“What’s your name?” the big man demanded.
“It’s one you do need to know—and remember. Wyatt Yarbro.”
“Oh, I’ll remember, all right.”
“If any of you have wages to draw on one of the big ranches,” Sarah put in, “we’ll be happy to cash the vouchers for you.”
Wyatt willed her to shut up. It proved futile, however, as it usually did with women.
“We offer one-percent interest on our savings accounts,” she prattled on.
The big man looked flustered. Clearly, he’d come to make a withdrawal, not a deposit, and he didn’t give a rat’s behind about interest rates.
“Stone Creek’s a friendly town,” Wyatt said affably, still sensing that he had an advantage in this situation, though he’d be damned if he knew what it was, since he was outnumbered and the menfolks hereabouts didn’t seem inclined to stick their heads out of their homes and businesses, let alone stand with him. “We do have an ordinance, though, in regard to firearms. Drop your pistols and rifles off right there on the counter and collect them at the jailhouse when you’re ready to ride out.”
The big man blinked. “I never heard about no ordinance,” he protested.
His cohorts were clustered in front of the window, peering in, and Wyatt thought he recognized one of them as Billy Justice’s younger brother, Carl, but he couldn’t be sure. Like the others, Carl resembled a dust statue, come to life.
“I reckon there are a lot of things you haven’t heard about,” Wyatt responded. “The law is the law—” now, where had that come from? “—and if you won’t comply, I’ll have to arrest you.”
“Look, we don’t want no trouble,” the big man said.
“Hand over those firearms and you won’t have any,” Wyatt promised. What had turned these yahoos from their obvious intention to rob the Stockman’s Bank while Rowdy was away? Surely the Yarbro name, widely known in the West and even parts of the East as it was, hadn’t been enough to stop twenty armed men in their boot prints. Most likely, they’d counted on an easy morning’s work, with no one but an elderly banker, his daughter, and a clerk to impede them, and now that they’d encountered a single deputy marshal, they’d lost their gumption. If Pappy had decided to clean out the vault, he’d have taken care of business and ridden for the hills in half the time these would-be bandits had spent jawing and jamming up the doorway.
Reluctantly, the big man drew his hog-shooter and stepped up to lay it on the counter. “All right then,” he said, signaling the others to do the same. “But I don’t like it.”
“No ordinance says you have to like it,” Wyatt offered, letting out an inward breath in relief. He’d never been worried for his own safety, but he’d been plenty concerned about Sarah’s.
She watched, clearly amazed, as man after man trooped in and surrendered his firearm. Within a minute or two, the counter top was piled high with six-guns, rifles, and even a Bowie knife or two.
“Much obliged, fellas,” Wyatt said. Carl Justice was at the tag end of the line, and when he’d laid his ancient pistol on the counter, his gaze connected with Wyatt’s, then skittered away.
As he turned to go, Wyatt caught him by the back of his canvas duster and held him fast.
“We’ll have a word or two,” Wyatt told Carl.
Carl’s Adam’s apple moved the length of his throat when he swallowed, but he didn’t try to walk away.
“Phew!” Sarah said, when all the men but Carl had gone.
Wyatt sliced a glance in her direction. He wondered if she still thought the big man and his gang had come in to put part of their wages by for their old age. “I’ll need something to carry those guns in,” he told her mildly.
She nodded. “There’s a wheelbarrow over at the livery stable. I’ll borrow it.”
A moment later, she was gone.
Fine time to clear out. For such a smart woman, she sure was naive when it came to the intentions of others.
“What are you doing here?” Wyatt demanded of Carl, getting him by the lapels of his coat as soon as Sarah passed the front window.
Carl smirked, though his eyes said he was scared. “I could ask the same thing of you,” he countered. “Billy’s bound to kill you dead. He knows you were in with them vigilantes that jumped us down at Haven right after you run off. Me and Billy and Clyde and Jack, we got away, but Billy’s best friend Pete got lynched, right along with poor old Hannibal. Billy said their tongues hung out and turned black while they was chokin’.”
