She drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders and announced in a loud voice, “I am the head of the Committee for the Betterment of Emerson, and am here to set you free.”
He must be more tired than he realized. She made no sense at all. “I’ve had no correspondence with any committee. Why would you or the committee trouble yourself with my affairs?”
She stepped closer to the door, and he noticed her small, dark eyes positively gleamed with unholy pleasure. “Because you, my dear man, have been chosen to rid this town of its most infamous creature.”
Smythe watched the play of emotions on the woman’s face and felt sorry for whomever she referred to. “I am afraid I have little interest in helping anyone at this time.” He turned his back on her and walked over to the stool and sat down. “I have my own problems to deal with at present.”
“Did you or did you not answer an advertisement in the Denver Chronicle a few weeks ago and then contact one Samuel Jones, Esquire?”
The old harridan had his full attention now. He turned around. “And if I did?”
“Then you are Davidson Smythe, late of Boston, Massachusetts, and the answer to the committee’s prayers.” Her dark eyes sank further into her head, as the excess flesh on her face scrunched into what he supposed was her attempt at a smile.
The thought boggled the mind and had him wondering if the woman’s only pleasure in life was to dictate the path of other people’s lives.
“And just how do you imagine I would have any interest or desire to aid your so-called committee?”
“My dear man,” she said with a snort, “you already have.”
Before he could ask her what she meant, she turned on her heel and marched back out through the doorway to the front of the stable.
Head in hands, Smythe prayed for a bottle of whiskey, but knew he’d even settle for ale. Anything to take his mind off the ache in his head and the questions and suppositions the woman had left behind to torment him.
Just who was involved in this committee?
Had the purchase of Pearl’s ranch been orchestrated by the overbearing female and her committee? With blinding clarity, it hit him, and he remembered. The proxy! Her name was on it!
His mind reeled at the sudden implication that he’d unknowingly been a party to fleecing a woman he’d begun to admire out of her land. But then again, if Pearl truly was not involved, and he suspected she wasn’t, he’d been fleeced as well—of every last cent of his inheritance.
An unpleasant thought roiled the fluids in his empty stomach. What was so infamous about Pearl? He didn’t doubt for one moment that she was the creature the overbearing woman referred to. But why would a committee want her run off her own property?
A rustling in the straw behind him snapped him sharply back to the present. Those and other questions would have to wait. Right now he needed to focus on not losing his mind, trapped as he was in the small cell with only rats for company.
“I detest rats!”
Chapter Eight
Pearl refused to give in to the agony, sitting straighter in the saddle. Almost there. The cloudless sky darkened with every mile as the sun sank below the horizon. She had to speak to Davidson Smythe and get to the bottom of this mystery. Whom had he purchased her land from, and who’d placed the advertisement in the first place?
“Why don’t you go see Doc before you face down Sarah Burnbaum?”
A good suggestion, though she was loathe to admit it to the man riding beside her. “I must speak with your prisoner first.”
“If I didn’t know better, Pearl,” the marshal said, moving his horse closer to hers, “I’d think there was something you were not telling me.”
“Think whatever you like, Marshal.” She’d divulge nothing until she heard the whole of it from Mr. Smythe. Then she’d worry about taking on Sarah Burnbaum and getting to the bottom of the meddlesome woman’s interest in the handsome stranger.
Handsome? An involuntary sigh of appreciation for the beauty of Smythe’s rugged good looks swept up from her toes.
“That’s it. You’re going to see the Doc.”
“You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.”
“Would you care to make a wager on that?”
The dark glint in his eyes gave her pause. Ben wouldn’t force her, would he?
He grabbed the reins from her hands and pulled her horse alongside of his. Amiable, the beast followed without protest.
Pearl did not. “I refuse to be led—”
“You’ll follow me to Doc’s without protest?”
