Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona

by Miralee Ferrell

  “Ha. A likely story. How many outlaws do you know who admit to their crimes?”

  “I can’t say, Marshal, as I don’t typically associate with outlaws.”

  The man had the grace to duck his head for a moment. “Sorry, Miss. That’s not what I meant.” His jaw tightened. “But it’s a fact. These men all swear they’re innocent.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose. But there was something different about him, and I half believed his story. He claimed he’d fallen in with the group the night before while looking for a meal and a place to sleep. Said he had no idea they planned to rob the stage.”

  “If that were true, then why did he approach the stage wearing a mask?”

  Christy’s heart skipped a beat at the question she’d asked herself more than once. “I can’t answer that.”

  “Exactly.” His lips stretched in a grim smile. “I suppose I could take you in and arrest you for obstructing justice.” He scratched his chin, then held up his hand when she started to protest. “But I won’t. I don’t think the citizens of Tombstone would look too kindly on a young lady being kept in the same jail cell as some of the riffraff this town affords.” He plunked his hat back on. “I’ll bid you good day for now, but if you have a change of heart for any reason, I’d appreciate a visit to my office.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Good day, Marshal.” Her heart pounded in her throat, but she kept her expression neutral. The last thing she wanted was for this man to know he’d struck a nerve with the threat of being hauled to jail.

  Sara flitted from one table to the next, serving drinks and trying to avoid the pawing hands of the drunken miners and gamblers. When she’d agreed to take this job, she’d been told serving drinks would be her only obligation. That didn’t last long. Now her skin crawled, and she felt dirty all over—and used in a way she tried to forget.

  Not that she hadn’t met decent men in this place. A couple of them had even proposed marriage. She’d been sorely tempted to take them up on the offer just to get shut of this life, but something held her back. Maybe it was fear of the unknown, or a longing for the love and security her ma and pa had with each other…whatever the case, she hadn’t accepted. A tinge of regret tugged at her heart, but she pushed it away.

  She stopped next to a table of five black-frocked gamblers, all intent on their cards. Most were older men, but one stood out from the rest—a handsome young man with deep auburn hair and kind eyes. He’d spoken decently to her in the past, and the times Townsley sent him to her room the first few weeks, he’d been tender and caring, a contrast to the men who’d come after. She’d never forgotten his name—Joshua. Sara set the drink next to his elbow.

  He glanced up, and a warm grin crinkled his face. “Thanks, Miss. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. It’s on the house since you fellas been playin’ so long.” She met his gaze. His smile reached to the green depths of his eyes and warmed her sore heart.

  Nevada pushed through the doors of the Oriental Saloon and scanned the room. Why hadn’t he thought to ask Nellie what the blacksmith looked like? With so many miners and laborers in town, it might not be easy to spot the man. The bartender should know John Draper, though, if he came here for a sandwich on a regular basis.

  A young woman with blond hair and clothes leaving little to a man’s imagination sidled up. “Hey, mister. Want me to bring you a drink?”

  She looked about the age his sister Carrie had been when she’d run away from home. Carrie’s hair was a shade darker, but she was pretty like this girl. What was a youngster like her doing in a low-down joint like this? Probably the same thing Carrie had done—while looking for something different than what she’d had at home, she’d gotten trapped. “No thanks, Miss. I’m looking for a man.”

  She shrank back. “You gonna shoot somebody?”

  “Don’t worry.” He shook his head. “I’m hoping to find me a job, that’s all.”

  “The boss might be hirin’, I’m not sure. Want I should call him for you?” She turned wide, darkly fringed eyes on him. “Or, if you’re lookin’ to get a job at the tables, Morgan or Wyatt can help you. They’re in charge of the games around here.”