“Where’s Billy now?” Wyatt asked coolly. He’d taken a careful look at the outlaws as they turned in their weapons, one by one, but there had been no familiar faces among them, save Carl’s.
“You think I’m fixin’ to tell you that?” Carl scoffed. “After what you done to us?” He glanced at Wyatt’s star, and if he’d been a braver man, Carl probably would have spit in his face. He was yellow-bellied, though, which in this case was a prudent approach.
Wyatt felt no need to defend leaving the Justice gang to look out for themselves. He took a tighter grip on the front of Carl’s filthy coat, which was stained with tobacco juice and spilled whiskey, among other things. “That big fella, the one who did all the talking. Who is he?”
Carl tried to shrug off Wyatt’s hold on his duster, to no avail. “Hails to Paddy Paudeen. He was a strikebreaker, up in Wallace, Idaho, and other places, too, so you’d best not push him overmuch.”
Wyatt made a mental note of the name. It wasn’t familiar, but it wouldn’t be hard to remember. “You were planning on holding up this bank.” It was a statement, not a question.
Carl’s attempt at bravado was pitiable. “Nah. We was just lookin’ for a saloon, like Paddy said.”
“You don’t know a bank from a whiskey joint? Damn, Carl, even you can’t be that stupid.”
Carl gulped loudly. “No harm done. Can I go now?”
Wyatt let him go with a flinging motion that made him stumble backwards a few steps. “If you happen to have any contact with your big brother Billy, tell him I’d like to see him.”
“Ain’t seen him since we scattered to get away from them vigilantes,” Carl lied, edging toward the door.
“If you send him a wire, say, I’ll know it, Carl.”
“I cain’t send no telegram. Only got so much money in my pocket, and it’s goin’ for whiskey and a woman. And, anyways, I don’t know where he is.”
Just then, Sarah appeared in the open doorway, pushing an empty wheelbarrow. Her cheeks were pink from the effort, her hair all flyaway and stuck to her cheeks and the sides of her neck from the heat.
Wyatt’s gut clenched at the sight of her, like it had the very first time, when he’d walked into that revival tent down by the creek.
Carl all but scrambled over the top of the wheelbarrow to get past her.
“I thought at least one of them would be fiscally responsible,” she said.
Wyatt laughed outright. He could have used a drink himself, right about then, but with Paddy Paudeen and his outfit in town, he didn’t have the option.
“What,” she demanded, flushed again, “is so funny?”
“You,” Wyatt said. He took the handles of the wheelbarrow from her, rolled it over to the counter, and started loading up guns, emptying each one of bullets and dropping these into the bottom of the barrow in a jumble.
Vexed, Sarah stepped inside and shut the door, whispered as though there were folks outside with their ears against the walls. “There is no ordinance against the possession of firearms in Stone Creek,” she said.
“There is now,” Wyatt replied, unconcerned.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her put her hands to her hips. Yes, sir, she was vexed. Not the least bit grateful that he’d just saved the cash holdings of the Stockman’s Bank, whatever they amounted to, and possibly her life and virtue in the bargain.
“You can’t just make up laws,” Sarah challenged, “like some—some potentate!”
“Can’t
I?” Wyatt countered.
“No!” she sputtered.
“Well, darn,” Wyatt said, grinning. “Somebody should have told me that before I went ahead and did it.” He’d filled the wheelbarrow; now, he’d trundle it down the street to the jailhouse. Look in on Lonesome and see how the old dog was faring. If he was still feeling poorly, Wyatt planned to take him to see Doc Venable. Maybe there was a way to perk the mutt up a little.
“Suppose those men intended to trade honestly with this bank?” Sarah persisted. “Now, they’ll never set foot in here again, thanks to you!”
Wyatt shook his head as he wheeled the load of guns past her, leaned to open the door. So that was what was getting under her hide. She thought she’d lost a valuable business opportunity. “It would be a good thing if they didn’t,” he said, over one shoulder. “Since they meant to empty your safe.” Sarah was mad, all right, and he hoped she wouldn’t get over it too quickly. Anger was becoming on her, making her eyes flash like blue fire and her cheeks blossom pink as the tea roses growing behind his ma’s springhouse back on the farm.
