by Micki Miller
“I will not marry you,” Penny told him, angry at too many things to count. “I’ll turn twenty-one soon enough, and then you’ll have no say over me whatsoever.”
Something hardened in him, then. Before her eyes, Bentley changed into a man she didn’t recognize. A tremor of fear tore through her at the sharpening of his eyes, at the unfamiliar set of his jaw. He folded his arms in front of him and for a moment Penny thought she saw a hard smile touch the corners of his lips.
Bentley’s voice no longer held a placating tone when he said, “You’ll be broke by then.”
“Broke? What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying if you don’t marry me, by the time your birthday arrives there won’t be a cent left in your accounts.”
“You would steal from me?”
Bentley softened, then, as he took her hands in his. “I’m sorry for being so harsh with you, Penelope, but it’s for your own good. And no, of course I wouldn’t steal from you. You should know me better than that. By the time you turn twenty-one, the money will be in a separate account, one I will control. Upon your father’s death, the property, this house, went into my name. That wasn’t my doing. Your father arranged things so because he knew we’d be good together and you were just too stubborn to see it. I’d hoped not to have to tell you that part. No, don’t be angry with your father. He was worried about you, Penelope, had been for some time now. You must have suspected.”
Penny paced a few steps. The action reminded her of Bentley, pacing around the marshal. She stopped immediately and faced him, head held high, hands on her hips.
“I’ll hire a different lawyer, my own lawyer and fight you.”
Looking pained, Bentley said, “You have no money to hire a lawyer of your own. Your father anticipated everything. He was a smart man, and he was well aware of your stubborn streak. I know it’s a lot to take in right now, but you have to trust his decision. Your father knew what was best for you.”
She looked into the parlor, as if her father would be there to tell her this was all a joke, or a misunderstanding. Then Bentley walked to stand before her, taking her hands in his. He smiled at her, looking shy and a little out of sorts.
“It’ll be all right, Penelope. Your father knew it. Trust him. We’ll be good together. You’ll see. I’ll leave you to think about everything, give you some time to adjust. Everything will work out. I’ll be good to you, I promise. We’ll have a good life together.” And without waiting for a response, Bentley walked out the front door, closing it behind him.
With the weight of her circumstance slowing her steps, Penny made her way into the parlor where she could still smell her father’s pipe tobacco. She managed to get to the chair near the window before her legs gave out. From there she watched Bentley walking in his brisk fashion toward the bank. After a moment, Penny put her face in her hands and cried.
Chapter 6
Garrett spent two and a half days on the road covertly trailing those hindrances on horseback. He’d endured temperatures too cold for this time of year, meager supplies since he’d had to gather them in a hurry, and a wind storm that liked to blow him all the way back to his family farm in Illinois. Adding to his aggravation, he’d not seen a single telltale sign that Zeke Cotter had passed this way. Garrett couldn’t help but wonder if his instincts had turned fool on him.
He easily caught up with Sheriff McElroy and his sorry excuse for a posse. Not that it was any great feat. The men were raucous and disorganized, excessively ecstatic over earnings not yet in hand. If they thought they were going to sneak up on Cotter, they were as delusional as they were reckless. Of the nine men who rode with the sheriff, maybe three of them had any business being there, and that was a kind estimate.
The posse consisted of four wayward ranch hands, two of them young men with more enthusiasm than sense, but at least they had a working knowledge of guns. There were a couple of shop owners and one clerk, none of whom had likely ever faced anything more dangerous than a splinter. Adding to the farce, age had so stooped one of the shopkeepers, he looked like a skinny question mark, and the other was so sluggish and overweight Garrett felt sorry for his poor horse. Topping off the group were a couple of saloon rats sobered up just enough to ride when they heard the news of the reward. Oh, and of course there was Sheriff McElroy, their unworthy leader who couldn’t head a hunt for sunset.
It was the most pitiful posse Garrett had ever seen in his life.
