Even then, with her freckles standing out against white skin, she’d appeared innocent. Breathless with his kiss. But it had all been one great adventure, playing with fire in hopes of getting a story sensational enough to earn the respect of her infamous father. Maybe win a ticket back home, back into Henry Frederick’s good graces.
At the expense of Sam’s sunburned but still-rather-beloved neck.
As the sheriff shoved him into the lone cell in the jailhouse, bitterness welled up inside Sam, throbbing along with his wound. Even though in some ways he’d expected it, Lucy’s betrayal hurt worse than he’d reckoned it would. The whole town’s betrayal. Had he not shown himself honorable? Was a poster and a rumor enough to erase the kind of man he tried to be?
“Ripple was a right good town, a quiet town to fall in love in.” Sheriff blinked lovelorn eyes. “A place to get married, retire.” He shook his shaggy head. “Now this …”
“I’m not the one who just shot someone, unprovoked.” Sam’s voice came out more peeved than he meant it to.
“You shoved Miss Lucy.”
“To make sure you didn’t shoot her by mistake.” The scene replayed in his mind. The sheriff—out of practice or inexperienced, his hand shaking, his trigger finger too twitchy for the comfort of anyone within range. Lucy, standing between Sam and the others, frozen in place.
“Your horse was about to attack.”
Sam scoffed. “Stinkeye wasn’t going anywhere, and it was your dog who upset him.”
A mite red-faced, Twitchy-Fingered Frank hemmed and hawed before spitting out a weak, “I did what I had to do,” and retreating outdoors. No doubt to assure onlookers that the dangerous criminal had been subdued and imprisoned by their humble but mighty lawman.
Breathing in the stillness, Sam lowered to the cot and examined his side. The bullet had ripped a hole in his shirt and paved a painful path along his ribs. The blood still ran but had slowed. The wound was dirty, and he bore more cuts and bruises from his rude escort to the jailhouse. But he wouldn’t die.
Not from this, anyway.
Removing his shirt completely, he rolled it and pressed it tightly against the wound. The best he could do for now, as it seemed Sheriff Frank had no intention of sending for the doctor. Lying on his good side, Sam stared at the floor and tried to erase Lucy’s face from his mind.
How had it come to this? How had he fallen so far?
Once upon a time, he’d owned a homestead, had friends and prospects. A partner he loved like a father, and a fortune about to be made. They’d been preparing to buy an impressive spread, build a cattle empire with the gold they’d earned by the sweat of their brow and a bit of luck. Then, in a lightning-quick turn of events, everything had changed.
George Keene, shot in the back by a yellow-bellied coyote. Nearly their entire fortune stolen…and somehow Sam’s name became attached to the cowardly deed.
The lawman stomped back inside and shoved a bucket of water inside the cell then propped his feet up on the desk.
Sighing, Sam ripped a sleeve from his bloodied shirt, dunked it in the water, and gritted his teeth as he attempted to cleanse the wound.
The gold didn’t matter to him. He only wanted justice for George and his own name cleared, and maybe the love of a fiery redhead while he was at it. All he needed was for someone to give him the benefit of the doubt. To listen long enough for him to explain his side of the story. To earn a couple more weeks to find the one who’d done this and prove his own innocence.
Was that so much to ask?
But Lucy—
His wound twinged, halting all thought as he drew in air with a hiss. When the pain receded, Sam rested his head against the log wall and looked up…where he should have been looking all along.
All right, God. I reckon I’m listening.
For a long time, he’d been moving from project to project, building on his success. Then when everything crashed around him, he’d chased after justice.
Or was it revenge?
It had been too long since he’d stayed still. Sam closed his eyes and breathed in the quiet.
He wanted others to listen to him, to hear his story before casting judgments. But had he offered the same to others? To Lucy? Had he allowed God a chance to speak?
The forced silence soothed him, and Sam gradually relaxed his shoulders and felt tension release from the rest of his aching body. Praying, he asked God for forgiveness, and for the strength to forgive.
But that didn’t mean he had to forget. Someone had killed George. That person’s greedy and cowardly acts might cost Sam his life. If he could think hard enough, maybe he could stop it there.
