by Pam Crooks
He stepped out between the two stores, his gaze clinging to her as she continued down the boardwalk. She could get hurt in a cow town like this. Get caught up in some of the wildness that tended to break out with no warning. She’d be all but helpless against it. An innocent victim, and who would know? Who would care?
He set his hands on his hips and threw a glance across the street. The Dodge City Bank appeared quiet, with no one going in. No one coming out. It’d take only a minute or two to talk to her…
He turned back to the girl, walking away at a steady pace. His feet moved of their own accord, his need to make sure she was all right compelling him to go after her. His stride outpaced hers, and he caught up with her in front of the City Drugstore.
“Hey there, young lady,” he said.
She started at the sound of his voice. Her step quickened.
“Name’s Penn McClure,” he said, fitting his stride to hers. “Mind if I ask what yours is?”
She threw a wary glance up at him. Walked faster.
“I’m not going to hurt you, honey. I promise. You’re all by yourself, though, and you shouldn’t be. Someone could try to hurt you. Are you lost?”
He kept a close watch on her. From the way she inched closer to the edge of the walk, he was pretty sure she planned to bolt into the street.
“Go away, mister,” she said.
“Where are your parents?”
Quick as a sprite, she swerved away from him, but expecting it, Penn swung in front of her and blocked her path.
Fear flickered in the depths of her eyes. Eyes as blue as a summer sky.
“It’s none of your business, so just leave me alone, will you?” She stood with her feet braced, fists clenched, glaring up at him, defying that fear.
Penn admired her for it. The girl had spunk, for sure.
“I’ll help you find them or get someone who will,” he said. “Will you tell me your name so I can?”
“No.”
He had little experience in dealing with children, but he had to persist. He couldn’t let her go now that she’d raised the concern in him.
He bent, clasped his thighs, brought himself down to her level. She locked her gaze on him, those eyes, filled with fatigue and wariness, but vivid and direct.
A resemblance tugged at his memory. He clawed through his brain to decipher it, to remember, to figure out why he had the distinct impression of something familiar…
“Where’re you headed then?” he asked. “Maybe I can help you get there.”
“I said I don’t need your help, mister.”
“Well, if you don’t let me help you, I’ll just have to take you to the sheriff’s office. It’s his job to take care of lost girls anyway. Not mine.” He straightened. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
She didn’t move. Acutely aware of the time ticking away, the distance separating him from the Dodge City Bank, too, Penn waited.
“The Wright House,” she said finally.
The hostelry, located a couple of blocks over, catered mostly to cattle buyers and Texas cowmen. Penn took in her expensive-looking red plaid silk dress, all but covered with dirt and wrinkles. The scuffed and dusty bow-topped patent leather shoes, too.
“Does your daddy buy cattle?” he asked with a frown.
Her chin lifted. “No.”
“Did he trail a herd up here?”
“No.” She bit her lip. A moment passed. “My mother did. Leastways, I think she did.”
Penn went still. “Your mother.”
His gaze sharpened over her tousled reddish-brown curls, streaked by the sun and in sorry need of combing. Again that sense of familiarity came. He struggled to define it, an elusive something he should know.
Her hair is the perfect shade of cinnamon.
An image dropped into his brain.
Her eyes as blue as the sky.
Clear and concise and as real as if he held the thing in the palm of his hand.
The picture Carina kept tucked inside the pink camisole. Against her breast and next to her heart.
“You’re Callie Mae, aren’t you?” he breathed, stunned.
Her dirt-streaked face lit up with surprise. With a rush of raw hope. “How did you know that? Do you know my mother?”
“Yeah, I know her.” And wasn’t that an understatement. A knowing so deep he’d never forget her. “I’m her trail boss.”
Suddenly, a rush of anger changed Callie Mae’s hopeful expression. She smacked him on his chest with both her fists. “You’re lying! You’re not her trail boss. Woollie is!”
