The Law and Miss Penny

by Sharon Ihle

  Cain watched her as she walked away, unable to tear his gaze from the rounded outline of her bottom. Oh, she was wearing a proper enough skirt all right, but the way her hips swayed left room for doubt as to whether she'd donned enough petticoats and bloomers or whatever in the hell it was she ought to have been wearing by way of underpinnings. More disturbing than that—he couldn't seem to stop himself from staring at her or imagining the woman beneath that proper clothing.

  What the hell kind of a man was he, anyway? It seemed to him that he must have been a moral kind of fellah, or thoughts such as the ones he was having wouldn't have disturbed him so. But still, if he was so damn principled, how could he be having these feelings at all? Desire hadn't just tickled his loins at the thought of Mariah naked under that skirt, it had licked him from within, painfully swelling him beyond simple arousal. Lord, if he was this depraved now, what kind of a man had he once been? The woman was his cousin, for heaven's sake.

  Maybe, he thought, desperate for a reasonable explanation, the fever in his mind had taken control over his body as well. Or maybe more than his memory had been scrambled in the accident, maybe his very soul had been lost in the bargain. Cain didn't know. He only knew one, utterly appalling thing for sure right then. He'd been hard almost since the first moment her sensuous fingers had touched his shoulder.

  * * *

  Better than one hundred miles from the Penny encampment, most of the Doolittle Gang was settling in for the night at the ruins of an ancient Indian village. Gang leader and elder brother Billy Doolittle had discovered the dwellings the year before on an advance scouting trip of the area. Located just below the sheer, overhanging cliffs of a towering mesa some thirty miles west of Durango, the series of little "cave pueblos" made a perfect, nearly inaccessible hideout.

  Billy leaned in close to the fire pit and flipped the venison steaks over to the other side, ducking as the lard he'd used to sweeten the skillet popped and sizzled all around him. He glanced up at his brother, Artemis, and said, "How you coming with them biscuits, dreamy-eyes?"

  Although Artemis hated the name, any nickname in fact, he grinned at his older brother and continued pounding his fists into the sticky dough. "Can't tell for sure, Billy. You know I ain't got much know-how when it comes to cooking, but I think they could use some more flour."

  "There's that word again: think. What have I told you about that, Artie-boy? If'n I wanted you to go thinking on your own, I'd have told you to do it."

  "Sorry."

  "I'll just bet you are." Billy stacked the steaks, one on top of another to make room in the skillet for the biscuits, and then snatched the bowl out of his brother's hands. As he spooned the dough into the hot grease, he sighed and said, "I guess you went and forgot about that cowlick sticking straight up on the top of your head, huh, boy?"

  Artemis dropped his chin to his chest. "I ain't forgot."

  "Then maybe you forgot why it's there." When the kid didn't comment, he offered a reminder. "It's your own personal dunce cap, a kind of natural signal that lets the rest of us normal folks in on the fact that you ain't quite all there. A built-in dunce cap for a dunce." He laughed, and then as he thought about it, laughed some more.

  Artemis laughed, too, as always, wanting desperately to fit in with the gang, even at his own expense. Besides, Billy was right about the cowlick. It did look like a dunce cap, and he was a little bit slow. Not that Artemis had been born with any kind of abnormality, including the cowlick. His wheat-brown hair, straight as string, had always combed down nice, even without the benefit of Pa's bear grease. Until the accident, anyway.

  It had happened on the day of his eighth birthday when he went out to give the Doolittles' best brood mare, Irish, a little extra feed. He'd dumped a generous portion of flax and grain mixed with sweet molasses into her crib, and then started to return to the house. That was when he noticed a spot of blood on her right rear fetlock. He had bent down to pick her hoof up from the bedding straw, but it wasn't until he came to that he remembered that Irish didn't allow anyone to touch her while she was eating.

  The result of that error was a crescent-shaped scar about the size of a horseshoe near the crown at the back of his head; a stubborn cowlick which rose up from the peak of that crescent like a flag; and a mind that wasn't endowed with nearly as much common sense as it would have been otherwise. Hence the nicknames: "Artie-boy," "dreamy-eyes," "dummy," on occasion; and of course, continual references to the "dunce cap" shaft of hair.