  Nevada tried to control the shock that shot through him. He’d seen Wyatt Earp once in Dodge City but hadn’t realized he and his brother had moseyed out this way. Where Wyatt was, Doc Holliday was sure to be. A quick look around the place satisfied his guess as correct. The nattily dressed gambler with the black, flat-crowned hat and dark suit faced the door two tables away, his eyes intent on the men sitting across from him. A glass of whiskey sat near his left hand along with an open bottle, and his right clutched a hand of cards. He lifted his arm, placed his sleeve across his mouth, and smothered a cough. Nevada had heard the rumors about Holliday being ill, and from the sound of things it could be consumption, a disease running rampant these days.

  He turned to the girl standing patiently for an answer. He couldn’t get over how much she reminded him of Carrie. “What’s your name, Miss?”

  She scrunched her brows. “Sara. Why do you ask?”

  “You remind me of someone.”

  Sara batted her eyelashes. “I’ve heard that line before. Sure you won’t buy me a drink?”

  Nevada pressed a silver dollar into her hand. He’d already wasted enough of her time, and most of these girls only got paid for the number of drinks they hustled. “No. Sorry for taking your time. I’m looking for the blacksmith. Man by the name of John Draper. You know him?”

  Her countenance fell. “Yeah, I know him. He’s over there at the bar. The big gent with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows. Lots of muscles.”

  “You take care of yourself now, you hear?” Nevada gave the girl a gentle smile and moved away. He swung his gaze to the man at the bar wolfing down a sandwich.

  “Hey!” A man’s voice at a table close by froze Nevada in his tracks. He slowly swiveled to see the young fellow who’d rushed from the saloon yesterday glaring at the slick-looking gambler sitting across from him.

  “You’ve cheated one time too many, mister.” The young man threw his cards on the table.

  The hum of voices quieted. Only the shuffle of feet and the scraping of chairs could be heard as men cleared away from the area where the two sat.

  “No man calls me a cheat.” The gambler’s tone was even and unhurried. It appeared he’d played this hand more than once in his life. “Back down and walk away.”

  The young man pounded his fist on the table. “No, sir. I saw you slip a card from the bottom of the deck when you dealt that hand.” He jumped to his feet and pushed back the tail of his jacket. A gun showed beneath the fabric, and his hand moved toward the butt.

  Too slow.

  Nevada’s eyes darted to the gambler, who sat unmoving. Wasn’t he going to draw?

  Suddenly, a gun blasted from beneath the table and the shot caught the raging man in his thigh, causing his body to jerk. He withdrew his gun from the holster and started to lift it, but the still-seated gambler raised his from beneath the tabletop and calmly pulled the trigger one more time.

  Red blossomed on the young man’s shirt, high up in his chest. He gazed at his opponent with wide eyes and stood without moving for several seconds, then slowly toppled onto the table. His body hit hard, scattering the chips and cards across the floor. Then he rolled off the edge and landed with a thud on the carpet.

  Men raced forward, and voices babbled around the room. A man wearing a fringed buckskin shirt strode forward and bent over the prone form. “He’s alive.” He straightened and stared at the gambler. “I’m Buckskin Frank Leslie. The town council granted me the power to make arrests in here as I see fit. Let’s see your gun, mister.”

  “It were a fair fight, Frank.” A bearded miner stepped forward and motioned at the man on the floor. “He called this gent out. Said he was cheatin’ and went for his gun. Then this ’un shot him.”

  Buckskin Frank turned to the knot of men standing nearby. “That
the way it happened?”

  “Yep. Pretty much,” a chorus of voices responded.

  Leslie gave a curt nod. “Anyone know where this fella lives? He’s bleedin’ all over the carpet, and we need to get him outta here. The boss ain’t gonna like this.”

  A voice called from a short distance away, “Name’s Joshua Grey. Lives with his ma back of town on Toughnut Street.”

  Nevada peered at the man who’d spoken, memories of his own mother returning. This boy’s ma would be waiting for her son to return. “I’ll take him. Help me get him up.”

  The man shook his head and backed away. “No thanks, mister. I don’t want nothin’ to do with him. He’s trouble.”

