Taken by the Cowboy

by Julianne MacLean

  Jessica lingered a moment, watching him work, then noticed a few bullet holes in the wall over his head. "How did they get there?" she asked, pointing at them.

  He glanced in the direction of her outstretched finger. "Left Hand Lou."

  "The man who was shot?” She quickly corrected herself. “I mean, the man I shot?"

  Those clever blue eyes fixed intently on hers. "The same."

  "What happened?"

  Wade carried the papers to his desk and sat down. "I had him locked up, but one of his pals came in and busted him out. He fired three shots. Two bullets hit the wall, and the other got me right here." He pointed to his left side, just below his rib cage. “Don't remember much after that. They got away, and I woke up on a table at Doc's place." After a pensive pause, he added, "You did me a favor. I was tracking Lou for a while."

  “Is that how you usually thank someone for doing your dirty work?” she asked. “By locking them up?"

  His lips inched into a slow, tantalizing grin that made her go weak in the knees. "Tell me, Junebug…how did you want to be thanked?"

  She squirmed inwardly at the wild rush of excitement. "You could have been nicer."

  "Nicer."

  "Yes." She raised an eyebrow.

  He leaned forward over the desk. "If I had locked you up 'nicely,' you would have been happier with me?"

  She considered it for a heated moment. "Well, maybe not. My point is you didn't have to lock me up at all, because I didn't do anything wrong, and you knew it."

  After a long pause, he frowned and asked, "Who are you?"

  Her mind swam with the disturbing implications of that question. In 1881, she was no one. She didn't even exist.

  "I've already answered that." Focusing her gaze on the bullet holes again, she decided it was high time to steer the conversation back to a safer topic. "Is that the only time you took a bullet?"

  "No," he answered flatly.

  "When was the other time?"

  Wade shuffled a few papers around on his desk. "I thought we agreed you wouldn’t ask me any more questions like that."

  "I was just making conversation. And I never agreed to stop asking questions. You just said you didn’t like it."

  He shuffled through some more papers. “I have work to do.”

  Clearly he wasn’t in the mood to share. He slid his chair forward and began writing.

  Jessica watched his hand glide across the page. He paused, dipped the pen in an ink jar, then began writing. The only sounds in the room were Jessica's breathing, the clock ticking, and the fervent scraping of metal on paper.

  It was just as well. Learning too much about Sheriff Wade could lead to a problem she would do better without. If she wanted to keep her eye on the ball and find a way back home to the future, she couldn’t afford to become besotted with anything here in the past. Or anyone.

  “Good day, Sheriff,” she said as she turned to leave.

  “Good day, Miss Delaney,” he replied. “And try to stay out of trouble today, if at all possible?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Chapter Seven

  After leaving the sheriff’s office, Jessica decided to visit The Chronicle and talk to the editor herself. Perhaps once he met her, he would consider printing a retraction even before Truman came to see him.

  Bells jingled as she closed the door behind her. A scrawny little man with thinning hair was seated at a large oak desk strewn with papers. He looked up when she entered.

  “Miss Delaney,” he said, rising quickly to his feet and nearly knocking over his chair. He regained his balance and pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles up the length of his nose.

  “Are you Mr. Gordon, the editor?”

  “Yes.”

  She approached his desk with purpose. “I'm here to object to the stories you’ve printed about me. They were false, and I want a retraction.”

  The color drained from his face. "But I get my information from a very reliable source.”

  Jessica narrowed her unwavering gaze. "I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but your source isn’t as reliable as you think it is."

  Mr. Gordon pulled a white hanky out of his pocket and blew his nose. His spectacles slipped down again, and he pushed them back up. "Miss Delaney, you don't think I made it all up, do you?"

  She tilted her head to the side and tried to size him up. "Someone made it up at some point,” she asserted. “Who told you those things about me?"

  "I’ m sorry, but I can't reveal my sources."

  Jessica considered this for a moment. “You know, you'd have a much better paper and earn more respect if you were more accurate and reported the truth."