  The names hurt, especially coming from his last living brother, but he always laughed along with him, sometimes louder than anyone else. If he didn't laugh, Artemis was afraid, one day he'd lose control and do the one thing he really wanted to do. And that was cry.

  A gang member named Tate, who was sitting at the edge of the cliff, brought a spyglass to his eye. "Rider coming in," he said loud enough for all to hear. "It's Tubbs."

  "Well, it's about time." Billy turned the biscuits and then covered the pan with a huge, oversized lid. "I'm so hungry I could eat a skunk. Wave him over."

  Artemis perked up immediately. Of all the gang members, including his own brother, Tubbs was the one he liked best. Although he couldn't exactly say that the man was nice to him, Tubbs was the only one who never made jokes about his shortcomings, and usually didn't even laugh when the others did. He was the best friend Artemis had ever had.

  After Tubbs left his horse, as well as the stray sorrel he'd come across in Mancos Valley, in the care of another member of the six-man gang, Shorty, he hiked up to the site of the ruins. He strolled into camp, tossed a sack of supplies in through the open doorway of one of the block dwellings, and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the inside of his shirt.

  "Fill me a cup, would you, Billy?" he said, handing the bottle to his leader. "It's been a long day. In fact, fill one for everyone. I picked up a piece of bad news."

  William Doolittle didn't take orders from anyone, but something about this desperado always set his hairs on end and gave him pause. Tubbs had ridden with the gang for just three months now, and had participated in only one job, some three weeks ago: relieving the Texas Exchange in Durango of the meager contents of its safe.

  It wasn't as if the man didn't have his strong points. He did his work quickly, quietly, and well. He wasn't squeamish about using his guns, or turning them on lawmen, boys, and if the occasion warranted it, women. And, as an extra plus, the man knew how to listen, rarely shooting off his mouth unless he had something really important to say.

  Other than the annoying habit Tubbs had of staring at the ugly craters left behind on Billy's face from a vicious case of chicken pox, Billy really couldn't point a finger at anything the man did that was out of line. But Tubbs gave him the creeps anyway.

  Anxious to hear what he had to say, Billy poured the whiskey into two tin cups, leaving the bottle to the others to fend for themselves. "Tate, Cletus. Get on over here," he called.

  As the men took their places around the fire, Artemis shuffled up behind, grinning broadly and looking closer to thirteen than his eighteen years of age. "You want me here too, don't you, Billy?"

  Tubbs's gaze flickered up to the young man. "Sit down and be quiet."

  Over his brother's scowl, Artemis beamed, and said, "Don't mind if I do," and then flopped down between Cletus and Tate.

  "I have some disturbing news that needs discussing," Tubbs began.

  Billy called a halt to the announcement. "If it's that all-fired important, maybe we ought to call Shorty in on this. Them horses will be all right if we leave them on their own for an hour or so."

  In that quiet, nonthreatening, but somehow dangerous way of his, Tubbs slowly lifted his gaze to Billy. "Apparently you've never laid eyes on any of the mountain cats that roam this mesa, or seen one drag down a full-grown bull elk. I don't know about you, mister, but I'm pretty fond of the horse I've got. I don't have a hankering to train another."

  That was something else Billy hated—being contradicted or
humiliated in front of his men. To cover, he said, "What I meant was that I figured we'd swap Artemis for Shorty—almost the same thing as leaving them on their own, wouldn't you say?"

  Tubbs shrugged. "We can just as well talk to Shorty later as Artemis."

  Billy tossed down a long drink of whiskey. Then he checked the biscuits and pulled the skillet from the fire. "Well, get on with it, then. Supper's cooked."

  Tubbs held his cup of whiskey between both hands, staring at it a long moment before he said, "While I was in Mancos getting supplies, I took it upon myself to send a wire to a friend of mine in Santa Fe. I didn't much care for his answer."

  "You gave our position away to someone in Santa Fe?" Billy slammed his empty tin cup into the fire pit. "Hell, even the dummy knows better than that."