Garrett watched last evening as Jeb, the man from the mercantile who traded his apron for an ill-fitting gun belt, got a shooting lesson from a cocky young man who left his barstool for fun and fortune. The kid was in sore need of instruction himself, or at least some sobering up. The only chance either one of them had of hitting Cotter with a bullet is if they got within spitting distance, and then threw the bullet at him.
Sheriff McElroy and some of the men had a few good laughs watching the two in their failed attempts to hit the fat trunk of a tree, a tree, while they passed around a bottle. Meanwhile, amongst the cowboys who had more experience with firearms there were grumblings about how they were going to divvy up the money. The four believed they were more an asset than the others were. They were probably right, and now their original deal of an equal split wasn’t sounding so fair anymore.
The initial discussions of the posse as a whole had started a premature celebration. Everyone talking about what they were going to do with their cut. After two days living the hardships of life on the road, with their prize still not in sight, the celebratory mood was souring at a slow but steady pace.
Every one of them was now drinking. The more they all drank, the louder the grumbles from the gun-sure cowboys, and the responses from the others were becoming more irritated. All fingers of this group were pointing to trouble.
From the moment he came upon them, Garrett kept back, staying out of sight. He was hoping they’d tire of the deprivation and the elements and turn back before any of them ended up hurt or dead. Five thousand dollars was a hell of a lot of money, though. Apparently, sleeping on hard ground and eating what they’d hurriedly stuffed into their saddlebags or could find in the wild was not enough to deter them.
As much as Garrett wanted to make his presence known, order them all to turn back and let the law handle the matter, it was pointless. His threats of prosecution wouldn’t stop all of them, if any. He’d been around enough to know if he tried, it would only get them all riled up and even incentivize the younger members into a heedless rebellion. They’d find a way to get around him. Besides, right from the start Garrett had a feeling his experience and instincts would eventually lead him in a different direction, in which case he wouldn’t have to deal with them at all.
That would definitely be for the best. Even the men who knew how to handle a gun were getting no guidance from the sheriff. If Garrett tried to take over leadership, even if it was for their own good, they’d see him as an interloper, someone who could cost them a lot of money. None of them were taking into consideration in the least the man they were chasing was more desperate than ever. He was already going to hang for murder, so killing again would be nothing to him.
So, for the time being Garrett found himself in a position of having to protect the posse. Well, isn’t this a fine state of affairs?
The motley group was sticking to the main road, taking them westward. For all intents and purposes, it was a logical choice. The road connected several towns, a couple of them being large enough so a man could get lost, at least for a while. That Zeke Cotter was heading west was a reasonable assumption on their part. However, the outlaw may have realized that, too.
If Cotter headed south, he’d be entering denser terrain as opposed to land becoming more open where he’d be less able to hide. Food would be easier to come by and he wouldn’t have to duck far into the woods should he hear riders approaching. For a long way, the towns would be smaller, but the trade-off might be a good one. Of course, if the outlaw wasn’t thinking clearl
y, if he was just running with panic as his guide, well, then Garrett’s theory was about as helpful as a good pair of oars on a sinking boat, which was exactly how it had begun to feel.
On the morning of the third day, his instincts proved right.
The crossroad wasn’t much. There weren’t any markings. The men riding a short distance ahead of him hadn’t thought anything of it, if they noticed it at all between their weariness and their griping. Garrett saw it, though. And he didn’t miss the single set of new horse tracks imprinted in the freshly blown trail. Cotter had a good head start, but if he believed that by going off the main road he’d lost anyone who might come after him, he could just decide to relax a little. He could even get it in his head to rest himself and his horse for a day or so.
Over the last few hours, the bickering of the tired men ahead escalated. Most of them weren’t used to living like this. The days were long and tedious, the nights cold, and the ground a poor substitute for their beds. The group stopped at the top of a rise, only a hundred feet or so from the crossroad they’d missed where Garrett, concealed in a copse of trees, waited and watched.
