The Cowboy Encounter

by Kristy Tate

  “Not that it’s any of my business, but,” the doctor gave her an appraising look, “I don’t think he’ll be doing that. Until he comes to his right mind, you want to come and work for me?”

  Becca swallowed. “Absolutely.”

  “Good. I could use some steady hands and clear thinking.” He lumbered toward the house and Becca followed.

  “You staying at the inn?”

  “I’m not sure…maybe, if they still have room.”

  He said over his shoulder, “Oh, I’m sure they’ll find room for you. That rascal husband leave you in a financial pinch?”

  Becca thought about the bag of gold coins. She didn’t know how far it would go, but she figured it would be enough. She planned on waking very soon.

  “I’d be paying for your services, of course.” Dr. Jones climbed onto the porch, chuckling. “Although, my patients often compensate me with eggs and butter. Maybe you could strike up a deal with Mrs. Johansson.”

  And since practicing medicine seemed like a better way to spend her time than sitting in a corner waiting to return to the twenty-first century, Becca agreed to anything and everything Dr. Jones suggested.

  Becca fell into a simple life. She assisted Dr. Jones at his clinic, tagged along with him when a crisis arrived, and he needed to make a house call, and spent quiet evenings in her room at the inn, reading books borrowed from Mrs. Johansson in candlelight. If Warwick was in town, she never saw him. Not that she wanted to. Not that she looked for him. Oh, sometimes when she walked past the taverns, she’d listen for his voice and peek in the windows. But weeks slid by and she didn’t have a clue as to why she remained in the nineteenth century until the day Joel came into town.

  CHAPTER 4

  Just seeing his face made everything okay. Suddenly, her weeks of lonely frustration seemed totally worth it. If she could save Joel, then this was where she needed to be. Recalling her conversation with Celia about Jason’s ancestors, Becca tried to put the facts into a semi-logical order.

  Sure, she was still in the throes of a delusional episode, but Joel was the love of her life. Anything she could do, anything she could give, anything at all—she would always be there for him. She knew from the moment she first saw him that he was the center of her world. So when she saw him being dragged through town, with shackles on his ankles, and ropes tying his hands behind his back, she knew that she had to save him.

  Just like he had saved her cat. Sure, Muffin had died ten years ago, but that didn’t matter. What was important was that Joel had been there for her, and now, finally after all these years, she had the chance to be there for him.

  And yes, getting Muffin out of that maple tree hadn’t seemed like it was going to be that big of a deal, but when you’re thirteen, everything’s a big deal. And then when Joel fell and broke his collarbone, suddenly, it was a giant, heroic gesture that he’d made just for her…and Muffin, too, of course.

  She had majored in biology at UCon because it had been his major. He told her which professors to take and which to avoid. He helped her study for tests and quizzes. She probably owed her admission to med school to him…Well, probably not. After all, he hadn’t helped all that much…But still, he’d helped some, and she did get into the University of Vermont, and after her parents, and Joel, of course, being a doctor was the most important thing in her life.

  Both of her parents were dead now, and she’d never really been very close to her dad. He’d always been busy, and she’d been even busier…but here was Joel. He clearly needed her help.

  A rational voice whispered that the person being dragged through Everwood wasn’t really Joel, but she dismissed that voice. Seeing Joel in desperate need was the only thing that made her visit to the nineteenth century make sense.

  She stood, watching the Joel look-alike shuffle through the dusty street. Sheriff Welsh held a gun to his back and marched him down Main as if they were in a two man parade. People lined the boardwalk, watching.

  After a nod from the sheriff, Deputy Calhoun unlocked the jail cell. The sheriff pushed Joel inside and locked the door. The crowd lining the sidewalks broke into thunderous applause. Sheriff Welsh swept off his tall white hat with a flourish and took a bow.

  Becca had never hated anyone with as much venom as she hated the sheriff at that moment.

  “Why are they locking that man up?” she asked Mac Briggs, the saloon owner, standing next to her.