  Tubbs shot him a murderous look. "I said I wired a friend. I asked him had he heard anything about some trouble up Durango way." His gaze returned to the cup of whiskey.

  Billy waited for the rest, and then waited some more. Finally, exasperated, he said, "And... ?"

  "He had."

  "Well, news travels fast. So what?"

  "Not what," said Tubbs. "Who."

  The hairs on Billy's neck felt stiffer than ever, strong enough to hold his collar at bay. In his agitation, he turned to Artemis. "Get my cup out of that fire pit, boy. See if you can't be of some use."

  Artemis kept his fascinated gaze on his hero as he blindly reached into the pit and removed his brother's cup. Barely aware he'd burned the tips of two fingers, he tossed it next to Billy's thigh, and then settled back to hear the rest of Tubbs's story.

  After pouring himself another cup of whiskey, Billy took a deep swallow and said to Tubbs, "Well? Do I have to beat it out of you? What'd your friend hear?"

  "That the law is a little more than interested in the fact that the Doolittle Gang is riding again."

  Billy took another gulp of his drink. "So someone recognized one of the boys, huh?"

  "I'd say that's a fair assumption. No one knows me or Artemis, yet." Tubbs shot Billy a sarcastic smirk, his gaze lingering on his "leader's" scarred cheeks. "Must have been Tate or Cletus or Shorty, or even more likely, you. You've got a memorable face."

  "Well, so what?" Billy said with a sneer. "They'll never find us up here, and they sure as hell won't be expecting us to drop back into Durango next month to rob the train. I don't see that we got much of a problem."

  "No?" Tubbs's tone was a clear suggestion of trouble ahead.

  "What is it you ain't telling me?" Billy asked, his agitation rising.

  "They've put a hound dog on our trail. Ever hear of a fellah named Slater?"

  Except for the bright red craters of his pock- marks, Billy went paper-white. "Morgan Slater, U.S. Marshal? That Slater?"

  Tubbs nodded, and then smiled, his thin lips set in a grim line. "The one and only."

  "Aw... shit." Billy spit into the fire, but then lifted his brow a minute later. "Maybe that ain't such bad news after all." He grinned. "Least this way we know he's coming. That gives us a chance to come up with a plan to eliminate him 'fore he eliminates us."

  Chapter 4

  Pagosa Springs, Colorado

  Cain felt like a trained monkey. All he lacked was a leash and a bellman's cap.

  He sat at the edge of Mariah's bed, alone in the medicine wagon except for Daisy, and attempted to squash down a growing sense of failure. He'd tried to become what they expected him to be. God knew he'd endeavored to follow Mariah's guidance in an effort to become at least as proficient a Brother Law as he'd been before the accident, but it was no use. He was no showman, no hawker of tonics and nostrums, and all the training in the world wouldn't turn him into one. Hell, he didn't even believe in their "miracle cures" and medicines, and he was pretty sure the old Cain didn't either.

  That was another problem. Here it was almost three weeks since he'd cracked his skull, and still his life didn't make sense, no matter how hard the family tried to fill in the blanks. When he'd asked about his past, all he'd been told was that he'd joined the show just two weeks before the accident. Both of his parents were dead, and the rest of his immediate family was scattered. He'd come to the Pennys because he'd apparently had some "trouble" down the road, category unknown. They said he'd asked to become a member of the troupe in an effort to "start over again," whatever the hell that meant.

  What kind of man had he been? he wondered for the umpteenth time. Why did nothing he saw or touched leap to the forefront of his mind as familiar or genuine? Cain thought back to his encounter with Mariah at the river a few days past. She'd startled him, sneaking up behind him the way she had, and he'd automatically reached for his guns. If they'd been there, he had a feeling, he would have drawn on her, no questions asked. It certainly had felt that way at the time. What could have driven him to such extremes?

  Maybe he was a wanted man, his likeness etched on posters stretching across the nation, someone who had no choice but to shoot first and ask questions later. Lord, what if he had been an outlaw, a killer? How in God's name was he to protect himself should someone recognize him? According to Zack, he no longer owned the pistols he'd reached for at the river. Daisy had run off the horse carrying his saddlebags with his clothing and money inside.

