Beyond Betrayal

by Christine Michels

  "He called me Ty. Did ya hear that Pa?"

  "I heard."

  "I think I like that.” The boy's eyes glowed with hero worship.

  Didsworth reached over and gripped his son's shoulder. "Has kind of a manly ring to it, don't it?” Then he turned to Delilah. "We'd best be on the move, ma'am. Lost us a couple of hours as it is."

  As Delilah took her seat on the wagon once more, she was struck by the realization that, if Sheriff Matt Chambers was the sheriff of Red Rock, then he was doubtlessly also the sheriff investigating the rustling. And, Eve's letter implied, doing a pretty poor job of it, too. Much as Delilah would prefer to avoid the man in future, she might have to talk to him about that.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time Ronnie Didsworth finally guided his four-horse team and buckboard into Red Rock. "Well, now, lookee there," old Jeb Potter exclaimed in a low voice. "Didsworth done brung a purdy new filly to town."

  His conversation with Potter thus interrupted, Samson straightened from his leaning position against the wall of Lowden’s Mercantile and flexed a kink out of his broad shoulders. Potter was right about one thing: The woman with Ronnie was pretty. Downright beautiful some might say. He'd noticed that this morning.

  Widow's weeds or not, any man with eyes in his head could see she couldn't have been a widow for long. She had hair as black and shiny as new coal, skin as white and rich as the fresh cream Samson had poured into his coffee that morning, and eyes as blue as. . . well, hell, he couldn't think of anything quite as blue as her eyes.

  "Seein' that purdy lady affect yer ears, Matt?" Jeb Potter demanded in a querulous tone.

  Samson looked down at the old man with a cold-eyed gaze that had cowed more than one recalcitrant drover bent on raising hell.

  "An' don't bother turnin' that look on me. I ain't yet seen the day that I'd be afeard of a young pup like you."

  His gaze didn't deviate. "What was it you said, Jeb?"

  "I asked ya if ya knowed her?"

  "Nope. Never saw her before today.” He looked back at the woman. Didsworth was helping her down from the buckboard in front of Mrs. Swartz’s Bakery.

  "Thought you didn't have no use for wimmin?" Potter asked.

  Samson gave an almost imperceptible shrug. In actuality fact he liked women quite a bit, but since he neither wanted nor could afford an entanglement with one who might have expectations for the future, he tended to avoid them. Except, of course, Lil. Lil was a widow in Butte City for whom the widowed state had been a boon. She liked variety in men and didn't like them to hang around too long. Sam's periodic friendship with her had been more of a convenience for both of them than anything else. Still, it had been a long time since he'd seen her.

  "I like women well enough," he said finally, almost musingly as he observed Mrs. Sterne. "There's just certain kinds I prefer to avoid."

  "An' what kinds would those be?"

  Matt narrowed his eyes as he watched the pretty young widow step up onto the boardwalk and pause to study the town. "The marrying kind that the good church-going ladies keep trying to foist off on me, and whores. Whores can be downright deadly.” He was only half-joking.

  Potter shook his head. "Where in tarnation did you get an idea like that? Some of the best women I've knowed were whores. 'Sides, if you leave them out, there ain't nothin' left."

  "There's widows," Samson murmured, wondering what in the hell he was saying. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with a woman. Any woman. With a past that shadowed him like a stalking wolf, he couldn't afford to let anybody get too close to him. But, damn, it had been a long time.

  Potter followed his gaze. The lady was looking into the window of the Red Rock Savings and Loan. "I guess," he conceded. "But there ain't a whole lot of widders."

  "I only need one.” One that wouldn't need permanence. Marriage was not in the cards for a man like him. The trouble was he hadn't quite stopped dreaming about having kids of his own someday. He'd always liked kids. And, unfortunately, you couldn't have the one without the other. At least not to his way of thinking. Nope. A nice cozy relationship with a beautiful widow would be about as perfect as he could get.

  Potter frowned. "I still want to know where you got the idea that whores is deadly. Here all the time I've knowed you, I thought you didn't like wimmen. I swear, you an' Mayor Jack are the only fellas in town that ain't visited Cora's girls."

