The Dove

by Kristy McCaffrey

  “I think it could be my mama’s handwriting.”

  Logan sat down beside her; his long fingers took the key from her hand. “Might be for a safety deposit box. How many banks are in town?”

  Claire shrugged. “Two or three. I’m not sure.”

  “Might be worth checking out tomorrow.” He glanced at her door. “Make sure you bolt that, all right?”

  She chided herself for wishing he would stay.

  “I’ll keep the key.” He stood.

  “What?” His suggestion surprised Claire—it flowed too easily from his mouth—and sent warning bells off in her head. Did he know something she didn’t? Or did he hope there was something of value in the box? “I think I should keep it.” She reached for the key. His warm hands stopped her, and she looked into his blue-green eyes.

  “I’m not stealing it,” he said. “I’ll check it out alone, tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “Claire, it’s unlikely the bank would let either of us have access to the box.”

  He paused, and as she stared at him understanding dawned. “You’re going to break in?”

  Logan frowned. “Well, I can’t quite do that. I’m a retired lawman and that wouldn’t be right.” He leaned forward, his mouth inches from hers. “Trust me. I’ll work it out.”

  Trust. Could she trust him? What would it cost her if she did?

  “I’ll return as soon as I know something,” he vowed.

  He kissed her, his mouth gentle, his touch full of sweet promise.

  Claire suddenly remembered the bank clerk who had spent some time in the saloon, as well as time in Maggie’s room.

  Trust.

  She gripped Logan’s forearm. “There’s a man, his name’s Tannenhill I think, and he works at First National Bank. Maggie entertained him frequently awhile back. Maybe the key will work there and he can help you. I could try to talk to him.”

  “I’d just as soon leave you out of it.” He took both her hands in his. “You need to rest. If I have any problems, I’ll come and get you.” He let her go. “Lock the door.”

  He exited the cabin and she bolted the door, hoping she had done the right thing. Perhaps Maggie had placed money in the safety deposit box and Claire could use it to get the White Dove up and running again. Or perhaps she had left some clue as to her and Jimmy’s whereabouts. Or maybe it was full of useless trinkets Maggie had collected over the years from men grateful for the favors she bestowed behind closed doors.

  Men grateful for favors…

  What did Logan want from Claire?

  As hard as it was, she had to consider he had a reason for helping her, for staying with her. For romancing her.

  What was his price? And was she willing to pay it?

  Chapter Eleven

  Logan inserted the key into the long rectangular box and was rewarded when the lid released, giving access to the interior and its contents. It had taken a bit of convincing to get Mr. Tannenhill to relax normal bank procedure—bypassing the standard signatures and identification protocols—to allow Logan entry into the rear of the bank where the safety deposit boxes were kept. Ultimately, Logan had appealed to the older gentleman’s business sense, stating the great need Maggie’s daughter had for additional funds to pay the outstanding saloon bills, and the hope that whatever Maggie had stashed away would help the White Dove through its current rough spot.

  Tannenhill’s gaze, rimmed with sagging skin but still clear with intelligence, continuously darted to the welt above Logan’s eye and the man’s wariness was obvious. Oddly enough, however, he silently agreed to the request. Logan could only guess that the early morning hour helped; there were few people about and the bank was empty except for the two of them. But he also sensed the bank clerk had a weakness for the White Dove, or Maggie Waters, or maybe both.

  Dressed in a conservative brown wool suit and with dark hair slicked back—emphasizing the prominent jowls below his chin—Tannenhill was likely not a great success with the ladies. Perhaps Maggie had lavished extra attention on him during his visits to the White Dove and in doing so instilled a loyalty that was about to pay off for Logan.

  He lifted the lid and found a piece of paper inside which he hastily scanned. Trying to understand the implications, he read it several times before returning it to the box and securing the contraption.

  Did Claire know about this? And if she did, why hadn’t she told him?

  And why the hell would Luttrell do this?