  And that brought up another curiosity. Cain was pretty sure he hadn't even liked dogs before the accident, and in fact, may have actually hated them. He glanced down at the floppy-eared mutt, wondering what it was that disturbed him so about the animal. The dog was snuggled against Cain's leg, her muzzle propped up on his thigh, snoring, content to share her warmth and unconditional love. Cain's hand automatically went to Daisy's head, and then skimmed down the length of her body, the silken fur rippling in the wake of his palm. He had no memory of ever having so much as petted a dog.

  When in bloody blue hell would he dredge up more than shadowy hints about his former life? What if he never did remember the man he'd once been? Cain felt his gut roll into a tighter ball at the idea of remaining so helpless within himself, so utterly dependent on the Pennys. And then it struck him; the biggest puzzle of all. This family.

  He'd fallen into a kind of routine, and yet still they seemed like strangers. Zack was helpful and kind, unwavering in his support and optimism for this mind-broken nephew of his, but there was nothing about him which seemed special or familiar to Cain, no sense of family bonds. Wouldn't he at least remember his own uncle?

  And what about Oda? There were blood ties there, but no innate sense of kinship. And how could he not remember an otherwise proper woman who usually had a stogie poking out of her mouth? Mariah had explained that in the early days of the show, a customer had given Oda a cigar as a joke, and when she actually lit it, the gag went over so well with the audience, they kept it as part of the act. If that wasn't enough, every time he crossed Oda's path, the same dilemma came to mind without fail—jump over, or go around her? Given her height and width, it was an observation he would have made many times in the past, and yet the first time the thought struck him, he knew without question, it'd been fresh. As fresh and foreign to him as Oda's beautiful, exotic daughter.

  Mariah was the most disturbing family member of all. Since the episode at the river, he'd gone out of his way to keep her out of sight and mind—two difficult, and at times, impossible, tasks to accomplish. He was attracted to her, this cousin of his, no way to deny it, but was the temptation he felt for her something new since the accident, or had it been building since he'd joined the troupe?

  In either case, the attraction was as sick as it was sinful, a thing to be banished from his mind and body with all haste. But how in hell was he to cool the fire she ignited in him when she was always nearby?

  Mariah had been at his side almost constantly over the past few weeks, tending his wounds, bringing his meals, and reminding him to take his daily dose of something that was supposed to strengthen and purify his blood—#20 tonic. He'd balked over taking the elixir at first, loath to try even a spoon
ful, but finally gave in and tried the stuff just to please Mariah. It had a heavy, oily taste, a bite which reminded him a little of rotgut whiskey, and just a hint of sweet honey which made the concoction slide down his throat slicker than rainwater. He'd almost puked it up in the same moment he'd swallowed the first dose—and hadn't touched a drop since.

  Ah, but Daisy, God love her, seemed to love the stuff, and actually begged for her "treat" each morning and evening. Cain patted the dog's head, again amazed at the bond he'd developed with the little animal.

  And that led him to another enigma. He was merely amazed by Daisy's new attachment, but Mariah was downright flabbergasted. She didn't like the way her dog went for him, Cain could tell, even though she hadn't said anything to indicate those feelings. Her incredible violet eyes gave her away every time she found Daisy cozied up alongside him. They would narrow for an instant, and then deepen to a rich shade somewhere between indigo blue and royal purple. Cain's pulse lurched at the image, and that brought him back to thoughts of the unholy attraction he felt for her.

  Maybe it wasn't just her exotic beauty or the graceful way she moved that drew him to her. It most likely had nothing to do with her at all, he told himself. He'd probably just been too damn long without a woman. Cain didn't bother to search his mind for validation of that theory, for he knew without even trying that he'd come up empty. Besides, if he could just believe that he had been too damn long without female companionship, then he would have some excuse, no matter how feeble, for his less-than- cousinly feelings for Mariah.

  Other than this depraved desire and the impression that he didn't quite belong to this family, Cain recognized one more disturbing thing about himself. Whenever he tried to dig deep inside to discover who and what he was, flashes of anger or something too ugly to face blocked his thoughts, driving him away from whatever answers lay within.