An Outlawed Heiress and Her Duke

by Denise Daye

  George got up.

  “Splendid. I shall waste your time no more then,” he said and was about to turn when Major Wicks took a loud deep breath in to announce there was a but on its way.

  “However…” Major Wicks pulled his feet off the table and leaned over his desk, hovering over the letter. George sat back down, sighing heavily with a pinched expression.

  “This leder says squat about guh-rantin’ ya supplies, eend as ya know, we gawt them marchin’ orders, so all supplies in burg are now confiscated.”

  What the bloody hell did this guy want? George wrinkled his forehead and crossed his arms to signal this very question to Major Wicks in silence. He seemed to have gotten the message.

  “All ah want is the truth about what ya really up to with them Indians up thair.” George narrowed his eyes, studying this man in front of him. Why would he even care? Was he hoping for a war? Bored to death out here? Ready for some blood? Maybe George could smooth-talk his way out of this…

  He opened his mouth to say something, but the Major interrupted before he got a word out.

  “An don’ ya be lyin’ to me. Ah called out lies from me-yn beggin’ for their lives. Ah sure as blazes will catch a lie from a man askin’ for a horse an some beans for his journey up to them natives,” he commanded wagging his finger at George. “But awf course ya don’t have to tell me. Ya kay-yun always walk uhp their on them tender beetle-crushers awf yours.”

  George was looking at the man in front of him who was now trying to get a piece of food stuck in his tooth out with a big sharp knife. Besides George not understanding half of what Wicks was saying, this was one of the few times he had no idea where to place this man. His sharp senses were pretty much in a deep slumber. Was he trying to find out if George would rob him of an exciting opportunity to kill natives, or was Wicks simply trying to protect his men? George decided to take the risk and go with the old saying that the truth is incontrovertible.

  “I bought a lot of that native land that the government sold to the miners. Now I want to offer the natives their land back and ask for permission to mine the land for gold.”

  Wicks stared at George for a moment as if he was waiting for him to laugh. But his face stayed as serious as that of a dead man. Suddenly the Major lost it.

  “That’s what ya told Major General Patterson?” he was barely able to spit out, slapping his hand onto his desk before throwing his head back in uncontrollable laughter.

  “More or less…”

  “That’s thuh dad gum craziest thang ah have evher heard…,” he continued blasting away, his unkempt beard moving with his shaking head as if it was alive.

  George couldn’t help but roll his eyes in annoyance. Never in his life had anybody ever laughed at him like that. But then, hearing it out loud like this, it did sound pretty foolish.

  “I guess you can say that.”He pursed his lips.

  “Oh, come awn now. Ahm just kiddin’. Ya kay-yun have whatever ya need, just as the baws wants it.” He giggled, wiping a tear away.

  George raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  Wicks grabbed the Major General’s letter and held it up.

  “Ah know dung from wild honey. You never upset the Major General, not me… no-no,” he declared nodding his head.

  “Does that…mean I get my horse and beans?” George inquired carefully.

  “It shaw as blazes does.”

  George sat for a moment in silence, his head still wrinkled in confusion.

  “So we are good?” he asked, just to make sure.

  “We good,” the Major confirmed.

  “All right?” George slowly got up, testing the waters.

  “Alraahyt,” the Major repeated with a grin. All of a sudden, George remembered that he also had to find Billy. In all this chaos and horror, he’d almost completely forgotten about his old friend who also happened to own the other half of the land he wanted to present to the natives.

  “One more thing, I have a friend whose name is Billy—”

  “Tall, skinny fellow with a burn awn his hand?”

  That was him!

  “Yes! Is he here?” George stumbled a step forward in a clumsy mixture of relief and surprise. Wicks put his boots back on his desk.

  “He shaw is. Owns the saloon.”

  “B-billy’s is Billy’s?” George stuttered in awe about how obvious and simple it was. It was right in front of him; how had he failed to notice? Looks like Lady Luck was looking his way again.

  Wicks rolled his eyes.

  “Yes. Billy’s is… Billy’s,” he said, as if he was talking to a simple-minded child.

  “It’s been a looong week,” George countered, a bit embarrassed.

  “Mhm… Teyn-dollar Stetson on a five-cent head…” Wicks mumbled to himself but loud enough for George to hear.

  “I do not know what that means, but fair enough.” George smiled at him, and for the first time in a while, he meant it. He opened the door and was about to leave when Wicks shouted after him.