  “That crook?” Mac pushed his straw hat back and rubbed his forehead. He had a bulbous nose and perpetually red swimmy eyes. “He’s a train robber and a murderer, he is.”

  “Really? You know that for sure?”

  “Well, the sheriff and deputy surely think so, and I don’t know why they be lying.”

  “Maybe they’re mistaken.”

  “I figure they’ll be letting a jury decide that.” Mac settled his hat back on his head and gave Becca a stern look. “Heard your husband was back in town.”

  “My husband?” Becca knew that because she was one of the few females in town, and a doctor to boot, everyone knew her business.

  “The raider,” Briggs said, “he’s back in town.”

  “What did you call Warwick?”

  “The raider? Surely, you must know about all his escapades during the war.”

  “Oh…that…well, it was all so long ago.” Escapades? “Best forgotten.”

  “Forgotten? Are you funning me?” Mac pinned her with his watery gaze. “The man led an entire prisoner of war camp out of captivity…two hundred plus men.” He wiped away a sudden tear. “There are some things no one should ever forget.”

  “No…of course not. Warwick is very brave.” She thought of him bracing against her when she poured whiskey into his wound, holding her hand as he sweated out his fever. Most men would have died, but he had fought to live.

  And then he’d been mean.

  He owed her his life, and he hadn’t even said thank you. Well, he had, but he hadn’t sounded like he meant it.

  “Have you seen Warwick?” Becca asked.

  He jerked his head toward Silvia’s. “I be reckoning I’ll be seeing him soon.”

  Becca gave the man a tight-lipped smile and a small nod. “Thank you.”

  Straightening her shoulders, she stomped over to the tavern and peered through the window. He was the same, but different. Healthy. Strong. He owed it all to her. If she hadn’t pulled him out of that alley and nursed him back to health, he would have been dead weeks ago. Using her elbow, she wiped grime off of the window.

  He sat at a table, a cigar caught between his teeth, playing cards with a circle of men. His white shirt looked stark against his deeply tanned skin. His hair waved away from his angular face, and he wore it tied back with a leather thong. He looked more muscular than she remembered. His chin still had the stubble. Why hadn’t he shaved? Why was he smoking? She hated smokers.

  Someone must have pointed her out, because he lifted his gaze to hers. Their eyes locked. Becca clearly heard someone say, “Your wife,” and the room rocked with laughter.

  He smiled along with the rest of them.

  Becca turned away, mortified.

  #

  Warwick sat at the gaming table, coins on his left side and a flask on his right. A four, five, six, seven, and eight of hearts—a straight flush. A killer hand, but the cards couldn’t hold his interest. He kept thinking about the woman. She had nursed him day and night for three days, but she’d been haunting his dreams for weeks ever since. And now she was here, still parading as his wife. Why?

  He held his cards away from his chest, but after just half a second, he slapped them face down on the table. He didn’t trust his friends not to look—not even his partner.

  And he was pretty sure these men weren’t his friends. Not really. They tolerated him because he had a steady stream of cash…and whiskey…and he liked a good game. He picked up his hand and tried to steady his gaze while a mammoth sized man pounded on the piano.

  Warwick
threw the musician a frustrated glance. Maybe he could focus if that brute would stop filling the room with that awful sound. He looked around at the men sharing his table, trying to read them. No one else seemed to mind the racket coming from the piano in the corner.

  “You in?” Percy, on his left, asked.

  He nodded, tried faking his interest in the game, but his thoughts kept going back to Becca…Warwick. Hell. He didn’t even know her real name. The only thing he knew for certain was that she was the sole reason he’d returned to Everwood. He’d gone fifty miles out of his way to see her again. Why?

  She was pretty, but not like his Mary Kate. Mary Kate had been soft, curvy, and quiet, while this Mrs. Warwick was bossy, forceful and strong. Why was she pretending to be his wife? How far would she go with her bluff? What if he strolled over to the inn and got himself a key to her room? The thought made him smile.

  “Well?” Reynolds, on his right, prompted.

  Aw. The game. He was supposed to ante up. His attention flicked over the men surrounding him.

