In the distance, calves moved inside a barbed wire pen. Her jaw dropped. “Are all those stolen?”
“Bet my boots on it. Heard them bawlin’ last night and decided to take a look, and that’s when I saw him.”
“Who? Who did you see?”
“The man who shot Cooper.”
Her eyes widened. “You saw—”
A horrifying thought came to mind. Some serious outlaws were shooting at them, and it was her job as sheriff to do something about it. At the moment, she wasn’t even holding the gun.
She forced herself to think like a sheriff. “Whose…property is that?” she asked, willing her heart to stop pounding. They were off the beaten track with nothing for miles but the remains of the long-deserted Mexican village. Suddenly, the gun in Rick’s hand looked mighty inadequate.
“Soon’s we find that out, we’ll know who’s runnin’ the show.”
Moving a branch away from his face, his arm brushed hers, and her already fast-beating heart pounded. It was hard to know which was the most disconcerting—Rick’s nearness or the men shooting at them.
For the longest while, no more shots were fired. “Do you see anything?” she whispered.
He craned his neck. “Just cattle.”
For several long moments, they crouched side by side, still as statues, gazes riveted on the opening in the trees ahead. Seconds passed. Minutes. Her breath whooshed out, and Rick stirred by her side.
She glanced at his profile. “Do…do you think they gave up?”
“Probably not.”
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Dying was a real possibility, and all the things still left undone flitted through her mind like leaves in the wind. Far from accomplishing the work she’d set out to do, she regretted the time she’d wasted. She was sorry for giving Papa so much trouble and for not appreciating Mama more. But there was something else she regretted as well. Something that shocked her.
She regretted not having known love, the kind between a man and a woman.
She glanced at Rick’s profile and swallowed hard.
“Last night…”
“What about last night?”
She drew in a breath and reminded herself that she could die there in the dirt. This was no time for false modesty.
“Why’d you…you know?”
The question brought a rush of heat to her face, but the urge to know was greater than any embarrassment. Such things were not discussed in polite company. But huddling on the ground trying not to get shot hardly seemed the time to worry about protocol.
He turned his head to look at her. “Don’t tell me you’re turning all ladylike on me all of a sudden. Say it. I kissed you, plain and simple.”
Nothing plain and simple about it. “Why?” she asked, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible under the circumstances.
“Why’d you think?”
She looked away. “To show gratitude.”
“Gratitude?”
She glanced at him askew. “For letting you go.”
He gave his head a careless nod. “I guess that was part of it.”
She moistened her lips. “What’s the other part?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I just wanted to know if your lips tasted as good as they look.”
A thrill rushed through her like a speeding train, and she felt all flustered. Grace and charm, grace and charm, grace and charm. “And did they?” she asked, unable to curtail her curiosity. “Taste as good?”
“Better.” His gaze found hers. “Didn’t you ever wonder ’bout my lips?”
“Absolutely not,” she said, just as her traitorous gaze lowered to his mouth. Okay, so they both knew she was lying.
She was about to admit as much when something made him stiffen and peer through the bushes. After a while, he said, “Never met anyone who didn’t think about kissin’. You sufferin’ women really are a different breed.”
“It’s not that I don’t think about…things like that. It’s just that…things like that lead to…other things.”
“Other things, eh?” He glanced at her. “Would that be so bad?”
“For me, yes.” If they were lucky enough to get out of this mess alive, he would leave, and she would go back to doing what she did best: trying to change society. It was foolish to think there was room in her life for anything more. For love.
“You know my work is important to me.” When he made no response, she added, “I’ve been asked to speak at the next suffragist meeting in Austin.” She groaned. Being asked to speak there was an honor she might not live long enough to enjoy.
“Congratulations,” he said, keeping his gaze focused on the cattle pen.
“If I’m good enough, I may be asked to speak at other places.” For reasons she didn’t quite understand, it seemed essential to remind herself of the goals she had set for herself. “I might be asked to speak all over the country. Maybe even New York and Boston.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked, keeping his attention on the distant calves.
Of course it was what she wanted. It’s what she’d always wanted. “Women need a voice, and my lectures will give it to them.”
“Don’t imagine many outsiders will hear you speak. So you’ll be preachin’ to the choir.”
“Perhaps. At first. But if I could inspire and motivate other suffragists, that would be something.” Sensing his disapproval, she added, “Oh, Rick, don’t you see the importance? I’ve worked hard for this.” Almost all her life.
He craned his neck above the bushes. “If it’ll make you feel any better, we’ll just call it a good-bye kiss then and be done with it.”
She tried to ignore her sinking heart. “Yes, that’s probably for the best.” It didn’t make her feel better. Truth was, it made her feel worse. A whole lot worse.
“I don’t expect we’ll see each other again,” he said. “After today. ’Less it’s at the pearly gates.”
She sucked in her breath. “I expect you’re right,” she whispered.
They stared at each for a full minute. “Stay here,” he finally said.