  A heavy hand landed on Nevada’s shoulder, and he pivoted. The blacksmith, John Draper, stood beside him. “I’ll help with the boy. Horse kicked me not long ago, but it won’t stop me from helpin’ to carry him. I’ve met his ma, and she’s a decent woman. Let’s get him home.”

  Nevada stepped forward, then turned his attention on Buckskin Leslie. “Can you send someone after the doc and direct him to the Grey home?”

  “I can.”

  “Thanks.” Nevada looked at John Draper, then gestured at Joshua Grey lying still on the floor. “Let’s see if we can get him home to his ma before he dies. She’d probably like the chance to say her good-byes.”

  Sara stood riveted to the floor as the bloody scene played out before her. The young man with the warm smile and gentle touch looked to be near death. Why had he pushed that gambler so hard and egged him into a fight? She’d seen that trick before—hiding a gun under the table and waiting for the other fellow to draw, then shooting him down. She gripped her hands in front of her waist and stared at the room, appalled at how quickly the men returned to their drinking and games of chance.

  What was wrong with these people? She shuddered, suddenly afraid the same thing could happen to her. Not that she’d be shot, but that a hard crust might form over her heart and she’d quit caring about others. In this business it served a woman to grow a thick skin and not allow anything to penetrate—not sympathy, love, or what appeared to be genuine caring.

  The other man who came in asking for a job—the one who helped carry out Joshua—he’d also been kind, pressing a dollar into her hand and refusing to flirt or buy her a drink.

  But she couldn’t stop thinking about Joshua…Grey. Shock coursed through her veins as she realized the significance of that name. Could he be related in some way to the compassionate woman who’d spoken to her on the street not long ago?

  A prayer welled up from her spirit but got caught in her throat. She hadn’t prayed since Ma and Pa were killed in the Indian attack. How many desperate, pleading prayers had she sent heavenward as she lay hidden in the brush outside their small shanty, watching the horrible events unfold? God hadn’t answered, but for some reason she still had hope He’d see fit to answer now. For the young man with the kind eyes, and for the woman who might belong to him in some way. Please, God, even if You can’t save me from this life, reach out Your hand and save the ones who’ve shown kindness to me.

  Chapter Nine

  A loud rapping rattled the front door of Ma’s house, and Christy pushed to her feet. She’d gone to town yet again and hauled back two buckets of water. A young neighbor girl had spent the last two hours helping Christy scrub down the kitchen and had gone home happy with money jingling in her pocket. A small price to pay for cleanliness.

  Joshua had been gone for so long. If only he’d return, she’d send him back to town for a barrel. She hated having to purchase water. In Last Chance water was plentiful, either in the clear mountain creeks or the wells people dug on their property. Here it cost three cents a gallon. Hopefully Ma didn’t have any expenses besides water and food.

  Ma walked into the room and headed to the door. “Better not be that scoundrel from the bank pestering me about money again. I’ll have to shoot me a banker if he don’t leave me alone.”

  “Ma?” Christy was puzzled. “What banker? Why’s he pestering you?”

  The knock grew more insistent, and a man’s voice penetrated the thin wood. “Anyone home? We got Joshua here, and he’s hurt pretty bad.”

  Ma gasped and clutched her chest. She drew in a hard breath, and a ragged cough tore from her throat.

  Christy flew to the door. Joshua hung limp, upheld by a man on either side. Blood covered the front of his shirt and oozed from a gash in his thigh. “Hurry. Bring him inside.” She ran to the kitchen for rags. Blast it all! Only a small amount of clean water left in the bottom of the bucket.

  She raced back into the room and watched as they lowered her unconscious brother onto the sofa. “Someone…please send for the doctor. I don’t know anything about injuries like this, although I know we’ve got to get the bleeding stopped.”

  The large-boned man, whose voice she recognized as the one who spoke through the door, stepped forward. “Already sent for him, Miss. He should be along shortly. What you want I should do?”

  “Help me get his shirt off so we can see the wound.” She started to unbutton the front but could barely see the buttons for the blood. A tremor shook her, but she pressed on, determined to save her brother if she could.