  “Oh, one more thang… Whe-yn ya git your horse, don’ git them banktail, get them barn sour,” he smirked, “or ya will wawk back after all.”

  George tipped his hat with a nod. For some unexplainable reason, he liked this guy.

  “I shall keep that in mind, not the bangtail…” George smiled, “whatever the bloody hell that means,” he mumbled, closing the door behind him.

  He couldn’t help but notice that his steps felt lighter on his way to Billy’s. He hadn’t seen his friend in ages, and to hear him well let alone thriving as a saloon owner, was like feeling the much-welcomed sun after a long thunderstorm.

  “Whiskey, and not your rotgut,” George ordered in an American accent from Billy, hiding his face under his hat.

  Billy was about George’s age, and not too bad on the eye. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and brown pants. His dark hair was combed nicely, and he was even clean-shaven, a luxury most men in this area didn’t have the time or interest to do. But none of that surprised George. Billy was one of these men who could be thrown into a pit and still find a way to make the best of it, so seeing him thriving in a town he was pretty much imprisoned in was typical for Billy.

  “I don’ have no rotgut, only the good stuff,” Billy said with hurt pride, placing a glass in front of George.

  “Splendid, as I am only used to the grandest of liquors,” George jested in an overly arrogant, British accent. Billy jerked George’s hat right off his head. His wide-open eyes blinked before his head finally flopped backwards and he barked out in loud laughter to catch his breath.

  “I—will—be—damned!” He shouted so loudly, the whole saloon stopped for a moment to see what was going on. Billy was now storming around the bar to give George a strong, manly hug.

  “I will be damned!” he repeated, slapping George on the back with a loud thump that caused George to cough a little.

  “It’s good to see you too, Billy.” He pulled himself out of the hug to step back and take a closer look at his friend. Same old Billy with those lively brown eyes and contagious grin on his face.

  “To see ME? What in the Lord’s name are you doing here?” Billy sat down at the bar, reaching over to grab a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “I haven’t heard from you in months, so I thought why not cross the globe to see what Billy is up to.” George smiled.

  Billy filled both glasses, his smile waning.

  “I tried George, I did. But the damn government pretty much cut us off the map. At first, they said only for a few days, but the days turned to weeks, and weeks to months.” Billy seemed a little bitter, swigging down his whiskey only to refill it.

  “So I have heard.” George nodded, squeezing Billy’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. I’m just relieved to see you so well. Owner of Billy’s.” He grinned, playfully swatting at his friend. But Billy did not return his cheerfulness.

  “George…as much as I would love to spend time with you drinking and j
esting like the old days, I have to talk to you about something very important first…” His head leaned down and his voice was as soft as a whisper. George knew exactly what this was all about.

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I know about the land, Billy.” His hand was still on Billy’s now tensed shoulder. Shame flickered in Billy’s eyes, replacing that once happy sparkle he was so famous for.

  “You do?”

  George nodded his head and emptied his whiskey. “Yes.”

  The air filled with silence for a brief moment as both men stared onto their empty whiskey glasses.

  “I’m so sorry about all of this, George. If I’d known I would have never—”

  “I know, Billy, I know. Please don’t blame yourself,” George cut him off. There was no need for his friend to beg for forgiveness or be eaten up with shame. Billy was a good man. When he’d approached George back then about this land, he did so with good intentions. Nothing more and nothing less but to help George out of his financial hardships.

  Billy was still staring at his empty glass that he held with both hands. He was clearly struggling with shame, nonetheless.

  “I am still deeply sorry,” Billy mumbled, refilling their glasses. George squeezed his friend’s shoulder one last time before he pounded the whiskey in one go and stood up.

  “I’m afraid we will have to continue this conversation another time. Do you know where I have to go to get a horse and provisions?”

  Billy stood up beside him. “Is everything alright?” he asked with a hint of worry.

  “That my friend, I shall soon find out myself. One way or the other.” George put his hat back on. “Do you think you could help me? I shall explain on the way to the stables...”

  Billy waved to a man who was serving food to the tables.

  “Take over,” he shouted to him. The man simply nodded without any emotion and continued with his work.

  “I need a barn sour.” George repeated Major Wicks’ words walking out of the saloon. Billy followed him.

  “A barn sour?” He stopped in his tracks, and much to George’s surprise, without the slightest bit of amusement.