She opened her mouth to tell him it would be a cold day in hell before she’d willingly let another man dictate how she lived her life. A glance at the determined gleam in his eyes and she promptly closed it without uttering a word.
“You always manage to surprise me, Pearl.”
They rode the last half-mile in silence. The lamplight coming from inside the stable burned brightly. She wondered as they rode past how Smythe fared.
Locked. Behind bars.
She didn’t doubt for a second that Smythe did not deserve to be locked up for having the deed to her land. He should be detained for trespassing when she’d warned him not to, but locked up because of her? It didn’t sit well and added another layer of guilt to the oily emotion already rioting within her uneasy stomach.
When Marshal Justiss helped her dismount, she didn’t put up a fuss. The door to the doctor’s office opened before they knocked.
“Miss Pearl.” Doc stood in the doorway, his gaze filled with concern as he strode forward. He took her arm, leading her into his office. “You look a might peaked, Miss Pearl.” His voice was gruff, but his physician’s touch gentle.
“I’m not healing as fast as you said I would.” She hated the pout in her voice, but couldn’t seem to help it. She was sore and cranky and damned tired of feeling that way.
“I’ll come back to fetch you.” The marshal waited while she sat on the examining table, then turned to leave.
“You’re not going to wait?” She really didn’t need him to stay, so why did she feel as if he were abandoning her here? Must be more tired than I thought.
Justiss pushed the brim of his hat back and stared at her long and hard. His gaze searched hers for a heartbeat, then he sighed. “Mrs. Swenson is preparing dinner for the prisoner, and I’ve got to be there when she delivers it.”
“Oh.”
“Come along, Miss Pearl. Let’s take another look at those ribs.”
Half an hour later, re-bound and feeling less able to draw a deep breath than before, but oddly better, Pearl led her horse while she walked along beside the marshal. The man was silent, making her wonder if something else had happened. She knew enough about Ben Justiss to realize he was a deep thinker and would pick apart a situation in his mind for hours before he’d be ready to talk about it.
“Did Mrs. Swenson cook her famous stew?”
The marshal nodded and kept his gaze trained on the building ahead of them. The sound of voices reached them before the scent of fresh-cut hay and horse manure.
“Is that Jake Burnbaum?” Pearl hesitated. She didn’t mind confronting Sarah, but her husband was another worry altogether. The man had treated her like a whore, had split her lip, and had nearly broken her jaw. What was worse, she’d felt like one after spending just five minutes speaking to him. No one else had managed that feat in a long, long time.
Not since John died.
Marshal Justiss looked at her. “I didn’t give anyone permission to visit the prisoner.”
“His name’s Davidson Smythe,” Pearl snapped, tired of everyone referring to the man by a word that, in another town or time, probably would have not come to pass. She’d bet he was an important person back in Boston. His voice and mannerisms were certainly cultured enough. Just because she hadn’t been taught to behave like a lady didn’t mean she didn’t recognize a real gentleman when confronted with one.
At the stable doors, the
marshal paused, his bright green gaze meeting hers. What did he want her to say, that she was intrigued by the man currently housed behind bars in Emerson’s temporary jail? Admitting she was attracted to a total stranger, especially one who’d tried to take her ranch away from her and the girls, didn’t sit well with her. No matter if it was the truth.
She looked down at her feet and shifted from one to another before raising her eyes. Justiss looked away and took the reins from her hand, turning them over to Mr. Peterson. “Bed him down for the night.”
How dare he make decisions for her? “I’m not staying in town tonight.”
Mr. Peterson didn’t even wait for their disagreement to continue; he did as the marshal bade him. Damn the man.
“If you plan on meeting with Sarah Burnbaum, you’ll be too exhausted to ride back to the ranch tonight.”
“I don’t—”
The marshal cursed beneath his breath and grabbed her hand. “Unless you’d rather interrupt Jake Burnbaum and then Henry Peabody—”
“Jake and Henry?” God help her, she’d forgotten about them and hated admitting she was afraid of both men. They’d spent more time than she liked at her place, even after John had died, drinking her whiskey and eating her chicken and dumplings. The working girls were long gone from her place, but those two insisted that as long as she was still there, they’d pay her for her time and attention.