He set the wheelbarrow down on its three wheels and turned, standing on the sidewalk, to look at her.
He never knew what came over him. Maybe he was just glad Paudeen and the others hadn’t called his bluff. He could still feel the hot August sun on his face, the breath in his lungs, the steady, strong beat of his heart.
Maybe it was the way she looked, standing there.
In any case, Wyatt stepped over the threshold, took her by the shoulders, and backed her across the room until she was pressed against the counter. Then he caught her chin in one hand, lifted, and kissed her square on the mouth.
She stiffened, then opened to him. Her hands came up slowly, tentatively, and linked at the back of his neck.
A thousand thoughts flashed through Wyatt’s mind as the kiss lengthened—he imagined bedding Sarah, right and proper, and all the pleasures that would entail. Her response was neither innocent nor awkward, but seasoned.
This was no virgin spinster, an insight that both troubled Wyatt and intrigued him.
When they finally broke apart, Sarah stared up at him, baffled and flushed, her hair even more askew than before. He accepted the truth then—he wasn’t leaving Stone Creek anytime soon. If Billy Justice came, looking to gun him down, all the better—he’d like to get that particular confrontation out of the way anyhow.
If Rowdy and Sam came back, knowing he’d been part of the rustling operation down near Haven and bent on arresting him, he’d take his medicine, even if it meant going back to prison. Whatever happened, he wanted as much time with Sarah as he could get. Every minute spent away from her was a wasted one.
She seemed breathless and a little frazzled. Instead of moving away, out of his embrace, as another woman might have done, she was in no hurry to lower her hands to her sides. They were still resting against the back of Wyatt’s neck.
“Of all the nerve,” she marveled, in a strangled whisper.
Wyatt kissed her again, lightly this time, and all too briefly. God, what he wouldn’t have given to lay her out on a soft bed, or in deep, fragrant grass, and pleasure her into feverish distraction. His whole body hardened at the prospect, and she must have noticed, because they were still pressed close together; her breath caught and her cheeks got pinker.
She slid her hands down over his shoulders and chest before sidestepping him, and he knew by the way she moved that she’d wanted him as much as he wanted her. He’d taken willing women in broad daylight before, and in some unorthodox places, too. But Sarah Tamlin was, for all her tantalizing secrets, a lady. When he had her, it would be a proper seduction, slow and easy, in a real bed.
“You might want to close up early,” he said, sounding hoarse. He went back to the wheelbarrow, took hold of the handles.
She wouldn’t look at him, nor did she speak, but he saw her give a brisk nod.
As soon as he’d stepped away from the door, he heard the lock turn behind him.
Wyatt wondered if she wanted to keep Paddy and his gang out, or the new deputy marshal who’d just kissed her, and soundly.
KITTY STEEL OPENED the back door of the Spit Bucket Saloon when Sarah knocked lightly, two full hours after she’d closed down the bank. Skirting Main Street, Sarah had rushed to Stone Creek, and found her father and Owen safe beside the sparkling stream, fishing. They’d caught a mess of trout.
“Is something the matter?” Ephriam had asked, squinting at her. He’d left his spectacles at home, evidently, or tucked them into his shirt pocket. To look at him, one would never guess he had episodes when he truly believed an invasion of the Confederate army was imminent.
They were safe. That was all that mattered to Sarah.
“No,” she’d said cheerfully. “I just decided to close the bank early today. Let’s go home and fry up those fish for lunch.”
“Ephriam showed me how to clean them,” Owen had told her proudly, on the walk back to the Tamlin house.
“I believe I could use a nap, after we eat,” Ephriam had observed, once they were inside.
“A nap?” Owen had looked positively crestfallen. “I thought only babies took naps.”
“Old coots do, too,” Ephriam had replied fondly. His eyes seemed to caress the boy.
Sarah fried up the fish, managing not to cremate them in the skillet, and even though she was still shaken—not by what might have been a near robbery, but by Wyatt Yarbro’s kisses. When the meal was over and she’d cleared the table, Ephriam retired to his room, and Owen, despite his position on naps, began to yawn.