“Whoa, honey.” Appalled at his poor choice of wording, Penn held up a hand. He didn’t dare tell her how the man had gotten hurt, the reason why Penn had taken his place. “You’re right. He’s her trail boss. Has been for a long time. I just helped him with the job for a spell, that’s all.”
“You did? You trailed the C Bar C herd up from Texas?” she asked, but her mouth flipped into a suspicious pout. “So how come I’ve never seen you before?”
“Because I was hired out on your ma’s roundup, and you’d already left home with your grandmother by the time she hired me to help drive the cattle.”
“You know about my grandmother, too?” she asked.
“I do.” And more, besides. “Where is she?”
A guarded look stole into her expression. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since we were in Salina. Is Mama here? Is Woollie?”
“Yes, to both your questions.” Had Callie Mae traveled to Dodge City alone? How had she managed it? And what happened to Mavis Webb?
Callie Mae sucked in an excited breath. “Where? Are they at the Wright House?”
Questions circled inside his head, answers that needed to be found. Again, Penn’s gaze slid toward the Dodge City Bank. Locked over a man reining in at the hitching rail. A dandy dressed in a dark suit and a fashionable bowler hat, different than the Stetson hats everyone else in town wore, and he knew, then, that Rogan Webb had arrived.
His pulse kicked in to a fast beat. Whatever transpired in the coming minutes, Callie Mae didn’t need to see it. Her father was a chiseler of the lowest caliber. Something she probably already knew, but she was just a kid, and Penn didn’t want her to witness what he had to do.
He declined to answer her questions. Took her hand instead. Tugged her off the boardwalk and into the dirt street. He figured they were far enough away from the bank that she wouldn’t notice Rogan down the block, but Penn couldn’t risk it. He had to keep her occupied for a while. Get her out of harm’s way.
“Are you hungry, Callie Mae?” He fished with his free hand into a hip pocket, pulled out a few coins. Kept her walking across the street toward an eatery with yellow gingham curtains in the window. “Why don’t you buy yourself something to eat while I—”
“I want to find my mother.” Callie Mae tugged at his grip. He held her fast. “Why won’t you tell me where she is?”
“I will, honey. Soon. I promise. It’s just that she’s busy right now. And so am I. Going to take some doing to track her down, and there’s something I have to do first, so let’s just go in here and you can buy yourself some dinner, okay?”
He slid another glance down the boardwalk. Rogan had the bank’s door open, had just stepped through it…
“Here.” He handed her the coins. Callie Mae eyed them with clear indecision. “Buy yourself whatever you want. But stay right here, and I’ll come for you in just a bit, y’hear?”
At last, she took the money. “I guess.”
“Don’t go anywhere, Callie Mae. Stay right here. You’re going to see your mother real soon. I’m going to help you do that, I swear it. But just stay here.”
She peered up at him through a thick veil of lashes. Penn wondered what she was thinking. She had more courage, more perception than any ten-year-old should.
“Okay,” she muttered finally.
He ushered her in the doors and pulled them closed behind her before she could think of another p
rotest. He took the time to mutter a prayer to the Almighty to keep her there and save him from Carina’s wrath for doing what he was doing. Leaving Callie Mae behind.
But the lure of revenge was powerful. Too powerful to ignore. He could taste it on his tongue, feel it buzzing in his veins, and drawing his revolver, he broke into a full run toward the Dodge City Bank.
Chapter 18
If there was one stroke of good luck Carina could claim for the morning, it had to be that Rogan didn’t go far. Only to Front Street. The Dodge City Bank, to be exact. Did he intend to wire the money to some prearranged account? Bury it so deep the law might never find it?
He disappeared inside, but before Carina could dismount and go in after him, movement caught her eye.
A man carrying a gun, sprinting down the boardwalk from the opposite side of the block, toward the bank.
The hair stood up on her arms.
McClure. And he intended to wreak the revenge that was more important to him than anything, even Callie Mae, but especially her, and oh, God, what would happen when Rogan recognized him?