  “What’s so funny?” Isaac demanded.

  Warwick pushed in all of his coins.

  “You sure?” Percy lifted an eyebrow at him.

  He shrugged. “What have I got to lose?” Nothing. He had nothing, except for the straight flush. Warwick laid his cards on the table.

  Isaac brought his fist down on the table, making all the coins jump.

  Warwick smiled as he scooped the pot into his bag, then stood and swaggered toward the door.

  “Hey! Warwick—you can’t just leave,” Reynolds called after him.

  “Get back here.” Isaac pushed after him and grabbed him around the elbow.

  Warwick looked at Isaac’s hand and then his face. Isaac cocked back his arm for a punch that landed in Warwick’s gut.

  Without even a wince of pain, Warwick grabbed Isaac around the neck, held him suspended in midair for a moment, considering what to do with him, before tossing him out into the street. Isaac landed in the arms of a well-built man who didn’t appreciate his company. Within seconds, Isaac and the well-built men were throwing punches.

  Warwick watched the fist fight, feeling a smidgeon of remorse. He had started it, but damn if he was going to back up Isaac. He had to get away from the tavern’s smoke and stench. He paused at the open door.

  He had to find Mrs. Warwick.

  #

  Joel sat on a cot, his shoulders slumped with defeat. This was not the good-natured, friendly Joel that Becca knew and loved.

  This is not Joel at all, her rational voice said. But Becca hushed that voice. Rational voices and reasonable thoughts did not belong in delusions. If this was her dream, she could twist it in any direction she wished, and right now, she wanted nothing more than for Joel to take her in his arms, hold her tight, and kiss her until she flew right back to the twenty-first century where they could start their life together.

  “Joel?”

  He sat up and looked at her. “Yeah?”

  He spoke only one syllable, but it wrung her heart to hear him so sad and defeated and in such a horrible place. The floor and walls were made of rough-hewn stone. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling’s open beams, and dust gathered in the corners. The only light came through a two by two foot window about six feet above the floor.

  She gripped the bars, wishing she could pull them away. Nothing should ever separate them. “What happened to you?”

  He blinked at her, questions in his eyes. He blinked again, and confidence replaced his curiosity. “I didn’t do it.” He swallowed. “I didn’t kill that man. I don’t know why the sheriff refuses to listen to me.”

  Just then Deputy Calhoun rounded the corner and caught sight of her. “Afternoon, Miz Warwick.” He tipped his hat.

  Becca nodded at him. Just a few days ago, she’d pulled a thorn out of the deputy’s dog’s eye, so they were more like friends than acquaintances. “Sheriff Calhoun, why is this man being held?”

  Calhoun mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, and Becca realized that she made him nervous. She wondered if it was just her, or females in general.

  “He done killed ol’ Millhouse.” Calhoun tucked his handkerchief in his breast pocket and refused to look Becca in the eye.

  “How do you know?” Becca placed her hands on her hips and used her I’m-the-doctor authoritarian voice.

  “Rennet saw the whole thing.” Calhoun caught her gaze and flinched beneath it.

  “And you trust this Rennet?”

  Calhoun considered this and scratched his head. “Don’t have any reason not to.”’

  “Well, this man,” she pointed at Joel, “says he didn’t kill Millhouse. Do you have a reason not to trust him?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Becca frowned at Calhoun. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know this man.”

  Becca snorted. “You can’t just incarcerate a man because you don’t know him!”

  “Seems like I just did.”

  “Is he going to get a fair trial, or not?”

  “Sure ‘nuff, ma’am. He’ll get a trial in Denver.”

  “Denver? But that’s like a two day’s ride.”

  “Yeah.” Calhoun looked at the ground. “We should just hang him here!”

  “No!” Becca yelled. “Killing him isn’t the answer.”

  Calhoun scratched his head. “I’m begging your pardon, ma’am. I’m not a hundred percent sure I even know the question.”

  “The question is—did this man kill…” she paused. “Who was he supposed to have killed?”

  “Millhouse,” Calhoun supplied.

