“I’ll be the judge of that.” He felt his ears heat up beneath her amused regard. “I can’t get my job done if I’m worrying about you.”
“Well, ain’t he just the cutest thing,” one of them trilled.
With a bawdy look she sauntered away.
As they retreated through the side door, Garrett pivoted on one heel, surprised to find David McCoy stalking toward him.
Garrett crunched over broken glass toward the McCoy boy. “Did you see who started all this?”
“Mr. Stuart and Mr. Hodges were fighting about the new store.”
“That figures.”
Garrett wasn’t surprised the two men had been arguing. Mr. Stuart had been running the only mercantile in town for over a decade until Mr. Hodges had arrived from St. Louis and bought up a storefront right across the street. Garrett figured the town had grown large enough for two thriving stores, but Mr. Stuart saw money slipping between his fingers.
David glanced around the demolished room. “A couple of cowboys took advantage of the commotion and that’s when the bullets started flying.”
“Where’d they go?”
The third-oldest McCoy was tall and dark-haired like his brothers, probably going on eighteen or nineteen, twenty at most.
David scanned the room. “Don’t know.”
Garrett adjusted his hat. He sometimes deputized the mercantile owner, Mr. Stuart, when he needed extra help. But since his occasional deputy had been knee deep in the brawl, he’d lost his backup.
Garrett studied David’s sheepish expression. “We’ll talk about what you’re doing here later.”
An uneasy silence descended around them. The room had mostly cleared upon his arrival, though one or two men remained, too drunk to flee. An overturned glass of beer dripped steadily onto a scattering of playing cards like sour rain. The mingled odors of alcohol and cigar smoke turned Garrett’s stomach. He picked his way through the glass and approached the auburn-haired woman hovering near the door. She looked as if she wanted to say something, and he never turned away a witness.
Tipping his hat, Garrett offered a friendly greeting. “You’re Beatrice, right? Did you see the men who started this? Or the shooter?”
“Probably Tom.” She shook her head and the drooping purple feather in her hair fluttered. “The whole place went mad at once. There was a new group this evening. They came in from Wichita earlier in the day.”
“How many?”
“Four, maybe five. I didn’t pay much attention. They didn’t seem interested in dancing.”
A tingle of apprehension darted along Garrett’s spine. “You notice anything else unusual?”
“I noticed one of the McCoy boys in here. That’s unusual. He better hope his pa never finds out. Or his sister, for that matter.”
Garrett flashed a wry grin. “I’ll take care of David.”
The woman winked at him and he started, then fixed his attention on the sawdust-strewn floor. He sure was getting winked at a lot these days. “Thank you, Miss Beatrice. You think of anything else, let me know.”
“Oh, I’ll let you know,” she murmured suggestively.
“Don’t you get sassy on me, Miss Beatrice.”
“You’re real cute when you blush.” She twisted her waist from side to side, sending her fringed skirt fluttering. “She’s cute, too, your niece.” Beatrice fiddled with an auburn corkscrew curl resting on her shoulder. “Tell you what, because you called us ladies, I’ll help you keep an eye on that David McCoy. I didn’t see him drink or gamble, and he wasn’t hanging around the girls. He seemed more interested in Mr. Stuart than anything else. Except Mr. Stuart was busy fighting with Mr. Hodges. Besides...”
She studied her tapered fingernails. “I owe JoBeth.” Beatrice met his curious gaze. “She’s been teaching me Morse code. I’m getting a job in Denver as a telegraph operator. A real job. Not dancing with cowboys for nickels.”
“That’s a fine goal,” Garrett replied.
Another mark in Jo’s favor. He’d been raised around people who wouldn’t lift a finger for someone below their class, and that had never sat well with him. Seemed like the Bible was pretty clear on ministering to the poor as well as the poor in spirit.
Garrett touched his forehead in a brief salute. “When you and Jo finish your studies, you let me know if you need a reference.”