  "I have an uncle who almost bled to death after catching the clap from a whore in Wyoming once."

  Potter snorted. "Now that's a stretcher if I ever hear'd one. Ain't nobody can bleed to death from catchin' the clap."

  Samson looked down at him. "They can if they give it to their wives."

  Potter stared at him as though he'd lost his mind. "You wanna run that horse by me agin."

  "When my aunt found out that Uncle Harry had been visiting whores when he went to town for supplies and then comin' home to her like nothin' had happened, she was so blamed mad she blasted him with the bear rifle when he came in off the range. He blame near bled to death before she could patch him up."

  Potter looked up at him incredulously. "Why in blazes she shoot 'im in the first place if she was gonna try to patch 'im up?"

  Sam shrugged and lifted his eyes to seek out the widow. She was making her way down the street past Doc Hale's office. "Damned if I know. Aunt Mazie always did love Uncle Harry something fierce. I guess she figured she didn't want to lose him after all. I was only about thirteen or fourteen at the time, but I've been real leery of catching the clap and giving it to another woman ever since.” Not to mention the fact that he was just naturally fastidious. He didn't like the idea of being with a whore any more than he'd like the idea of putting on a pair of underwear or socks that had been worn by half a dozen men before him.

  Potter frowned. "I can see how that could color a boy's view of whores a tetch. But it jest ain't healthy for a fella to go without a woman."

  Samson was not about to tell old Jeb about his occasional visits with Lil—it was none of his business. So, he said nothing.

  "I think in your place I mightn't be so set agin marryin'."

  Samson snorted. "No thanks.” He had more than one reason for avoiding that exalted state.

  There was a moment of silence. When Samson looked down at Potter it was to see the old miner looking up at him with a strange, knowing glint in his eye. "What?" Samson demanded.

  "I know the sound of a man who's had his tail feathers singed when I hear one."

  "Singed, hell!” Samson bit off a piece of the red and white striped hard candy that was in his shirt pocket and replaced the remainder to be savored later.

  "Well now, sonny, I know you ain't gonna believe this, but all wimmin ain't like the one that done you in. My Anna would'a walked to hell and back for me. Never saw a woman work so hard to keep her man happy. I never thought 'bout visitin' a whore when Anna was alive.” He wiped his faded old blue eyes with a handkerchief that may have once been white or beige, but was now of indeterminate color and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Damnation, I miss that woman. Don't know why the good Lord hasn't took me to join her yet. Hain't got nothin' left to do on this earth that I can think of."

  But Samson wasn't listening anymore. His thoughts were on the one woman he'd ever loved. Melissa Corrigan had been sweet, young and innocent. Hell, they'd both been young, but they'd loved each other passionately nonetheless. He'd been a different person then, had even worn his own name. Somehow, unfailing optimist that he'd been, he had found the courage to ask Pete Corrigan for his daughter's hand in marriage, and the man had agreed. . . at first. Then, the wealthy railroad owner, seeking more power and prestige, had begun to demand things of his future son-in-law. Things that were not only morally wrong, but on the wrong side of the law. Things like sabotaging his competitor's lines or creating a scandal concerning his rival's family. When Samson had refused, Corrigan had revoked his permission for him to wed Melissa. Then, after having Samson t
hrown bodily off of his property by a number of his men, Corrigan had hastily arranged a marriage for Melissa to a man more amenable to performing the kinds of favors he needed. A man double Melissa's age who needed a wife because he'd lost his own and still had a young son to raise. Samson had never learned his name, but he was a man who wouldn't have known the meaning of the word tenderness if had reached out and touched him. Or so Mrs. Corrigan had said when Samson had asked about him. Mrs. Corrigan hadn't wanted to see her daughter married to the man but, having never stood up to her husband, she didn't know how to begin.

  Even now, six years later, the pain of what had followed had the power to bring a lump to Samson's throat. Poor sweet Melissa had not known what to do. She'd never in her life defied her father, and couldn't find the strength to do it then. Instead, terrified that her father would have the man she loved killed, she'd implored Samson to forget her and find another love. She'd made him promise not to interfere, saying it would only make matters worse. And so, he had stayed away and Melissa had done as her father demanded, marrying according to his choice. The day after her wedding, she'd tried to kill herself by jumping into the river. Only her mother's intervention had saved her.