Callie Mae stuck her head outside the eatery’s door and watched Penn McClure run as quick as a lobo. She just plain didn’t know what to think about him claiming to know Mama.
Maybe she shouldn’t believe him.
But then again, maybe she should.
He’d guessed her name. And he knew about Grandmother. Woollie, too. He seemed genuinely worried about her, mostly wanting to make sure she got something to eat and all. Callie Mae guessed if he’d wanted to hurt her, he would’ve gone about it different.
She clutched the coins he’d given her tighter, inched farther out of the restaurant and more onto the boardwalk to see him better.
Strange about him being in such a hurry. Made her wonder if he was coming back, and she’d be blasted mad if he didn’t. He said he’d take her to her mother, and she’d been so hoping he would.
Dodge City was plenty big, and Callie Mae didn’t know all the right ways to look for her, even though she’d come this far by herself. She’d even checked at the stockyard office to see if the C Bar C herd was penned outside of town. The nice man at the desk told her the cattle were, so she had a pretty good idea her mother—or someone in her outfit, at least—might be around town.
Her eyes narrowed over Penn McClure. He’d stopped running but now he was going into the Dodge City Bank. Was he after someone in there? Why?
She didn’t know what to make of it, but it wasn’t much her business what he was up to. Her empty belly demanded her attention more, and she turned to go back into the eatery.
Except a woman across the street from the bank distracted her. A woman on an Appaloosa. Callie Mae lifted a hand, shaded her eyes against the sun and squinted hard.
The woman dismounted and hurried across the street. She strode straight and tall, and she wore a riding skirt and a holster and a wide-brimmed hat, and suddenly, pure joy soared through Callie Mae.
Mama!
Penn reined in the adrenaline surging through him and forced himself to keep his pace even, to push open the door and enter the bank lobby like any other customer.
Once inside, he paused and skimmed a glance around the place. He took note of who was where—the man in a gray suit, seated on a burgundy, tufted chair reading a newspaper; a cowboy standing near the plate glass window, emblazoned with Dodge City Bank in bold letters. Near a tall, potted fern, a couple of cowboys talked quietly while they enjoyed a smoke.
A normal business day, it seemed. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He resumed walking across the lobby, toward the row of teller windows. Three of them, side by side. Two were occupied by cowboys, intent on their financial affairs with the cashiers who assisted them. Rogan stood at the far right one, his back to Penn as he withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket.
Carina’s money. Penn halted behind him. Rogan wouldn’t know he had a gun pointed at him while he conducted his thievery. Not until it was too late.
The smooth-shaven cashier—Henry Fringer, Penn had learned—smiled at Rogan in greeting. “Good morning, sir.”
“Indeed, it is. Deposit this for me, will you?” Rogan passed George Satterfield’s bank draft under the barred window. “Here’s the number of the account.” A slip of paper followed.
Fringer studied the penciled markings on that little slip. “I believe this account belongs to our correspondent, Donnell, Lawson & Simpson, in New York.”
“That’s right.”
“You want the money to be available there?”
Rogan nodded crisply. “I do.”
The efficient-looking cashier glanced down at the bank draft next. His scrutiny lingering, his smile stayed on his face. “A good sum, Mr. Webb. Let me guess. For your cattle?”
“None of your damn business what the money’s for,” he snapped. “Just do what I told you.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll be but a moment.”
But instead of retrieving the bank’s ledger, Fringer opened a drawer, removed a magnifying glass, and held it over the check. His brows knitted in concentration; he slid the lens from one side to the other, then back again.
Rogan stiffened. Tension shimmered off him, like desert heat off sand. He leaned closer.
“Is there a problem?” he hissed in a low voice.
The man straightened. Ignored him. Angled his head toward an open office beyond the teller windows. He lifted his arm and waggled his fingers at someone only he could see.
George M. Hoover stepped out. One of the leading merchants in Dodge City, owner of the cigar store a short way down Front Street, he helped establish the Dodge City Bank and now proudly served as its president.
“Come look at this, Mr. Hoover,” Fringer said. “Tell me what you think.”