  “Allow me, Miss.” The other man who’d helped carry Joshua bent over the sofa and slipped a knife under the edge of the damp fabric. He ripped it all the way up the seam to the collar and split that, as well. A flick of his fingers and the shirt fell away from Joshua’s chest.

  Christy gasped at the sight, and her head started to spin. She had to get hold of herself. This was no time for weakness. How many times in the past had she been forced to help with some beat-up, drunken patron at one of the saloons where she worked? But this wasn’t just some patron—this was her brother and, for all she knew, he was already dead.

  Strong hands gripped her and gently moved her aside. The stranger took the rags she’d tossed onto the back of the sofa and knelt on the floor. He worked quickly, making a compress and dipping it into the bucket of water, then cleaning her brother’s damaged flesh.

  Christy turned and looked for her mother, as Joshua appeared to be in capable hands, at least for the moment. Ma sat huddled in a chair with tears coursing down her cheeks. Two quick steps and Christy arrived by her side. She bent over and wrapped her good arm around her mother’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’ll make it. He’s a fighter.”

  “Joshua is my baby. I can’t lose another child, Christy. I already lost Molly.” A deep groan ending in a wail shook the older woman’s body.

  “The doctor will be here soon, and those men are doing all they can to save him.” She nodded toward the two bent over the still form on the sofa and dropped her voice. “Do you know who they are? They knew where to bring Joshua. Are they friends of his?”

  Ivy shook her head and leaned it against the high-backed chair. “The big man with his sleeves rolled up is John Draper, the blacksmith. I don’t know the other one.” She sniffled.

  Boots thumped on the porch and Doctor Goodfellow hustled into the room, his presence bringing hope to Christy’s heart. She hurried to his side, not wanting to miss anything he might say.

  The doctor shot her a glance and then stooped over the sofa, running a keen gaze over the unconscious man. “I see you’ve stopped the bleeding. How about the one in his leg?”

  John Draper wiped his hands on a rag. “It’ll have to be dug out. The one high up on his chest don’t look so good.”

  The other man rinsed his hands in the bucket and wiped them off. “Is this all the water you’ve got, Miss?”

  For the first time Christy really looked at him, and as she did so, her heart plummeted to her stomach, leaving her feeling sick. The man from the stage holdup—the one who tended my arm.

  Somehow she managed to catch herself before the words tumbled out that would cause her to break her promise. Did he recognize her? She peered at him, then met his gaze squarely and saw no flicker of awareness. Her chest heaved i
n relief. “Yes. I was going to ask Joshua to have a barrel sent over when he got home, but…” She bit her lip.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Any neighbors you can borrow a bucket from?”

  “I don’t know anyone. I just arrived yesterday….” Her words trailed off as she realized what she’d revealed.

  His eyes moved swiftly from her face to her arm. A hint of knowledge sparkled in their depths. “I see. I’ll head to town and bring some back then.” He turned and grabbed the handle of their bucket and disappeared out the door.

  Christy watched him go, certain she’d never see him or her bucket again. He’d realized who she was, even with her sleeve covering the bulky dressing. The man wasn’t stupid. No doubt as soon as he’d saddled his horse, he’d be on his way out of town.

  Nevada hurried up the street still clutching the bucket, his mind swimming with what he’d learned. The woman on the stage. Why hadn’t he known as soon as he’d heard her voice? She was more beautiful than he’d expected, although his imagination had created a number of pretty faces. She recognized him—that was apparent from her shocked look. He’d almost laughed out loud at her wide-eyed surprise, for the pure joy of finally discovering her identity.

  Another thought struck him, and he slowed his pace. There’s no guarantee she didn’t break her word and alert the law.

  What should he do now?

  His decision was swift. Get the water and return. After all, that’s what he’d promised to do, and he wasn’t going back on his word, no matter what.

  If the marshal came calling, Nevada would figure that out when the time arrived. Problem was, even though he hadn’t been part of the robbery, he couldn’t prove it.