  He passed Tannenhill on his way out.

  “Find what you were looking for?” the banker asked.

  “Unfortunately no.” He shook Tannenhill’s hand. “But I appreciate your help all the same.”

  As Logan walked out of the bank, he caught sight of dark smoke billowing upward several streets away.

  A quick deduction sent a shot of adrenaline through him. The White Dove.

  * * *

  Claire stumbled about, her legs tripping over the hem of her nightgown. She flung an arm across her nose and mouth to block the smoke that filled the second floor of the saloon and was forced to close her burning eyes. She couldn’t stay here much longer.

  She’d already made her way to Ellie’s room and found no one—she prayed Betsy had gotten her out. But Logan was nowhere to be seen, and Claire feared the worst. Heat from the flames rolled against her, and the wood that comprised most of the saloon snapped and crackled loudly as it was consumed. She ran down the hallway and used a hand to feel along the wall for the doorways, counting as she went. Her bare feet stepped on a hot spot, she shifted rapidly from foot to foot, and opened a door. Please let this be the right one.

  “Logan!” She covered her face and struggled for breath, her lungs trying to consume air that wasn’t there. Where is he?

  Falling to her knees, she crawled toward the bed. What if he’s unconscious? She had to reach him, even though she couldn’t see past her nose and her breathing came in short gasps. She wouldn’t leave him.

  In that instant, she knew she wouldn’t be leaving, either.

  * * *

  Two women sat in the dirt outside the White Dove when Logan rushed to the saloon. He recognized Betsy and assumed the other was Ellie. Groups of men shouted and brought buckets of water from somewhere, while smoke poured from shattered windows on the second floor. He quickly scanned the crowd but saw no sign of Claire. Panic squeezed his chest, propelling him around the building to the cabin that Claire occupied.

  Empty.

  Frantically, he headed inside, his gut guiding him upstairs. He knew Claire would have worried about Betsy and Ellie, would have come back in to help them. The heat blasted him, pushing him backwards, and the smoke made it impossible to see anything. He used his arm as a mask and stumbled to the second floor, then fell to his knees and crawled on all fours. Holding his breath, he prayed he would find her. He couldn’t remain much longer.

  The last place he dragged himself was his room, a location he thought to avoid altogether. Surprise flooded him when he bumped into Claire’s soft form on the floor. He would have shouted his relief, but no breath remained.

  With sheer willpower, he scooped her into his arms and struggled down the smoke-filled hallway and stairs. His eyes stung; he stumbled and hit the wall. With eyes closed and lungs completely spent he kept moving. Have to get out…Move.

  Finally, the first floor. He staggered to the door, kicked it open, and was thrown off the porch as one of the interior walls collapsed, shattering his ears and shaking the other buildings. Glass rained down on his back as he covered Claire’s body with his. Amid the screams of women, hands grabbed his arms and dragged him farther away from the burning building. For a moment all he could do was breath, his lungs hungry for air like an almost-starved calf desperate for milk from its dead mother. Just breathe. He coughed and gasped, his chest heaving. Black soot covered him.

  Where's Claire?

  He opened his eyes and saw her nearby on the ground, surrounded by Ellie, Betsy and s
ome of the girls from Southern Charm. He edged over to them and nudged the women aside more forcefully than he should have so he could reach her. He felt Claire’s forehead, then moved the same hand under her shoulder blades as he brought her torso upright. She began coughing.

  “Easy,” he murmured. “You’re all right.”

  She continued to cough and wheeze as she gulped air. His hand tightened on her shoulder and he buried his lips into her hair, mindless of the layer of grime that had dulled the blonde tresses and coated her like coal dust.

  “Logan,” she whispered. She leaned into him and grasped his shirt.

  He held her close, and blinked back the moisture in his eyes. She could have died. He’d wasted so much time looking in other rooms—he hadn’t even planned to look in the one he occupied for only one night. Why the hell would she risk her life for him? He’d barely gotten her out in time. By all accounts, she should be dead.