This time Beatrice blushed, making her appear younger, almost girlish. “You’re too soft for a marshal.”
“And you’re too smart for this place.”
With that parting comment, Garrett turned. Behind him, the steady clip-clip of heels echoed through the open building as Beatrice walked through the adjoining door.
Garrett sighted David stationed near the door and motioned him over. “Let’s straighten up.”
Together with Schmitty the bartender, they set about clearing the room. Garrett righted a chair and reached for an overturned table. A pair of boots caught his attention. Another casualty of the brawl, no doubt.
Garrett nudged one of the boots. “Wake up, mister. Time to take it home.”
The body remained ominously still. Garrett heaved the table upright, revealing Mr. Hodges. His blank eyes stared at the ceiling, glassy and unmoving. A darkening patch of red covered his white shirt and bled into his faded gray coat. Garrett flipped him onto one side, already knowing what he’d find. A bullet had passed clean through the man’s body.
The bartender, a diminutive man with unnaturally dark, slicked-back hair, leaned over Garrett’s shoulder. “He’s dead. Someone musta shot him.”
“I figured that much, Schmitty.”
To Garrett’s frustration, all of his witnesses had scattered. He’d recognized most of the faces, but there were still the cowboys passing through town he didn’t know—the kind of men accustomed to the previous sheriff’s corruption. Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite the lawless atmosphere of the town, there hadn’t been a murder in Cimarron Springs for years.
“David.” Garrett caught the younger man’s stunned expression. “Let the doc know we’ve got a casualty here.”
His Adam’s apple working, David jerked his head in a nod and turned away from the gruesome sight. Garrett ticked off another point in the young man’s favor. Though shaken, he hadn’t shirked from his duties. Cimarron Springs might have a new deputy soon.
Garrett had a feeling he was going to need all the help he could get. He drummed his fingers on his bent knee. By morning, everyone in town would assume Mr. Stuart had shot Mr. Hodges over the new mercantile store. And for all Garrett knew, he might have.
Money and business had a way of forcing men into desperate measures. Yet Mr. Stuart struck him as the sort of man who was all talk and no action. The mercantile owner rarely ventured from his uneasy vigil behind the counter, and he doted on his daughter. Garrett couldn’t see him risking a lynching.
Hushed whispers fell around him and he could almost feel the budding rumors flying through the air. If Mr. Stuart was innocent he’d have an uphill battle saving his reputation. Trying to squash gossip was like trying to put out a brushfire with a cup of tea.
The saloon doors slammed open and David burst into the room. “Come quick, Marshal. The jailhouse is on fire!”
Chapter Ten
Jo settled her head against the back of the chair and lazily fanned herself with a paper. The space atop the jailhouse was long, narrow and airless. A bedroom had been cordoned off by a tall screen, but the only windows were in the kitchen area, where the hazy panes faced the darkened alley. After attempting to pry them open, Jo had discovered they were painted shut. Not that it mattered much since the front of the building was boarded over with a false facade, effectively blocking any chance of a crosswind.
An industrious tenant had cut holes into the floor and fitted the openi
ngs with iron grates to vent air from the first level. That meager improvement barely stirred a stale breeze. Jo figured the place must heat up something fierce in the summertime.
She unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled back her sleeves. A faint hint of Garrett’s masculine scent lingered in the seat cushions and teased her senses. Cora remained asleep, wrapped in a pink blanket, her rag doll clutched against her chest. The heat lulled Jo, and she let her eyes drift shut.
Glass shattered and Jo bolted upright from her half slumber. The sound had come from the first floor. She wobbled to her feet and glanced around. Two sets of stairs accessed the upper level, an outside set descending into the alley, and the inside set, which spilled into the open space below. She took a few steps and paused. Probably it was nothing, she might have dreamed up the whole thing, but she’d best check anyway.
As Jo descended the stairs, her raspy breathing stirred the eerily quiet building.