The trail ended in Ripple. The killer lived in the area. But who?
Each face presented itself to him. The ones with alibis he’d already established. The ones he didn’t find capable of the act for one reason or another. The ones he needed to investigate more thoroughly, if only he’d had the chance.
Of the men in town, only three fell in that last category. And the true criminal was a man, of that Sam was certain. If not, by the sunken prints he’d found of the killer’s boots the only woman in town big enough was Mrs. Thorp. And…no.
So. Mr. Thorp.
The elderly mercantile owner had held his Colt with a steady hand, his eyes steely, easily the most dangerous of the men who’d confronted Sam in the livery stable. But he was lean and wiry. Slightly stooped. A good chance he wasn’t heavy enough to fill the boot prints left at the scene or strong enough to carry away the loot. Besides, the mercantile seemed to be doing well enough—no apparent motive for robbery.
No evidence either way, but Sam reckoned the man was innocent.
Doc Smith. The man had curious timing, arriving in town shortly after the death of the only doctor in half a day’s ride. But maybe he’d been traveling through the area and caught wind of an opening. Pure coincidence. Though on the lean side, the doc was tall with a paunch. There was a chance he might weigh enough to make a matching boot print. He’d been unaccounted for during the time of George’s murder, and he kept to himself. Friendly but quiet, with chipped and dirty fingernails suggesting he’d done some digging of his own…along with the rest of the town. The big question was, would a man who healed for a living kill? Could he?
Lastly, there was Jasper Groth. The former actor had a whiny disposition. He wanted attention, wanted the best of everything. The gold could come in handy for a flashy man like him. He’d accosted Lucy. Maybe he wouldn’t have harmed her, but he’d been improper in any case. Taking advantage of a lady—that was a mark of a coward. And his weight…well, the man would sink a few inches in muddy ground, that was a sure bet.
Had he been bunking next to the killer? The Jasper he knew wouldn’t hide the fact he had a trunk full of gold. But how well did Sam actually know him? Had the clumsy, loudmouthed exterior been an act?
Of the three, Jasper had his vote. But he could be letting his dislike of the man—his disgust at his treatment of Lucy—dictate his suspicions. There might be a way to know for sure …
As if on cue, the man himself entered the jailhouse, his beady gaze darting from Sam to the lawman and back again. Remaining outwardly relaxed, Sam analyzed his every move as Jasper approached the desk, catching Sheriff Frank midsnore.
“I sent Dusty to get word to a ranger,” Jasper reported once the other man snorted to attention.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “That’s fine, that’s fine.”
Even Dusty had turned on him? Fighting against another wallowing session, Sam concentrated on Jasper.
The man grinned at nothing in general, seemingly elated. Buoyant, even. Due to excitement? Revenge for Sam’s earlier rebuke? Or relief that Sam would now be executed and the crime wiped off the books, with Jasper going free and clear?
He stomped closer to Sam’s cell, tsking all the while. “I knew there was something fishy about you, Brazos. All cocky and playing up to the ladies, but evil deep down to the bone. Well, now you’re gettin�
� jist what you deserve.”
“Even condemned men get last wishes,” Sam said coolly, angling for the kill. He would look Jasper in the eye, and he would know. All it took was one question—
“Is your wish a kiss from the delectable Miss Lucy perhaps?”
Sam bristled. “Speak what you want of me, but you show respect to Miss Frederick.”
Jasper laughed. “Says the man who shot someone in the back.”
Swallowing hard, Sam held back a sharp retort.
“So if not the redheaded Yankee, what?”
Sam caught the actor’s gaze and held it, wanting Jasper to know that he knew—that Sam had trailed the killer to the town of Ripple partially by the nutshells Jasper’s thoughtless hands had left where he’d waited and at various stops along the way.
Wanting to see the flicker of guilt.
“Pecans,” Sam said. “I’d like a handful of pecans.”
There was no change in Jasper’s gleeful expression other than a touch of blankness. “No slab of beef for a last meal? No letter to a sweetheart or your poor mother?”
“Nope.” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it.”