  He would never understand the whys and wherefores of women, and he would never understand the reason Claire had gone in there to save him, but it stripped something fundamental from his core, from his belief system about the nature of women as they related to him. With Claire in his arms, he watched the final destruction of the White Dove Saloon.

  * * *

  Claire sat in the room Logan had rented at the Wagner Hotel. Dazed by the turn of events, she stared numbly at her hands. The saloon was gone and with it everything her mama had worked so long to achieve. Supplies, bedding, dry goods, pictures, mementos—all burned to nothing. Any business papers and the ledger were gone. Money? It was dust now, unless some coins survived the blaze. Maybe tomorrow she would go back and sift through the ashes.

  Claire closed her eyes and tried not to think of what she’d lost in the cabin, also destroyed. Her clothes, the wooden train Jack had given to Jimmy on his sixth birthday, all of her medical books. Her dreams. Her life had been stripped bare—all she had was the torn and filthy nightgown she still wore.

  Ellie survived, as did Betsy. Thank God. Someone had released Reverend and Storm from the makeshift stable in the rear of the building before it burned too.

  Claire glanced across the room at the man standing at the window. And Logan is alive. It had terrified her when she realized she might lose him. Truly, the rest of it hadn’t mattered…

  The thought shamed her. When had Logan become more important than everything else in her life?

  “In the safety deposit box is a land deed,” Logan said, watching the street below. Still covered with black soot, he appeared menacing. “Do you know anything about that?”

  Claire gave a slight shake of her head. “There wasn’t anything else in the box?” Her lungs felt as if they were full of ash and the wound on her ribs throbbed steadily.

  “No.”

  “What is the deed for?” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat.

  “Teddy Luttrell has left you a present.”

  “Me?” Claire frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Two hundred thousand acres near Cimarron. The document was dated December of last year.”

  “Two hundred…” Claire’s voice trailed off. “The land is mine?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Mostly. Luttrell did put in a stipulation that only your husband possessed the right to manage or sell the property.”

  “Are you sure it was me and not Maggie?”

  “I’m certain. I left the deed at the bank for safekeeping, but we can go look at it if you don’t believe me.”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t understand. Why me?”

  “Claire, exactly what was your relationship with Luttrell?”

  Taken aback by Logan’s frosty tone, she saw the truth in a flash. “I barely knew the man. I had little contact with him.”

  “Are you married?”

  Logan’s accusatory tone made her spine stiffen.

  “No! Don’t you think I would have told you if I were?”

  “Then why would he leave the land to you and a husband that doesn’t exist?”

  “How should I know? You said that deed was dated in December. That was six months ago, and this is the first I’ve heard of it. The man died…” Panic slammed into her. “Do you think people might think I had something to do with it?”

  Logan watched her, his eyes darkened with anger and lacking the warmth he’d shown her during the previous days. “Did you?”

  “No!” The accusation rattled her.

  “Was your mama involved with Luttrell?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe…It’s possible.” Was Maggie behind all of this?

  A knock on the door interrupted them. Logan accepted a note from a hotel employee and brought it to Claire.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  Unfolding the paper, she scanned the contents. “It’s from Betsy.” The young woman had taken Ellie to Belle’s place, thereby making the defection of the White Dove girls final. Claire honestly couldn’t blame them—they literally had nothing and nowhere to go—but she still wished there had been something she could have done for them.

  “Is anything wrong?” Logan asked.

  She glanced at the note. Betsy had also written that a man was searching for Claire. “It seems Shorty McClaren wants to meet with me.”

  “Red’s brother?”

  Claire flinched at the reminder of the woman Logan had flirted with at the St. James.

  “What do you know about him?” he asked.