From where he was, he couldn’t hear what they were saying, but there was definitely a discussion on that rise. After a few minutes, Garrett circled around. Keeping to the thick pines off to their left, he saw what they were seeing, a good long stretch of open terrain. It was clear they’d lost their prey; at least it was clear to Garrett.
“Pleth is just about one more day’s ride,” one of the young cowhands said. “It’s a decent sized town, and I’ll just bet that’s where he rode off to.” The young man rubbed his hands together. “One more day to collect all that money.”
“I suppose you’re right,” answered McElroy. His tone was agreeable, though it carried an undercurrent of doubt.
“If that’s where he went,” was Jeb’s glum reply, scratching at the scruff on his face. “Who knows? He had a good head start.”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said. He rubbed his lower back and grimaced. “You’re right. He could be anywhere by now.”
“We just need to ride a little faster, that’s all.” This from the young man who couldn’t hit a tree at twenty paces.
Suddenly, all of the men were talking at once, and it wasn’t long before tensions were on the boil. The sheriff was little help, changing sides each time someone made a new argument, though he clearly was ready to give up the chase.
Garrett turned around and left them to their business. Any minute now they’d split up, he guessed, some going home, some continuing in the same direction. Either way they’d be out of his hair. Once he got back to the road that hardly was a road, he turned his horse south and slipped away, glad to be rid of Sheriff McElroy’s posse, hoping his instincts were right.
Less than five hours later Garrett had Zeke Cotter in his sights.
****
“Zeke Cotter,” Garrett shouted with firm intonation. “You just climb down off that horse nice and slow and nobody has to die today.”
The sun was close to setting, and Garrett had been just about ready to call it a night. He’d been tracking along a creek with clean running water and plenty of soft grass close by, two things both he and his horse would appreciate. It was a good place to wash and to sleep until morning. Then he could pick up Cotter’s tracks again. He was pulling up on the reins to stop when a lucky star must have come out early, and beamed down upon him.
The shadow stretched out before him as soon as he rounded a short bend.
He snuck up on Cotter as the outlaw had remounted, fully taking him by surprise. No more than ten yards separated them. Garrett, sitting tall atop his horse, had his well-tended Peacemaker pointed line-perfect at the killer before Zeke even knew he was there. And it was Zeke Cotter he was about to take into custody. There was no doubt about it. After all the worry about the posse and the trouble they could wreak going after the wrong man, facing more danger than they were prepared to handle, or getting in the way of the law, it turned out this was going to be an easy capture.
Or so he thought.
Zeke jumped at the sound of Garrett’s voice. He jerked his head, turning dark eyes toward the marshal, and then to the gun held in a steady grip pointed right at his chest. Fear, outrage, and frustration all crossed his scarred face in turn, as the man ran through his options, deciding which would rule.
“How’d you find me?” he asked, stalling.
“The law finds everyone, eventually.”
Zeke slid a quick glance at his own six-shooter, still in the holster.
Garrett kept his gaze and gun fixed. “You’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”
After another second or two, Zeke wilted as his head gave a conceding nod. “All right, all right,” he growled, holding out his hands. “Don’t shoot.”
For the life of him, Garrett would never be able to put in order the speedy succession of the next events. Everything happened in the time it took to sneeze. That’s likely what kicked it off. Zeke Cotter sneezed.
Maybe the sneeze was fortuitous, or maybe Zeke decided to go for his gun after all and the sneeze was a ruse. Just before, Garrett’s ears caught a sound behind him. An animal, possibly, but maybe his head turned the slightest. He just wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like him to take his eyes off immediate danger, but it ran through his mind if someone from the posse had followed the same trail, well, he could be sitting square in the middle of a shootout.
Garrett did see Zeke’s eyes shift just before he sneezed, and he appeared to catch sight of something behind Garrett and to his left. Whatever set things off; Cotter made good use of the distraction.