“It’s a simple enough request,” the sheriff said. “Think you can scrounge some up, Groth? I’m busy…guarding.”
“No, siree. Even if I wanted to help a condemned man, which I do not, I cain’t touch those pesky nuts with a ten-foot pole. Break me out in hives, they do.”
Sam blinked back his surprise. Allergic? It could be another part of the act. But if not, that meant …
“Sorry, Brazos.” A slow, oily smile. “Guess you’re on your own.”
Sam felt his chest tighten. His wound twinged again, and his thoughts instantly leaped to Doc Smith. “Sheriff, could you send for Miss Frederick?”
“Now see here, Brazos—”
“I’m not going to take advantage of the lady.” Anger colored his tone. “She can stand across the room, but I need to see her.” She needed to know what he suspected.
Doc was the killer. He had to be.
The lawman hesitated.
“She’ll want to talk to me. For her article.” The wheels were turning now, along with that same feeling Sam had at Rockin’ R when he’d heard about Dillehay going missing.
Sheriff Frank nodded. “I see your point. Jasper?”
The actor growled, but he turned, promising to find Margret Frederick and have her fetch Lucy.
Except Margret couldn’t. The boardinghouse owner rushed over to the jailhouse to tell Sam to his face.
Lucy was gone.
Chapter Nine
Doc pulled the door open, and his stare shifted from Lucy’s face to the gun. The testy expression he wore morphed into pure rage, his skin stretching across his cheekbones and turning his bulbous nose three shades of purple.
“I threw you a bone. Why didn’t you take it and leave me be?”
Blinking, Lucy backed up a step, half-raising Aunt’s shotgun. “I’m here on behalf of Sam Brazos.”
“Of course you are, and here’s what I think about that.” After a furtive look down the empty road, Doc grabbed the barrel of the gun and hauled Lucy inside, slamming the door behind him and yanking the weapon away.
“What on earth—?” The shotgun pointed straight at her heart, which was currently doing a polka dance.
“It’s too late to pretend, Lucy. I know you started those rumors about me, trying to ferret out a story for your father.”
Doc backed her up to the wall and rummaged inside a nearby pack.
She should be fighting. Screaming. Running for the hills. But all she could do was gape in shock as he pulled out a length of rope.
“Hold out your hands.”
“No!”
“Lucy, I’m warning you.”
‘Are you crazy?”
“You’re the one who came here by your lonesome.” He laughed—surprisingly high-pitched and wheezy—and Lucy noticed for the first time how evil it sounded. How his teeth actually resembled a badger’s in the right light.
“Now, out the back. You and me are taking a little trip.”
No, they weren’t. Please, no. Sam could be bleeding out as she made like a Grecian statue for the second time in less than an hour. Or the sheriff could get overzealous and hang him this very night! She choked on the thought. She had to escape. Had to get to her cowboy.
Lucy held out trembling hands, wrists up. The doctor would need both hands to tie hers. When he set the shotgun on his propped-up knee, she lunged for the door, tripping over her skirts.
Something heavy and cold and scary pressed into the back of her neck before she could crawl to the door.
“Roll over,” Doc snarled. “Hold out your hands. Now.”
If only she’d read more of those dime novels, instead of turning up her nose. Surely the brawling heroes would have given her some clue as to how to overcome this situation. Instead, she obeyed, finding she had no choice in the matter as Doc prodded her along like a wayward cow.
“I think you misunderstand—”
“I know everything.” He pushed her down a dark path to his wagon.
He’d been at the sheriff’s office earlier. Had Doc been the one to turn in Sam? Did he know the truth about Sam’s past?
Lucy bit her tongue, but the words spilled out anyway. “What—ow!—what exactly do you know?”
“About your articles, for one. How you think you’ve got the town hoodwinked as you tell all their secrets to your rich father back home.”
In an ungentlemanly fashion, he helped her onto the wagon seat. Next, he hitched up his buckskin Buttermilk and landed beside Lucy.