As if she would ever let another man touch her, or do what their gazes hinted at. No one else had made her skin crawl quite the way it did when those two sat side by side staring at her, undressing her with their eyes. No one else knew the fear she held in check, not knowing when or if Jake would sneak up on her again and attack her.
Pearl closed her eyes and gulped, trying to swallow past the growing lump in her throat. “Can you send someone out to the ranch to stay with girls?”
He dropped her hands and nodded. “I’ve already sent word ’round to Bridget. She’ll see that your girls are taken care of tonight.”
When he would have moved away from her, she reached out to him. The muscles beneath his rolled up shirtsleeve leapt at her touch. Good Lord above, not Ben too?
His eyes were bleak when he met her questioning gaze. “Don’t ask me, Pearl.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a fish caught on a hook. Not a sound emerged. Don’t ask him what?
She’d had her fill of men trying to tell her what to think, how to act, and what to do. She finally found her voice and demanded, “Ask you what?”
He spun around so fast; she stepped back to keep from being knocked to the ground. His hands grabbed her upper arms, and he pulled her flush against his hard body. “I haven’t given up hope that you’d come to your senses and see just how I feel about you.”
Worry filled her. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t asked the marshal or John Reilly to pursue her, but then again, she hadn’t asked her husband to dress her like a whore and demand she entertain strangers.
“Pearl.” The sound of her name on his lips had her tilting her head back and looking up at him. “Ben, I didn’t—”
His mouth took possession of hers, his kiss urgent, his lips determined.
The tears caught her off guard. She’d gone so long without the feel of a man held tight against her, she welcomed the heat, but the passion she’d wondered about earlier while watching Davidson Smythe was missing. Though she liked Ben and admired him, she didn’t want him in her bed. No one had taken her husband’s place, and she was determined that no one would treat her as roughly as her husband had. Until she was ready, she’d wait for the right man to come into her life.
Callus-roughened fingertips brushed the tears from her cheeks. She sniffled in a bid for control and rasped, “I’m sorry.”
And she was. She wanted to feel something for him. If there was ever a man deserving of a good woman, it was Marshal Ben Justiss. That was a big part of her problem; she was not a good woman. She’d been used and abused by the man who’d professed to care for her. Even though she never let another man touch her, thanks to her husband, everyone—well almost everyone—in town thought she had. The reality left in the wake of her husband’s death branded her a fallen woman in the eyes of the townspeople—well, all except for a handful.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“To be honest, Marshal, I’d be blind not to realize how you feel about me.” Pearl bowed her head, grabbing her skirts in tightly clenched fists. Gathering her courage, she looked back up at him. “I wish I could feel the same way about you, Ben. But I won’t lie to you, and I won’t force myself to feel something I don’t.”
As if he’d been slapped, his head snapped back. “I’ve never forced a woman.” His eyes filled with an odd mix of longing and sorrow.
Pearl recognized the emotions swirling in the depths of his eyes. They more than matched what she knew was reflected in her own.
“I wouldn’t admire you half as much as I do if that were not true.” Tears filled her eyes once more. She liked the marshal, just as she liked Reilly. But as friends. She couldn’t imagine either of them as a lover. For her own peace of mind, she just had to know if Ben felt she’d led him to believe she wanted more from him than what she had to offer.
“Have I ever given you reason to believe I wanted more than your friendship?”
The bleak look in his eyes before he looked away from her was all the answer she would get. He walked away, shoulders squared, spine straight.
“You’ve had quite a busy day,” Pearl muttered to herself. “First John Reilly, now Ben Justiss.” The ache in her middle had nothing to do with her ribs and everything to do with her heart. It hurt for the two proud men who’d wanted more from her than she had to give them. Would they shun her offers of friendship?