“Wait.” She grabbed him by the arm. “Where’re you going?”
His gaze dropped to her hand before lifting to meet her eyes. “To circle behind them. Gotta make these five beans count for all they’re worth.”
She released him. “It’s too dangerous.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “Got any other ideas?”
Her mind whirled, and she thought of something. “Spirit.”
He frowned. “What are you doin’?”
“I’m calling your horse. We can use him as a distraction.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered as loud as she dared. Dogs had good hearing; did horses? “Spirit.”
“His name is Killer.”
She whipped her head around to gape at him. “What?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? He thinks he’s a warhorse.”
“Some warhorse. He ran at the first sign of trouble.” For all she knew, he was miles away by now.
Just as she was about to call again, a male voice cut through the woods, “Come on out. I know you’re in there!”
Rick pulled her down to the ground, and they crawled on their bellies to a fallen log.
“How many are there?” she whispered.
“Three that I know of.”
“Not very good odds.”
“I’ve faced worse.”
A bullet ripped through the air, barely missing Rick’s hat and hitting a nearby tree.
A gunshot sounded from behind.
Rick grimaced. “We’re trapped.”
A barrage of gunfire followed. Rick fired back until the deathly sound of a shallow click announced his gun was out of bullets.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
“This is where it gets interestin’,” he said, shoving the empty gun into the waist of his trousers. “Stay here. I think I might have shot one of them. We need his weapon.”
“I should go. I’m the sheriff.”
“You also got that speech to make in Austin, and I aim to see you live to give it.”
Her fingers dug into his arm. “Be careful,” she pleaded. The sudden silence made her nervous. If anything happened to him… “It could be a trap.”
He signaled for her not to move or make a sound.
She held her breath. If only she could mute the thumping of her racing heart.
He removed her hand from his arm, holding it a tad longer than necessary before gently releasing it and moving away. Crouching low, he vanished among the trees.
Gaze riveted to the spot, she pressed a knuckle against her mouth. Please don’t let him do anything foolish…
She heard something and froze. A snap of a twig. A flash of blue. A glint of sun off metal. One of the bad guys was following Rick…and it sure did look like Gopher’s brother, Buster.
Oh, dear heaven!
She had to do something, but what? A weapon. She needed a weapon. A rock. A stick. Something to create a distraction.
Finding nothing, she quietly left her hiding place, shoulders bent, head low. Somehow, she had to warn Rick. She crept through the woods. She was close enough to see that it was Buster Coldwell, all right. No question.
Buster stopped, and she stopped too, taking cover behind a tree.
If only she could sneak up behind him and clobber him with something—but what?
A nearby rustling startled her, and she jumped. A ropelike tail moved next to a boulder. Fearing it was a rattler, she froze, but a closer look revealed the owner was a “possum on the half shell,” otherwise known as an armadillo.
A slow smile curved her mouth. Now that would make a great distraction, providing she could get it to run in the right direction. All she had to do was grab the animal by the tail and… She blew out her breath and rubbed her hands together. Racing an armadillo to win a contest was one thing, using it to distract a gunman quite another.
You can do it.
Her gaze rolled up to the sky. Easy for you to say, Grandmama. You’re up there, and I’m down here.
Mouth dry, she crept closer, careful to tread lightly. The creature stopped foraging in the dry leaves, and she stopped, one boot midstep. It turned its head from side to side and, after apparently deciding it was safe, poked its long pointed nose into the leaves again, grunting.
It’s now or never. With a swoop of her arm, she grabbed the animal by the armored tail. Trouble was, this armadillo had no intention of playing her game. Instead, it twisted and turned and spun so hard, Amanda had to use both hands to hold it. Even then, her body quivered like a fiddle string.
Before she could set it down on the ground in the right direction, the animal’s high-pitched squeals brought Buster running. Bursting through an opening in the trees, gun in hand, he aimed and fired.
The bullet glanced off the armadillo’s hard shell. The startled animal popped up with an ear-piercing squeal, almost pulling her arm out of its socket. Screaming, Amanda let go. The armadillo dropped to the ground with a thud and quickly vanished into the bushes, unharmed.
Then something strange happened. Buster did some sort of a slow-motion dance, and the whites of his eyes showed. His weapon fell from his hand just before his knees buckled and he crashed to the ground.
Rick came running out of the brush. Startled eyes met hers as he dropped to his knees by the man’s side. He indicated Buster with a shake of his head. “Who shot him?”
“He shot himself.”
“What?”
She explained. “The bullet ricocheted off the armadillo I was holding and hit him in the head.” Hands on her waist, she grimaced. “Serves him right for shooting a defenseless animal.”
Rick stared at her in astonishment. “Why were you holdin’ an armadillo?”
“I planned on using it as a distraction.”
“It looks like your plan worked.” He chuckled and picked up the man’s gun.
“Is…is he dead?” she asked.