“That’s right,” he continued. “Gus Wiley reads every one before he sends them off. Tells his lady love, who then tells the blacksmith’s wife. So on and so forth. We all know, Lucy Frederick. Even if you didn’t write my name, I know you know and that you’ll spill the truth about me sooner or later.” His dark, glittering eyes found hers. “Unless I stop you.”
Lucy’s mouth hung open wide. She closed it. Swallowed. Tried to speak. Finally, she managed a high-pitched, “Gus reads my letters?”
Doc heaved an exasperated sigh. “I think you’re missing the point here. I gave you an escape—planted that poster where your Royal Nosiness was sure to find it. You didn’t take your out. You should have.”
So that’s why he’d talked to her about the posters. It had all been a setup. If bouncing all over the road hadn’t already given her a headache, Lucy would be tempted to pound her forehead against the nearest hard surface. Which just might have been the doctor’s skull.
“If you wanted Sam in jail, you succeeded,” she said.
“Is that what that ruckus was about?” A smile slid across his pockmarked face. “Good for the sheriff. I didn’t think he had it in him to take Brazos down.”
“Well …” Lucy frowned, picturing the bloody cowboy being dragged away, and after he’d so gallantly protected her, too. “He did. A bit unfairly, to tell the truth. So why are you kidnapping me, if you got what you wanted?”
“I don’t just want him caught. I want him picking turnips with a stepladder, and the whole George Keene case buried along with him.”
“What’s it to you?”
“It’s a confession you want, eh? Fine. I’ll give it to you. I killed Keene. Stole the gold and framed Brazos. I came to this no-account town to bide my time until Sam Brazos got himself caught and took my place with a rope around his neck. Then my real life would begin. At least, that was the plan before you came nosing around, spreading tales too close to the truth.”
Lucy shifted in her seat, not sure if she was more disgusted by his rank breath or the reminder that Gus had been peeking at her mail.
She cringed at the sudden realization that Gus knew about Sam—that the mysterious cowboy had played the infuriating and swoon-worthy hero in every story written after his arrival. Did the whole town know of her infatuation?
Did the cowboy himself?
&
nbsp; Doc droned on as Lucy gnawed her lower lip. Finally, she cut in. “You killed Doc Dillehay, didn’t you?” Things began to click. Sam had been right—something was off about that story. “You found a quiet town with a lazy sheriff, so you made a reason for the town to accept you, few questions asked. Is Smith actually your name?” She turned on him, fuming. “Are you even a doctor?”
“Ira Moledord, at your service.” He bent low in a mocking bow. “And yes, I’m a doc. Of sorts, not that it’s any of your concern. But I’m fixing to be a rich man, free and clear, no longer needing to play nursemaid to snotty-nosed brats and complaining old nags. You’re the only one standing in my way. And pretty soon, well, you won’t be standing.”
He flipped the reins, and Lucy bounced a little harder against the seat. The sun had begun to set as they trotted away from town. Who would come after her? The only one who might save her was bleeding out in a jail cell.
And he believed she was the one who’d put him there.
Sam paced his cell in short, angry strides. “No one’s seen Doc?” he asked again.
Twitchy-Fingered Frank shook his head, seemingly unconcerned. “You ain’t even bleeding anymore. What’s got you so fired up?”
Besides the fact that he’d been wrongfully incarcerated, shot by a lawman who didn’t know how to use a gun, and betrayed by the woman he loved?
Sam stopped in his tracks.
Loved? Lucy Frederick?
She was beautiful and witty and smart and in a class far above him. But when she wasn’t driving him crazier than a rabid coyote or delivering him to a lynching bee, he enjoyed bantering with her. Watching her. Being around her.
He knew he’d been too drawn to her. Knew she could betray him at any point. But still he’d fallen, and the thought of her at the mercy of the man who’d killed his partner—
“Sheriff, I’m telling you.” He gripped the bars, rattling them to snag the man’s attention away from the window. “Someone needs to find Lucy. She may be in serious danger.”
Or maybe she’d been in cahoots with the doctor all along?
Casting the thought away as soon as it entered his mind, Sam fought his rising panic. He refused to believe that of her. But the fact that she wasn’t here—asking questions for the story she’d fought so hard to get …
The Courageous Brides Collection Page 51