Growing uneasy at the unnatural quiet, she sidled nearer the wall. “Marshal Cain? Garrett?”
She cautiously made her way through Garrett’s office, her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light. Glass crunched beneath her feet and she realized one of the panes from the large double-hung windows had been shattered.
Lifting a shard, she angled the glass toward the light. Letters from the marshal’s etched name remained partially visible. All that meticulous work, wasted. Kneeling down, she closed her fingers around a weighty brick. Voices called to each other from the street. She crouched and scooted forward until her fingers gripped the sill. When another moment passed without incident, she raised up on her knees and peered through the jagged hole created from the shattered glass.
Four riders galloped by, whooping and hollering. Jo groaned. Looked as if the marshal hadn’t succeeded in busting up the fight. It also looked as if neither of them would get a wink of sleep tonight. She stifled a yawn. If those drunken cowboys kept this up much longer, she’d pay for her late evening during her double shift at the telegraph office the following day.
Glass burst above her head. Jarred from her sleepy contemplations, Jo dropped back into a crouch. Pointed shards rained overhead. A piercing sting slashed across her cheek. She threw one arm over her eyes and ducked her head. She cowered in a ball as a warm stream of blood slid beneath her chin.
Light arced through the window at her right. A bottle with a flaming rag stuffed in the neck hit the floor and clumsily rolled along the ridges in the rag rug. Her breath strangled in her throat.
They were lighting the jail on fire. Spurred by a fierce urgency, Jo crawled along the floor toward the flame, wincing as pain seared her palm. Before her horrified gaze, the rag-stuffed bottle ignited the braided rug. She snatched the trailing edge of a pink blanket draped over a chair and beat at the flames. Heat singed her face. The blaze chewed up the fire at an alarming rate. With growing alarm Jo realized her efforts were fruitless against the dry kindling.
Dismayed by the rapidly growing cloud of smoke, she stood and backed her way toward the stairs. Keeping her arms splayed for balance, her eyes on the merciless inferno, she stumbled over broken debris. The pungent scent of whiskey and smoke filled her nostrils. Before she reached the first riser, flickering embers were already lapping against the sheriff’s desk.
From the second floor, Cora screamed. Wrenching her transfixed gaze from the growing fire, Jo dashed up the stairs and shoved the partition aside. The little girl sat up in the center of the bed, her hair in beribboned pigtails, her rag doll clutched against her eyelet night rail. Jo scooped her into her arms. The little girl wrapped her legs around Jo’s waist and clung to her neck.
“What’s happening?” Cora sobbed into her shoulder. “Where is Uncle Garrett?”
“He isn’t here. There’s a fire downstairs.” Jo skirted through the hazy room. “We’ll take the back stairs. He’ll probably be waiting for us in the alley.”
Jo wrapped her fingers around the knob and turned. The latch held firm. She twisted the lock. The brass knob refused to budge. Her arms full, she reared back and kicked. The frame opened an inch then smacked against the stubborn dead bolt. She stumbled back, braced herself and kicked at the base again. Searing pain shot up her leg and into her hip, but the door didn’t budged.
After setting down Cora, Jo twisted the knob. As pungent fumes stung her nostrils and sent her eyes watering, her stomach clenched.
Cora hovered beside her, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “Why won’t the door open?”
“It’s stuck.” Jo gave the little girl a comforting squeeze. “We’re going to have an adventure. How does that sound?”
Voices shouted in the distance. The townspeople had discovered the fire. With no windows facing the street and their exit blocked by flames, there was little chance of attracting attention. Jo chewed a thumbnail and glanced around. Would anyone think to circle around back and check on them? Only Marshal Cain knew they were up here and he had his hands full in the saloon.
Certainly he’d hear the commotion and check on them. Then again, what if they waited and no one came? Jo glanced at the terrified little girl and realized she couldn’t risk Cora’s safety.