Time would tell. “Those two stubborn men certainly won’t.”
Chapter Nine
“Heaven, Mrs. Swenson.” Smythe scooped up another forkful of the hearty, fragrant stew. The bite of the onions melded with the potatoes and meat, though the flavor of the meat was not a familiar one.
“What kind of meat did you say you used?”
The older woman blushed to the roots of her hair, though she stood perfectly still, holding her hands at her waist. “I didn’t exactly say what type of meat.” She tilted her head to one side. “Would it matter?”
“No,” he lied. He’d eaten some questionable meals on the journey from Massachusetts to Colorado, and had asked about the meat before. The answers usually turned his stomach. When in doubt, he’d rather let the meat remain a mystery. “It’s warm, tasty, and filled the hole I had in my belly.”
That coaxed a smile from the quiet woman.
He looked over at the bench. “Is that apple pie in your basket?”
The tantalizing scent of fresh-baked apples and cinnamon beckoned to him, tempting him to eat the entire pie. And he would if it were offered.
She nodded and went over to where she’d set the basket on a low bench along the outer wall of the barn. Reaching inside, she pulled out a red and white gingham cloth-covered pie plate.
Smythe watched Mrs. Swenson unwrap the flaky confection and slice into it with a rather lethal-looking knife, and wondered why she had offered to cook a meal for him. Was it her job, or had she done it out of the goodness of her heart?
“Do you cook for all of Emerson’s prisoners?”
She nodded and lifted out a huge slice of pie.
Smythe’s open mouth watered. Damn. He hadn’t realized he’d let it hang open as he watched Mrs. Swenson uncover the pie. Closing his mouth, he swallowed in anticipation of what he guessed would taste as close to perfection as possible.
While he watched, she fitted the key in the lock to his cell door, and for a heartbeat he contemplated overpowering her and making a run for it.
But the moment of insanity passed, and he stepped back so she could see where he stood, hands at his sides. No doubt, the marshal would have stationed someone nearby within earsho
t to hear Mrs. Swenson if she called out for help. For some reason, and it was unknown to Smythe just why, the marshal seemed to trust that he’d stay behind bars.
Handing him the plate of pie, Mrs. Swenson narrowed her gaze at him and asked, “You won’t try to escape if I leave the door open whilst I get the coffee pot?”
His fork stilled midair. Had she known that for a heartbeat he’d considered just that? But the scent of pie assailed his nostrils, making him groan out loud. “I wouldn’t be able to eat any of your delicious pie if I tried to escape, and that, my dear Mrs. Swenson, would truly be a crime.”
Shaking her head, she walked over to the bench, lifted the enameled coffee pot, and poured coffee into a slightly battered cup. “Well, the marshal’s just through that doorway. I can hear him talking to Miss Pearl.”
Smythe hadn’t realized that. He’d made the right decision then after all. He focused on the kindly woman and her deft movements; not a one seemed wasted. She was efficient in the extreme.
“How long have you known Pearl?” He nearly bit off the tip of his tongue for relaxing his guard and letting his mouth get ahead of his brain.
Her head whipped around. Eyes narrowed, lips thinned into a line of stark disapproval, she demanded, “Why?”
Not one to waste words, are you? “I just wondered what she would say if she knew you were bringing me my dinner.”
And he had wondered. In a town this size, it wouldn’t do to make too many enemies. In times of trouble who but one’s neighbors would be there to stand beside one?
She turned back to the cup, added a dollop of cream. “Sugar?”
The question gave him pause. “Why are you treating me as if I’m not a hardened criminal?”
She snorted. “Do you truly think the marshal would let me have a key to your cell and allow me to come in and feed you by myself if you were a true threat to me or this community?”
Smythe could feel a lick of temper flare to life. “Then why am I behind bars?”
The Irish Westerns Boxed Set Page 49