  It was that news, and images of what must have preceded her rash act that had made Samson disregard his promise to her. He'd gone to the Corrigan property, still crowded with wedding guests, and landed a few very satisfying punches on both Pete Corrigan and the groom the man had chosen for his daughter. Samson couldn't even remember the man's face, and had never learned his name. Nevertheless, it had been satisfying to make that man feel a small measure of pain for his callous treatment of his new bride. Of course, Sam had sustained a few bruises himself when Corrigan's body guards pulled him away and threw him off the property. A day later, warned that Corrigan wanted him dead and knowing that Melissa was forever lost to him, Samson had fled the area. He'd eventually become a hired gun—on the side of right—and lived a decent life until. . . until the day he'd made the mistake of stopping in Cedar Crossing, Wyoming.

  He sometimes still wondered about Melissa, but he knew he could never again fall in love with such an innocent. Had she only had the strength to stand up to her father, or to leave behind the comforts of her affluent home and run away with him, they might have married despite Corrigan's ambition. But Melissa had done neither. Samson's young heart had eventually healed, though it still ached for what might have been and he'd long ago decided that he never wanted to suffer that kind of pain again.

  He would not, could not, love again.

  And so, he avoided innocent women. Women who could worm their way into his heart with their need for protection. Women who admired his strength and appearance. And women who, not knowing the score, might grow to depend on him. He'd grown too old and too cynical to accept their admiration, and too interested in staying alive to be dependable.

  Once more his gaze, of its own accord, sought the shapely form belonging to the young widow, Mrs. Sterne. Her pace had increased as she came toward him on the opposite side of the street.

  A safe, discreet relationship with an independent widowed lady who knew the score would suit him the best. There'd be no emotional commitment to make leaving hard when it became necessary. No parental interference. No clinging dependency. And, best of all, no more celibacy. Hell, it'd be blamed near perfect. He studied the object of his consideration intently.

  Mrs. Stern's small, rapid-fire steps echoed on the boardwalk. Her gown, dusty with travel from the tip of its high-necked collar to its hem, was in the process of picking up an extra layer of red-brown dust from the street. Still, despite her travel-worn state, his initial assessment stood. This lady was beautiful. Too damned beautiful. Getting near her could be about as smart as trying to stare down a grizzly. Maybe he should reconsider.

  Yet he found himself fascinated by her obvious gentility. A man didn't get the opportunity to see very many ladies of her quality out here.

  Carrying a black parasol to protect her delicate complexion from the brutal sunlight, she walked with her backbone as straight as a poker and her head held high. A small bonnet sat securely fastened atop her thickly coiled hair, but its purpose was obviously ornamental. Samson watched as she lifted her skirts, ever so slightly with the fingers of the same hand in which she carried her carpetbag, in order to skirt a small pile of horse manure as she crossed the street. He didn't even catch a glimpse of ankle. In fact, every move she made was as schooled and as graceful as though she was out for a Sunday stroll in a city park. The only thing that was even remotely unladylike about her was the carpetbag in which she carried that silly looking dog of hers. It made the bag look as though it had sprouted an animal head. Carpetbag aside, however, this lady was all class.

  “Breeding will always tell,” his mama had often said.

  For the first time in a very long time, Samson knew he was looking at the evidence of that breeding. He tipped the brim of his hat as she drew abreast, "Afternoon, ma'am," he murmured.

  Her big brilliant blue eyes lit on him for an instant as she acknowledged his greeting with the barest dip of her haughty little chin, "Sheriff Chambers," she said, and then she moved on. Her brisk steps carried her directly into the Lucky Strike Saloon.

  Whoa! Back up them thar horses! The saloon?! Sam inhaled in perplexity, forgetting entirely about the hard candy he'd been sucking, and ended up inhaling the blasted thing. As a paroxysm of coughing gripped him, he continued to stare at the spot where the lady had disappeared into the Lucky Strike. Finally, old man Potter stood up and gave him a good whack between the shoulder blades, displacing both the candy and Sheriff Chambers' uncharacteristic fascination with one of the female persuasion.