  “Yes!” She turned to Joel. “Did you or did you not kill Millhouse?”

  Joel stood, the back of his calves pressing against the cot—the only piece of furniture in the cell. He widened his eyes and gave her a childlike, innocent look. “No, ma’am, I did not.”

  “There, you see? You need to let him go.” Becca pointed at Calhoun’s chest.

  “Well now, ‘course he a’goin’ to say that. I reckon no one wants to hang.”

  “He had nothing to do with Millhouse’s death,” Becca stated.

  Calhoun raised his head to meet her gaze. “Ma’am, I don’t know what truck you got with this man, but I’m warning you, you’d best stay away.”

  Becca ignored Calhoun and his earnest eyes and turned back to Joel. Gripping the bars as if she could pull them apart, she said, “I’ll get you out!”

  Sheriff Walsh arrived, jingling keys. “Let’s go,” he said to Joel.

  “Where are you going?” Becca asked, panic touching her voice. “You’re not going to Denver already?”

  The sheriff ignored her, but Calhoun straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. “Why don’t you get on home to your husband?” he said.

  Her husband. Of course. Hadn’t Mac Briggs told her that Warwick had freed two hundred fifty men from prison? She wasn’t trying to save two hundred fifty—only one! Of course, he would help her since she had saved his life. Besides, he was just her delusion and delusions should always be malleable.

  Becca watched the sheriff lead Joel through the door. Joel shot her a parting glance over his shoulder, his eyes filled with pleading.

  She stumbled back out to the boardwalk and took three deep breaths, trying to quell her mounting anxiety. This isn’t real, she told herself. But it looked, smelled and felt real. The sun warmed her skin. A cool breeze carried the sweet odor of the pies cooling on the bakery’s shelf. She heard the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the Blacksmith’s clanging hammer. All of her senses screamed that this was truly her reality.

  But she couldn’t believe any of it. The sights, smells, and sounds were all lies. She was real. Joel was real. Maybe this delusion was about proving her love and devotion. She needed to show how far she would go to win his heart! Taking another deep breath, Becca squared her shoulders and headed for Silvia’s, a plan percolating in her mind.

  So busy with her inner thoughts,
she didn’t look where she was going. A hand on her arm stopped her.

  She looked up in surprise. “Mr. Warwick!”

  His lips lifted in a slow grin. “Mrs. Warwick!”

  CHAPTER 5

  She opened her mouth to explain, but then closed it after a quick glance up and down the busy street. Tugging on his sleeve, she drew him into a nearby alley, much like the one where she’d first found him bloody and torn. He followed her without complaint.

  “I did what I had to do to save your life,” she whispered. “You and I both know that you needed nursing and that if I, an unmarried woman, stayed in your room. I would be a social piranha.”

  “A social piranha? What’s that? A friendly fish?”

  “An outcast.”

  “So you decided to take my name to avoid censure?” He grinned. “I think you jumped from the frying pan into the fire—just like any good fish would do.”

  “Why? Is there some reason I shouldn’t want to be married to you?”

  His grin widened. “Now, what do you think?”

  “I think—no, I know—I saved your life.”

  “And I much appreciate it,” he drawled.

  “You do? Because until this moment, you haven’t even said thank you.”

  “I’m mighty thankful to be alive. I’m not quite sure how I feel about being married.”

  She glanced up and down the deserted alley. “You know, we’re not really married.”

  He tipped his hat back and fixed her with his gaze. “That so?”

  A tingle started in her belly and slowly spread. She blinked in surprise at her visceral response to this man. He is not real, she reminded herself, taking a moment to steady her nerves.

  “How are you?” she asked. “Did you have any recurring fever or infection?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. How are you? Would you like to see your handiwork?” His hands went to his buttons.

  Was he making fun of her? Really? She put her hand on his. “Please, leave your clothes on.” Becca dropped her hand, took a step backward, and fought the flush spreading over her skin.

  “Tell me, is it true that during the war you rescued an entire platoon of men from the enemy’s prison?”