  “Not much. He hung around the White Dove a lot—seemed to be Mama’s friend. Outwardly he’s a part of Griffin’s circle, so he may know something. He wants to meet at six o’clock.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Claire took a steadying breath, uncertain whether Logan’s presence would be an asset or a liability. He still appeared edgy, distant, and annoyed. She glanced down at her nightgown and shook her head.

  “I need to ask a favor,” she said, refusing to look at him. “I don’t have any money or clothes.”

  “You don’t have to look so disgusted asking for help.”

  “I’ll pay you back, somehow.”

  He stood his ground by the window then grabbed his hat. “I’ll have the hotel send up a tub and water. Don’t leave until I get back.”

  Hardly. She wasn’t about to hit the town naked.

  When Logan was gone, Claire closed her eyes and let her shoulders sag in defeat.

  * * *

  Betsy’s note told Claire to meet Shorty in the stables behind the Wagner Hotel. She touched the snouts of Storm and Reverend as she walked past their stalls, Logan trailing behind her. He murmured softly to the animals.

  The earthy smells of hay, dirt and horse droppings filled Claire’s nose, and she wondered again why Shorty wanted to see her. The wound on her side smarted and her breathing was still labored from the smoke—all in all she wasn’t in good shape. She felt weary of this game her mama played—especially when she didn’t know the rules. A brief thought of leaving town swept through her, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. She couldn’t abandon Jimmy. But for the first time in her life she thought that maybe …maybe she could leave her mama.

  They passed a youth who tended the place and continued on until she saw Shorty standing at the far end of the stalls. The three of them came together, alone and isolated from the people and wagons outside.

  The young man pushed away from the wall as they approached and watched them closely. Red-haired and tall, his wiry frame hinted at barely-contained energy. He swallowed hard and wiped his hands on his trousers; Claire took note of his nervousness. The few times she’d seen him around town with Griffin he’d been brash and confident, always interested in saying hello to her mama. And he’d always played a lot of cards at the White Dove.

  “Miss Claire.” He nodded and removed his hat; his eyes darted to Logan then back again. “It’s good to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d meet me.”

  “Let’s hope there won’t be any trouble,” she said as a wa
rning. After the last few days, she couldn’t assume anything anymore. “This is Mr. Ryan,” she added.

  Shorty nodded, his gaze flicking from one to the other. He leaned forward and said, “It might be better if we speak in private.”

  “I prefer to stay,” Logan said.

  Claire considered everything Logan had bought her—several dresses, a handful of undergarments, a hairbrush and two pairs of new shoes. It was too much, but she was grateful and certainly in no situation to refuse his generosity. Layers of petticoats brushed against her legs beneath the dark gingham dress she wore and the flat, black boots covered her feet with a snug tightness. Logan had dressed her as a respectable woman; asking him to leave was out of the question.

  “Why did you want to see me?” she asked Shorty.

  “Well,” he said and cleared his throat. “I’m not quite sure where to start exactly.”

  “Do you know where my mama is?” she asked abruptly.

  His gaze darkened with concern. “No. Do you?”

  Claire shook her head. She had no reason to distrust Shorty, but she certainly had no reason to trust him.

  “This is a lot more awkward than I thought it’d be,” he said. “Your ma and me were close. Do you know about the land?”

  “What do you know?” Logan asked.

  Shorty nodded several times in succession, and scratched the side of his nose. “Well, Maggie explained it all to me, and she asked if I would help her. Help you,” he added quickly.

  “How?” Claire asked.

  “You’ll be needing a husband to gain control of the land. That’s why I’m here.” He looked expectantly at her.

  “You’re here for what?” she asked.

  “I’m here to marry you.”

  Claire’s mouth dropped open. She’d expected Shorty to threaten her, or coerce her, or tell her something terrible might have happened to her mama, but she never, ever expected this. Logan stepped forward, and his chest brushed her shoulder blades.

  “You’re here to marry Claire?” Logan asked, stunned by the presumption of the man. He looked barely twenty.

  Shorty nodded again in what was fast becoming an annoying habit.