She gently set Cora away from her and met her fearful gaze. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I think we can get out the back door if we go downstairs. That’s where the fire started, but it’s mostly in the front. We’ll get some fresh air first and hold our breaths for as long as we can.”
She gave the frightened girl an encouraging smile. “It might get dark, but we’ll stay low, below the smoke and everything will be fine.”
“Okay,” Cora replied, a tremble in her small voice.
“You’re braver than all those boys, remember?”
“I remember.”
Relieved she’d donned her trousers before fetching Marshal Cain, Jo slipped out of her skirts.
More muffled shouts and calls sounded outside and she hoped the local townsfolk were setting up a bucket brigade. If the building next door caught fire, the whole town would follow.
How long would it take before the marshal realized they were still trapped inside?
What if he was injured?
Sickening dread pounded in her head. She and Cora would have to assume they were on their own for now.
Centering her thoughts, Jo sucked in a deep breath. “Remember, I won’t let go of you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
With no time to waste, Jo crawled along the floor and felt for the legs of the washbasin. She grasped a dangling rag and wetted it in the bowl, then held it over her face. Encouraged by the improvement in the quality of the air, she snagged a second rag. There’d been a fire on the Elder farm years ago, and she’d seen Jack Elder block the smoke the same way.
She held out her rag for Cora. “Hold that over your nose and mouth and it will help keep the smoke out.”
Tears pooled in the little girl’s cornflower-blue eyes. “Are we going to die like my mommy and daddy?”
“We’ll be fine,” Jo lied, a cold knot of dread in her stomach.
She considered shouting for help again, but her throat was sore from smoke and her previous calls. With the crackle of the fire and the commotion out front, no one would hear her anyway.
“I’ll keep you safe. I gave you my word and I never break a promise.”
Jo clutched the back of Cora’s head and pressed her face against her shoulder. They made it down half the flight before billowing smoke blackened the way. The suffocating cloud quickly enveloped them, and Jo worried they’d be hopelessly lost in moments if they moved forward. Her eyes and nose watered profusely, blurring the risers into a hazy obstacle.
Cora gasped and coughed, keeping a death grip on Jo’s hand. “I can’t breathe.”
The racket of splitting wood sounded from outside a
s the bucket brigade worked to douse the flames. How could help be so close, yet so far away? If Jo couldn’t even make it down the stairs, there was little chance of navigating the jail to reach the alley. While she knew the layout of the marshal’s office, she’d never been in the lockup.
If only she had been a cattle thief, Jo thought wryly.
By the time she reached the last step, her lungs burned and her eyes watered. Smoke frothed near the ceiling, forcing her to kneel and feel her way along the wall. The flames had definitely abated, but the embers burned like black tar. Time slowed as she coughed and sputtered. Heat stung her cheeks and lapped at her heels.
With renewed purpose, Jo kept low. Freeing one arm, she inched along and felt...a sturdy chair leg. She pried open her eyes and saw nothing but gray smoke. Somehow, she’d gotten them turned around.
Panic welled in her throat and she reached out a hand, searching for anything familiar. Only a few feet separated her from help—a few feet and a wall of smoke and flames.
“Help!” she called fruitlessly.
She reached out her fingers and collided with a wall of hard muscle. A strong hand looped under her arm. Desperate for an escape, Jo clutched the lifeline, then recalled the drunken cowboys who’d started this whole mess. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Marshal Cain,” a husky voice reassured her.
He plucked Cora from her weak arms and Jo sagged against his side. For a moment she gave up on being strong and let someone else guide her.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and half dragged, half carried her toward safety. “Stay low and I’ll lead you out.”
She stilled, instinctively responding to the gentle command in his voice. Her head swam, and she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She felt as if she was suffocating, drowning in a black sea of smoke. Her legs gave way and she was floating. Heat crushed against her.
Wood splintered and suddenly cool air swept over her cheeks. She coughed and sputtered, her lungs burning. Tears streamed down her face, and her stomach lurched.
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