The gunshot that followed Zeke’s sneeze exploded in the silence.
All at once, birds took flight, bursting from the trees in a mad flapping of feathers and high-pitched screeches. The blast caused Garrett’s horse to suddenly rear, which sent the unprepared marshal straight and fast to the hard ground.
Garrett landed flat on his back with the air knocked clean out of him. He lay there for a moment, dumbstruck, staring at a couple of lazy clouds pinned steadfast in an otherwise clear blue sky, and marveling at how abruptly the scenery had changed.
Dust rained down upon his face and he knew why. Zeke Cotter had turned his horse and was riding hard. Garrett closed his eyes against the grit. He then did a wary body check. Surely, he must have broken something. The way his body was screaming at him, he could have fallen from a second floor hotel room instead of his horse. It had been a very long time since a horse tossed him out of a saddle, years, many years. He couldn’t remember if it always felt such a blow. At some tentative moves, he concluded nothing was broken, but he was sure as hell going to have some bruises.
Garrett suddenly realized his gun was not in his hand. And someone behind him had fired that shot. Was it Zeke’s partner, perhaps, who’d been waiting outside the bank that day? Maybe someone from that ridiculous posse had noticed the crossroad on his way back home and decided to give it a try. Whoever it was, Garrett needed to gather his senses and find his gun.
Lying perfectly still so he wouldn’t alert the gunman in case it should be another outlaw, Garrett slowly opened his eyes. Instead of sunlight and sky, what filled his vision was a familiar face bent over his, and she was every bit as furious as she was beautiful.
“You let him get away!” she shouted.
“Penny?”
Garrett eased himself up on his elbows and took in the woman before him, not that she looked anything like a woman now. Except for a few wayward tendrils, she had all of her hair stuffed into a hat so old the right side of the brim sagged. She wore a boy’s shirt and jacket, both faded brown. They matched the trousers she had on, tied at the waist with a rope. Garrett’s eyes widened when he got to her shoes because those certainly belonged to her. The fashion boots were black, dusty, but still looked new, with fine laces and short, stubby heels that looked utterly ridiculous with the boy’s attire. To top off the look, she held in her hand a Winches
ter. Smoke still coiled from the barrel.
“You had him, Marshal! And then you had to go and fall off your horse! And now…oh, are you all right, sir?”
Garrett dragged his gaze upward again until his eyes rested on her lovely face. She still had her brow furrowed, but no longer in anger. She was sincerely concerned for any injuries he might have. As she should be, since she was the one to cause them.
“Marshal, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he said in a tight voice, hoping it was true. Then her words sank in. “And I did not fall off my horse. I was thrown.”
“Weren’t you holding on properly?”
Did she really just ask him that? Before he could tear into her with the verbal lashing she wholly deserved, she was tugging on his arm trying to haul him up. When he didn’t budge, she leaned back, putting all her measly weight into the effort.
“Well, if you’re not hurt let’s go. We can still catch up with him.” She grunted with her exertion. “Come on.”
Garrett stood. Not because her puny little arms were lifting him, but because he was afraid she’d hurt herself if she kept trying. Once upright, he bent at the waist and began slapping the dirt off his clothes. Not that he cared a whit about a little road dust. He needed the time to rein in his anger, which was wasting no time overrunning his shock.
Garrett’s gun lay on the ground beside his now calm horse. He snatched it up and stuffed it into his holster before facing the woman who just scared him in more ways than he cared to count.
“Have you been following me the whole time?” he asked, even though he knew it was true. She hadn’t just wandered all this way and come upon him by chance.
She drew a deep breath and blew it out between her pursed lips before answering. “Well, I didn’t think you’d let me ride with you.”
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t have let you come with me!” Though he was yelling at her, he was far more upset with himself. He’d been trailed for three days and hadn’t a clue. He was a bigger fool than the sheriff’s posse. How had she been able to do that? Damn! He was a lawman with a goodly amount of experience.