  He stuffed his hanky back into his pocket. "People like the stories I print. They sell because they're colorful."

  Jessica drew in a frustrated breath, thinking that, when it came to sensational newspapers, things hadn't changed much in a hundred-and-thirty years.

  "Why don't you just print a retraction?” she suggested, spreading her arms wide. “See for yourself. I don't even carry a gun."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that. How do I know you're not lying to me now? It's your word against the word of my source, and my source didn't shoot a man point blank between the eyes two nights ago."

  Jessica sighed heavily. She couldn’t blame people for thinking she killed a man. She’d flat out admitted to it.

  "What about yesterday?” she asked, not ready to give up on her reputation just yet. “Sheriff Wade was the one who fired the shot in the street and knocked Virgil out, not me. Lots of people saw what happened. Ask any one of them."

  Mr. Gordon began to chew on his thumbnail. "Are you sure you're not carrying a gun?"

  A cynical laugh escaped her. “I think I’d know if I were.”

  He raised both hands in the air, a clear demonstration of fear and submission.

  Jessica pinched her nose in defeat. Nothing she said to these people seemed to do any good. She was obviously wasting her time here—time that would be better spent trying to find a way home. What did it matter what they thought anyway?

  "Look,” she said in calm, collected voice, “if you want to print something interesting, print the truth. I’ll give you an exclusive interview.”

  He sat down and shook his head. “That’s very generous of you, Miss Junebug. I mean, Miss Delaney. But I think I’ll stick to my sources. They haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

  She glanced around the office at all the clutter and decided she’d spent enough time here. She had more important things to do.

  “Fine,” she said, “but if you cause any trouble for me, Mr. Gordon, I swear I will slap you so hard with a law suit, you won’t even know what hit you.”

  He stared at her in bewilderment.

  “Good day," she politely said as she strode out the door.

  * * *

  Truman walked out of the jailhouse and locked the door behind him, just in case Miss Delaney decided to backtrack and ask him more questions. He led Thunder over to Hoover's Saloon, tethered him at the rail, and found comfort standing at the bar with a full bottle of whisky. A drink didn't pass his lips often, and things had to get pretty bad before he gave in to that urge. But little Miss Junebug was making things about as bad as they could get.

  Truman filled his glass and tossed back a bitter swig. He arched his back to release the tension and ache of old wounds, then rolled the glass between his palms and clenched his jaw as he thought of her.

  Why did she insist on making him remember things he damn well wanted to forget? He felt as if she knocked things over in his mind. Spilled things, was making a mess in an otherwise tidy place.

  Since she arrived in town, he’d been thinking about Dorothy again, trying to believe her death wasn’t his fault. Of course, he had done his best to care for her those last few months. He’d tried to make her happy. He’d given up bounty hunting the day he spoke his vows in front of the preacher, just like she’d asked. He’d even tried to make a
go of it on their meager parcel of land. But when she got sicker and sicker, everything started to die. He’d promised her he wouldn’t try to collect any more rewards, but there came a day when they needed the money, and it was the quickest, easiest way. He was only going to be gone a few days....

  Truman wrenched his thoughts out of the past and took a second drink. Or was it the third? He reached for the bottle and tipped it to pour another, but his steady hand slipped when a ruckus outside caught his attention.

  Ah hell, not again…

  Laughter and cussin' came sailing through the air. The saloon doors swung open, and in came five dirty, tobacco-chewing, card-cheating, horse-stealing thugs. They whistled, laughed, and howled as they headed toward the rear of the saloon. Judging by their smell, they needed baths something awful, and their language was about as foul as their gone-off odor.

  Truman covered his badge and kept his head bowed low under the brim of his hat as they passed by. None took notice of him, but they sure did take notice of Wendy, the young barmaid. He suspected they hadn't seen a woman since last oyster season.

  "Hey, pretty thing," one of them yelled as he sat down at a table. "Why don't you come on over here and cook us up a drinkin' contest?"