“Just lie on your bed and close your eyes,” Sarah had told him gently. “You needn’t actually sleep.” Her mother had used that trick with her, when she was small. Just rest, she’d said, knowing Sarah would drift off.
Full of fresh air and fish he’d helped to catch, Owen considered the suggestion, finally nodded, and went up to his room. When Sarah peeked in, he was sound asleep.
She’d waited half an hour, then set out, via backstreets and alleys, for the Spit Bucket Saloon.
“It won’t be the same without Maddie and Lark,” Kitty said now, as Sarah entered the shadowy little room where the Tuesday Afternoon Ladies Only Secret Poker Society met.
The Society, as the members referred to it, had been founded three years before, when an epidemic of grippe struck the brothel above the Spit Bucket. Kitty, as well as several of the other soiled doves, had been desperately ill.
Doc Venable had run himself down to a nub, trying to look after them, and finally issued a plea for help during the weekly church services. Of all the ladies in attendance, only Sarah had been willing to set foot in any part of the saloon, let alone the infamous chambers upstairs.
During Kitty’s long recovery—two of her friends had perished—she and Sarah had become friends. In an effort to repay Sarah’s kindness, Kitty had taught her to play poker.
Sarah, with her head for numbers, found the game fascinating. At first, she’d played with Kitty and some of the other girls, but eventually, word had leaked out and traveled along the female grapevine. Soon, Fiona had joined in, then Mabel Hemmings, who worked at the mercantile. When Maddie married Sam O’Ballivan and moved to Stone Creek, she joined, too. Lark Yarbro had started attending over the winter, sometimes bringing her baby boy, sometimes leaving him in Gideon’s or Rowdy’s care.
Today, Fiona had arrived early. She greeted Sarah with a slightly brittle smile.
Sarah deliberately sat down next to her. From the looks of things, there would only be three of them in attendance that day, although Mabel was often late, and usually came tearing in after the first hand was dealt, struggling out of her apron as she burst into the room.
“I hear there were two handsome men dining at your house last night,” Fiona said tightly, losing her grip on the smile but trying valiantly to sustain it. “Deputy Yarbro and that Eastern fellow, with the little boy.”
The mention of Owen jabbed at Sarah
. If Fiona suspected any blood connection between her and the child, the news would be all over Stone Creek within an hour after the poker game ended. And speculation would be rife.
“Charles Langstreet was there,” Sarah said moderately. “He’s a business associate of my father’s.”
“But handsome,” Fiona reiterated.
“I suppose,” Sarah replied, careful not to look at her friend. And simultaneously realizing that Kitty was staring at her from across the table. Like many women in her scandalous sisterhood, Kitty had been widowed at a young age, left with two children and no means of supporting them. She’d scoured Denver for work, after her miner husband’s death during a riot—the union members had called him a “scab”—but there was none to be had. Every door had been slammed in her face.
In the end, she’d had no choice but to leave her small daughters in an orphan’s home and search elsewhere for a way to earn a living. Finally, she’d found work on a cattle ranch outside Durango, cooking for the crew, since the lady of the house was ailing. With her first month’s salary and permission to bring her children back with her, as long as they didn’t get underfoot, she’d hurried back to Denver to reclaim her children.
When she reached the home, breathless with anticipation, clutching stagecoach tickets for all three of them to make the return journey to Durango, she was informed that the little ones had been adopted by a wealthy physician and his wife, and taken back East somewhere. Stricken to the soul, having stressed that the arrangement was temporary when she left her girls, Kitty had begged for more information, desperate to track her babies down, but the officials at the orphanage refused. The adoptive parents’ last name was “confidential,” she was told, and besides, the children would have a better life with their new family.
Kitty had never gone back to the ranch outside Durango.
She’d asked questions of everyone she could find, but if anyone knew where her babies had gone, they weren’t telling. Frantic, half-wild with grief, Kitty hadn’t eaten or slept for days. She’d taken shelter in churches and alley doorways at night, and finally, when a man offered to buy her a drink, her destruction was complete.
The Rustler Page 9