Handsome, with a stocky build, Hoover took the magnifying glass into his thick fingers and pored over the check draft, just as his cashier had.
“What?” Rogan grated, his narrowed gaze bouncing between them.
Finally, Hoover straightened. Set down the glass with a firm thunk. He leveled Rogan with a stern expression.
“We cannot accept this check for deposit, Mr. Webb,” he said firmly.
“What do you mean you ‘can’t accept it’?” Rogan snarled.
The bank president drew himself up, imperious in his disdain. “The note is forged.”
Rogan stared.
“Would you like to use the magnifying glass to see for yourself?”
“You’re lying.”
“I assure you, I am not. The draft isn’t worth the ink wasted on it.”
Rogan stood stock-still while his brain clearly put two and two together. And came up with trouble.
“Damn her.” He swore. Violently. “Damn her!”
“If I were you, Mr. Webb, I would damn no one but yourself. Because, you see, you’ve been set up.”
Rogan jerked, as if slapped. “What?”
Penn moved, then. Right on cue. Wedged himself in between Rogan and the cowboy on his left. He pulled the hammer back on his Peacemaker.
“How does it feel to be cheated of thousands of dollars of someone’s hard-earned money?” he murmured.
Rogan spun toward him. The blood drained from his cheeks. “McClure!”
“We meet again.” Penn’s lips curved in a cold smile.
The bank’s door opened, and the sound of a wagon rumbling down Front Street drifted into the lobby. The door closed again and silenced the sound.
“You’re about to be arrested by the United States government for all your counterfeiting crimes,” Penn went on, refusing to let himself be distracted by anything but the bulge beneath Rogan’s jacket. “So why don’t you just slide your hogleg under the teller window before someone gets hurt. Slow and easy. Mr. Hoover will know what to do with it when you do.”
Rogan didn’t move. But his gaze darted from Penn, to Fringer, to Hoover. As if weighing his odds against all of them.
Jesse moved out from
behind Penn and pulled out his gun. “Reckon you’re taking a long time to obey Mr. McClure’s order, Webb.”
“Best do it now, while you’re still able.” Stinky Dale showed himself from the farthest window, and his weapon made three aimed at Rogan’s chest.
Beads of sweat appeared beneath the bowler’s brim. Penn figured Rogan knew he was close enough to hell to smell smoke if he didn’t comply.
Gritting an oath, Rogan laid his shooting iron on the counter. Hoover snatched the weapon and hustled toward his office for cover, taking his cashiers with him.
“Agent Harvey Whelan traveled across this fine country for the pleasure of throwing you in the cooler, Rogan. Compliments of the Treasury Department and the Secret Service,” Penn said. The contempt which chilled the blue of Rogan’s eyes kept his senses fine-tuned. The man had nothing to lose right now, and that made him plenty dangerous. “Come on over here, Harv, and I’ll let you arrest him.”
But it wasn’t the sound of the agent rising from the burgundy chair and striding forward in the firm, even tread of shoe leather that reached Penn’s ears, but the sharp jangle of spurs from the direction of the bank’s front door.
“Not yet, McClure,” Carina said. Her slender fingers gripped the pearl handles of each Colt, the firepower she needed to get what she wanted. “Not until he tells me where my daughter is.”
His heart slammed against his chest. His brain spun with all he needed to explain to her. All she didn’t yet know. “She’s here, Carina. I’ll take you to her when—”
“He’s lying,” Rogan said. “She’s not.”
Confusion darkened the violet depths. “What are you talking about?”
Rogan’s lip curled. “Just like you lied about the money, Carina.”
“From the herd?” Her gaze jumped to Penn, dragged back to Rogan. “I never lied, damn you.”
Impatience snapped inside Penn. Her confusion was a distraction he couldn’t afford. There’d be time for explanations later—after Rogan was in jail.
“Woollie!” Penn barked. He made a fierce gesture with the nose of his Peacemaker. “Get her out of here!”