  Truman slowly turned to keep an eye on things as Wendy carried her tray to their table.

  "What can I get ya’?" she asked, spitting in an arc toward the nearest spittoon. The girl had pluck.

  "I can think of only one thing." The stockiest member of the gang grabbed hold of Wendy’s arm and pulled her onto his lap.

  Struggling fiercely, she dropped her tray onto the floor. It rolled like a dime toward Truman and stopped at his feet. He made no move to pick it up. He simply watched the situation, hoping it would work itself out before anyone got hurt.

  "Now, now, don't be a baby,” the man cooed. “I'm just tryin' to make friends with you, that's all."

  "Let me go, you disgusting brute.”

  The others laughed raucously.

  "My name's Bart,” he said, undaunted, “and this here's Corey. Corey wants to know what you're doin' later tonight."

  "I'm busy," she said. "Now let me go, and I'll get you some drinks."

  "Give me a turn, Bart!” Corey pleaded. “I want her on my lap next."

  "Don't be greedy, Corey. I saw her first."

  The gang froze when a gun cocked in Bart's ear. Corey's words were sucked down his throat as his eyes widened in panic. He sat back in his chair as far from Bart as possible.

  "I think you better let the lady go, Mister," Truman drawled.

  Bart slowly lifted his hands like a bank teller in a holdup. Wendy bolted, taking cover behind the bar.

  "And who might you be?" Bart asked, still holding his hands high over his head.

  "You're the one who oughta' be answering that question," Truman replied, "before I take your ear off."

  Bart cleared his throat. "Didn’t you hear me introduce myself to the lady? The name's Bart. Now why don't you put that gun down, friend, and have a drink with us?"

  "I ain’t your friend,” Truman said, “and I've had enough for today." Keeping his revolver tight against Bart's cheek, Truman flexed his fingers around the ivory handle.

  "You gonna stand there all day with that thing pointin' in my face?" Bart asked, growing more and more fidgety by the second.

  Truman considered how long he wanted to stand there, then eventually lowered his gun and holstered it. As he did so, he pushed his coat aside to let the shiny star reflect into Bart's eyes.

  "Damn. You're Sheriff Wade, aren't ya?"

  "What's it to you?"

  Bart grinned, revealing a gap-toothed smile. "This is quite an honor, ain't it, boys? Hell, we've heard all about you." Bart lowered his hands, then slowly reached two fingers into his pocket. He took out some tobacco and chewed off a hunk.

  Truman took a good look at each of the five men, but one in particular caught his eye. The man wore a brand new Stetson on his head and a red bandanna around his neck. He had a common face, nothing unusual about him, and yet he looked familiar. "Any of you boys been in Dodge before?"

  They all glanced at each other, while the familiar one rolled a cigarette. "Don't reckon we have," he said, without looking Truman in the eye.

  "You gentlemen are just passing through then." It wasn’t a question, but rather a very strong suggestion.

  Turning back toward Truman, Bart sported a glare that would stop a train. He spit tobacco onto the floor next to Truman's boots.

  "You better be careful where you spit, Mister,” Truman warned him. “I'm likely to get insulted by your stinkin' mouth."

  Bart slowly rose from the chair and showed off his size. He was a buffalo, complete with the foul odor and unsightly hump on his back.

  In the flash of a second, one man at the table drew a weapon. By the time his gun went off, it was flying through the air, riding on Truman's bullet, which lodged in the wall behind them. Dust floated from the ceiling onto the man's hat, and his gun landed in a spittoon. He swallowed hard, then looked at Bart with eyes wide as saucers.

  Truman cocked his weapon again. Corey's jaw clenched. He drew and fired. Half a second later, Corey's revolver was spinning on the floor behind him.

  Truman was getting tired of this game. He pointed his six-shooter at each man at the table, daring anyone else to draw. No one did.

  "Okay, Sheriff," Bart said. "You've proved your point. That's enough boys. We don't want any more trouble." Bart sat back down and waved at Wendy to bring a bottle.

