stars!” Robby, in full Rowena mode, put a hand to his breast.
Pa-Pa cackled. “Ya see that, Rowena? Ain’t that somethin’? Told ya Trace could shoot.”
Trace slipped his guns back into his holsters and tipped his hat. “Miss Fairchild.” There was a sparkle in his eye. The devil liked showing off. He probably knew what it did to Robby, who was never more thankful for voluminous skirts. Marcy and Emmie had begged Rowena to help with the sewing, so he hadn’t had a chance to get back to the cabin since Wednesday. And his body missed Trace’s like they’d been together forever instead of just one time.
Clovis stepped up with a rifle, put it to his big shoulder, drew a sight down the barrel, and aimed at another pyramid of cans. He took one shot, bam. He got the bottom middle can, which caused the stack above to slowly topple over.
“Now there, ya see? Clovis ain’t so bad himself,” said Pa-Pa.
Clovis blushed bright red, but he glanced at Rowena, obviously pleased with himself.
Robby gave him a smile. “That’s very impressive, Clovis.”
There was an exasperated huff from Trace’s direction.
“I hope you gentlemen don’t mind if I try my hand,” Robby said.
“What?” Wayne gaped at her.
“Well you see, my father taught me to shoot. But it’s been quite a few years. I’d like to see if I still can.”
The truth was, Robby also needed to practice. If the Crabtrees were going to defend him in a shootout with the Bowery Boys, he’d be damned if he wasn’t front and center shooting too. And stuff Rowena.