Rick shook his head. “Looks like the bullet just grazed him, but he hit his head when he fell. Let me have your gun belt.”
“What?”
“Your gun belt.”
Amanda unbuckled her belt, and Rick used it to secure the unconscious man to a tree.
“Did you find anything?” she asked.
He shook his head. “So what happened to our armored friend?”
She glanced at the bushes to the side. “It took off running. I sure hope it wasn’t hurt.”
The smile died on Rick’s face. “What I’m hopin’ is that it has a nearby relative.”
“What do you mean?”
For answer, she heard a click behind her followed by a male voice. “Drop the gun, or say good-bye to the lady sheriff.”
Amanda whirled about. Her startled gaze fell on the barrel of a rifle pointing straight at her. She lifted her eyes. Something about the gunman looked vaguely familiar…
And then she knew.
Thirty-six
“Mr. El?” It couldn’t be. Her eyes must be deceiving her. Or the light was playing tricks.
Mr. El was…well…old. But this man stood straight and tall. Without his spectacles, he looked younger, and his hair was brown, not white, and shorter. Only his voice remained the same. That and the gold tooth showing beneath his evil grin told her that either this was Mr. El or a close relative.
“So we meet again,” Mr. El said.
“Do you know this man?” Rick asked.
“He lives at the Wendell poor farm. Only he disguises himself as an old man.”
Mr. El shrugged. “Brilliant. Wouldn’t you say?”
Rick scoffed. “Yeah, especially for a murderer.”
Amanda stared at Rick. “Murderer?”
Rick stood rigid. “This is the man I saw leave Cooper’s room the night he was found dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure. The hall was dimly lit. I mistook his gold tooth for the glow of a cigarette and his white hair for blond, but it’s him all right. That’s not all. He shot out of the room like a young man, but when he saw me, he hobbled away.”
She nodded. “Like an old man.”
Mr. El shrugged. “I didn’t expect to see anyone in the hall. I hoped that you’d remember the limp and not the face.”
Rick glared at him. “I didn’t think much about the limp until last night. You didn’t see me, but I saw you herd those cattle. I couldn’t believe that someone so old could move so fast. Then you removed that white wig. That’s when I knew.”
Amanda couldn’t believe it. Talk about hiding in plain sight. The things that had previously puzzled her about Mr. El now made perfect sense. His expensive watch. The odd way he moved and never looked anyone in the eye. The cough, which now appeared to be fake, had succeeded in getting him his own room. That way, he could come and go as he pleased.
“So why’d you kill him? Why’d you kill Cooper?” she asked.
Mr. El’s lips thinned. “Never said I did.”
“You were seen leaving Cooper’s room.”
“You can’t prove a thing, and you aren’t gonna be ’round long enough to try.”
Amanda’s mind scrambled as she recalled her last visit to the poorhouse. “Did you have anything to do with stocking the Wendell pantry?”
Mr. El shrugged. “It was the least I could do to show my appreciation for letting me use it as a hideout.”
She doubted appreciation had anything to do with it. More likely he was tired of living off county food rations. “And the story you told about seeing six men steal the horses?”
“There were only three of us.”
“Do the Wendells know who you are?” Amanda asked.
“Nobody knows, and I aim on keepin’ it that way. That spells trouble for the two of you.” His kept his rifle pointed straight at her. “Sorry, Sheriff. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
A loud boom shook the ground, and something streaked by them, barely missing Mr. El. The black object—a cannonball—hit a tree and fell to the ground, creating a crater.
Taking full advantage of the distraction, Rick made a diving leap toward Mr. El, and the two wrestled for the weapon. It was only after another cannonball whizzed by that Mr. El took off running like a scared rabbit.
Rick grabbed Amanda by the arm, and they both fell to the ground.
Huddled next to his side, Amanda thought of something and burst out laughing.
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What’s so funny?”
She pointed through a small opening in the trees. “I know who’s firing those cannons. It’s the Rain King, and we’re in for another rainstorm.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s all we need.” Rising, he helped her to her feet. He picked Mr. El’s rifle off the ground and started through the woods. “Come on before the king fires again.”
Rick held her hand as they cautiously emerged from the thick growth of trees. She blinked against the sun that suddenly peered through the clouds. That’s when she got the biggest shock of her life. The two remaining cattle rustlers were on their knees, surrounded by Deputy Hobson and her Red Feather posse.
Holding Mr. El at bay with his Colt, Scooter greeted her with a grin. “Sure is good to see you, Sheriff.”
“Good to see you too,” she said. “But what are you all doing here?”
“We had just arrived at the deserted Mexican village when we saw Spirit run by with an empty saddle,” Scooter explained.
“Then we heard gunfire,” Becky-Sue added and giggled. “So we came running.”
“But you could have all been shot,” Amanda said. “I mean…we’re talking serious criminals here.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Mooney said with a nod. “But Deputy Hobson told us it was better to be taken by a big crocodile than eaten by little fish.”
A Match Made in Texas Page 25