  Truman backed away from the table. "I expect you boys'll be leavin' town first thing?"

  "We'll be gone before you know it," Bart replied, without looking up.

  Turning to leave, Truman flipped a coin toward the barkeep, who caught it in his hand. He pushed through the saloon doors, hopped off the boardwalk, and freed Thunder from the hitching rail.

  Just then, Wendy came running out of the saloon. "Sheriff Wade!"

  He paused, still holding the reins.

  "Those men in there…” she said. “Do you know who they are?"

  "They look like a bunch of ignorant horse thieves to me. Other than that—"

  "They used to ride with Left Hand Lou."

  Truman glanced back into the saloon and suddenly remembered where he had seen the one who was rolling the cigarette—sleeping in a jail cell once, a couple of years back.

  Truman laid a reassuring hand on Wendy's shoulder, then turned away and hoisted himself up into the saddle.

  "Aren't you going to arrest them?"

  "Can't."

  "Why not?"

  "No time to explain now. Let me know if they cause any more trouble. There's something I gotta do."

  Wendy backed away, and Truman galloped off. He had something to tell Miss Delaney, and he had to tell her now.

  * * *

  From the second story bedroom window of Mr. Maxwell’s house, Jessica saw a horse and rider galloping up the hill, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. She recognized that black hat and black coat sailing on the wind. It was Sheriff Wade.

  She watched him ride up to the house and dismount, then take Mr. Maxwell’s front steps, two at a time, to the top. A quick second later, rapid knocks sounded at the door. Jessica’s heart began to race. Something was definitely wrong.

  Before she had a chance to put on her shoes, the screen door swung open and Wade barged in. “Anyone here?”

  Jessica called out to him. “I’m upstairs!”

  His heavy boots pounded up the stairs, and suddenly there he was, filling her bedroom doorway with his striking, black-clad form. He halted when he caught sight of her, as if he'd just walked in on a naked lady.

  "Whatever it is, I didn't do it," she said, as she struggled to calm her raging pulse.

  Wade glanced at the brass bed. He went speechless for a second, as if he realized, only then, the impropriety of where he was—but he recovered quickly, and his eyes caught hers.

  Boldly, he stro
de into the room.

  "What’s happening?" she asked.

  “You can't stay here."

  "Why not?"

  Tension simmered behind those compelling blue eyes. "Because you're going to need some protection.”

  Without another word of explanation, he led her toward the stairs.

  "Tell me what’s happened,” she said. “I need to know."

  They descended the stairs together, and when they reached the ground floor, he moved to the parlor window and peered out onto the street. "Someone wants you dead."

  The words reverberated off the walls before they finally settled into her consciousness. "Who? What are you talking about?"

  "That outlaw you gunned down had some friends,” he explained, “and they decided to pay a visit to Dodge."

  She shook her head, refusing to accept what he was suggesting. "Maybe they just came to pay their respects. Lou’s funeral is tomorrow."

  "Men like them don't have much respect for anything,” Wade argued. “You're the reason they're here. I’ll put money on it."

  She moved closer. "You mean they want revenge?"

  "That would be my guess."

  A terrible dread exploded in her belly. She sank down onto a chair and cupped her forehead in a hand. “God, if you’re listening—this isn’t funny. Please get me out of here.”

  Sheriff Wade frowned at her. “Where exactly would you like Him to send you?”

  She looked up and found herself staring at that shiny star again. "I have to tell you something,” she said. “I didn't kill Lou. Honest. Someone else did."

  He shook his head. "That ain't gonna work, Junebug. You can't go changing your story now."

  "But I'm telling the truth!"

  He paused for a moment, then looked out the window again. "We don’t have time to argue about it. We have to go." He made a move toward the door, but Jessica remained seated.

  "If we tell them I didn’t do it—"

  "Nobody's going to believe that,” he told her. “Lou's death was worth five hundred dollars. You trying to tell me somebody else killed him and didn't bother to collect the reward?"