  Able to breathe again, Sam turned to speak to Potter. "Well, I better be getting back . . . ” He trailed off as he realized the old man was grinning from ear to ear in toothless mirth.

  Potter resumed his chair and slapped his thighs in jocular rhythm. "You better stay away from that filly, sonny. She don't jest affect yer hearin', but yer breathin' too. And that's downright dang'rous."

  "Shut up, Jeb," Samson muttered, giving the old man a warning look.

  "Sure thing, Sheriff. Just makin' an observation is all.” Jeb's eyes glinted with unrepentant laughter.

  He frowned. There were some definite advantages to keeping people afraid of you. There weren't many people in town who would have dared to enjoy a laugh at his expense. Perhaps that was exactly why Samson tended to seek out Jeb when he was in the mood for some honest conversation.

  Ignoring Jeb's impertinence, Samson decided that on the way back to his office, he'd just stop at the Lucky Strike to wet his whistle and have a peek to see exactly what that lady might be up to. Maybe she was one of those hellfire and brimstone preacher's widows come to Red Rock to reform the whores. If so, she had one heck of a job ahead of her, and it could prove downright interesting to watch. Besides, when Miss Cora threw her out of the saloon, she might just need someone to see her to the hotel.

  By the time Sam entered the saloon, the bartender, Mitch Crebs, was pouring the widow a glass of what looked like peach cordial. With her carpetbag on the floor at her side and her back as ramrod straight as a schoolmarm's, the widow stood at the bar slowly perusing the establishment. Samson followed her gaze.

  The evening business hadn't yet begun, and there were only four other customers in the saloon. Simon Earl, a local rancher, his foreman, Frank Cook, and Simon's son, Travis Earl, sat at a table in the center of the room sharing a bottle of red-eye and a game of stud-poker as they argued about the fate of the beleaguered cattle industry. They studied Mrs. Sterne with a measure of surprise and no small amount of interest before returning to their argument. Old Bill Crumley, the town drunk, sat in the back corner nursing a tumbler of cheap booze while he swatted half-heartedly at a blue-fly buzzing near his head. The widow's gaze halted briefly at the poker table, its green surface dusty with disuse, and then moved on to the old piano which, come nightfall, woul
d be belting out all kinds of lively ditties in response to Phil Marcham's dexterous fingers.

  "What can I getcha, Sheriff?" Mitch asked as he moved down the bar toward Samson.

  "Give me a shot of whiskey would you, Mitch?” Samson hooked the heel of his right boot on the brass railing at the bar, and waited.

  ". . . Course the damned rustling don't help," Simon Earl suddenly said in a loud voice. "You ever gonna do anything 'bout that, Sheriff?" he asked, drawing Samson's attention from the widow. "Or are you figurin' on the Almighty doin' your job for ya?"

  "Aw, pa. . . come on, don't . . . ," Travis began.

  He was interrupted by a cuff to the side of the head from his father. "You talk when I tell you to boy, an' not before."

  Travis lowered his gaze to the cards in his hand. "Sure, pa.” He was a grown man and if he allowed his father to treat him that way, there wasn't much Samson could do about it though his guts churned with cold rage.

  Simon switched his gaze back to Samson. "Well, Sheriff, you got anything to say for yourself."

  Samson's gaze sharpened. Give me a reason, Earl. "Well now, Simon, I don't remember anything in my job description sayin' I had to report to you. If that changes though, I'll be sure to let you know.” With those words, he dismissed the pompous rancher and turned back to his drink. Silence reigned. And then, slowly, Frank Cook began a conversation that drew his employer's attention and they returned to the poker game they'd been playing.

  With the tense moment past, Samson looked back at Mrs. Sterne. The widow had to have had some purpose in coming in here other than a drink—unless she was one of those suffragettes—and he figured if he bided his time he'd find out what it was.

  He didn't have long to wait.

  "Bartender?" Mrs. Sterne called out in a soft voice.

  "Yes, ma'am," Mitch responded as he moved back down the bar toward her.