  “Please tell me you’re not heading up to them Indians.”

  “You know what a barn sour is?” George asked, throwing Billy off.

  “Of course. It’s the opposite of a bangtail,” he declared, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

  George frowned.

  “Stop throwing me off like a wild mustang would a rabbit.” Billy crossed his arms. “You are heading up to them natives; that’s why you want them barn sour, don’t ya?”

  George nodded, dropping his gaze onto the dusty, mud-filled ground before looking right at his friend.

  “I will offer to return my share of their land to them and hope they will let me mine it in exchange for a fair share.”

  Billy looked at George as if he was waiting for him to say that all of this was a joke, but he didn’t. His eyes held Billy’s gaze with an intense stare. Billy threw his arms up.

  “That is the dad gum craziest thang I’ve ever heard!”

  “So I am told.” George let out a sigh.

  “They’ll shoot you at first sight!”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Has the sun burned all logic out of your head?”

  “Perhaps…”

  Billy let out a sharp breath and started walking again.

  “Where are you going?” George wondered catching up with him.

  “Getting a barn sour—for two.”

  “No, you are certainly not.” George protested, but Billy wouldn’t have it, not even wasting a second to look.

  “The hell I am. I’ve traded with them before. I might be your only chance to get a word out before a bullet finds its way into your chest.”

  George tried to keep up with Billy. He didn’t like the idea one bit but what he said made sense. He knew the area and if he had really managed to trade with the Apache before, Billy was indeed his best chance of coming back alive without a bullet or perhaps an arrow in his head.

  “Besides, if we throw our share of the land together, they might take us seriously,” Billy added, turning off the main street and onto a small path. “I would be more than fine with an honest mining permit over owning land soaked in blood.”

  With a faint smile on his lips, George couldn’t help but be grateful for a friend like Billy. Granted he’d got them into this mess in the first place, but by no means did he have to risk his life and share to get them out of it. He was not at the brink of ruin with a sister engaged to a monster and “one breath away from—God forbid—having to marry Emily Wayne,” George unwittingly uttered the last part out loud, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Emily Wayne?” Billy wrinkled his forehead.

  “I will explain on the ride up there,” he replied, still shaking his head in disbelief over everything that had happened on this trip.

  Billy laughed.

  “Sounds like your noble life of servants tying your shoes and wiping your ass has been shaken up a bit by my good old lady America.” He teased George, who couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

  “The blazes she has,” George joked back, “the blazes she has!”

  Chapter 13

  P eggy nipped at George every time he was in reach for her to do so. George swore by everything that was holy to him that he saw a smile on her horse mouth every time she got him, which Billy brushed off, stating it was just a darn horse.

  “Ol’ Peg don’ like to move.” An older cowboy sitting on the porch in front of Billy’s spat onto the floor with a smirk when Peggy nipped at George again and this time sank a dull, teaser bite into his lower arm.

  “Stop that, Peggy!” he reprimanded her, all under the cheerful eyes of Billy, who ended up with the far better deal of their two barn sours—which turned out to be lazy horses that loved their stalls and were useless to the natives.

  “She likes you,” Billy said tying Susie, his lazy but easy-going mare, to the post.

  “I am afraid the feeling might not be mutual,” George mumbled, stepping back just in time before Peggy got him again, much to everybody’s amusement.

  After George had finally managed to tie Peggy to the post, which had taken four tries with him constantly jerking various body parts out of her reach, he made his way up to Jones’ room to check on Esther and inform her about his plan to leave right away. He was hoping that Jones would be able to draw up some legal papers that would focus on returning the lands in return for rights to mine, splitting the profits evenly.

  George leaned an ear closer, gently placing his hands on its rough timber door. There was nothing but odd silence ended by a loud thump followed by constant creaking. Taking one final breath, George gave a firm knock at his door.

  “Come in!” Jones’ desperate voice shouted through the door. Billy and George exchanged quick, worried looks before George tore the door open. His heart stopped, lungs failing as he gasped for air. Esther was not back in a dress happily babbling about how Jones had figured everything out, she was lying on Jones’ bed soaked in sweat, tossing herself left and right, mumbling feverish prayers.

  “Esther!” George dropped his saddle bag and stormed over to her side, throwing himself on his knees next to the bed. He flinched as he grabbed her hand. Her raging fever burned into his skin. He pulled aside her shirt and vest to expose her gunshot wound, festering in puddles of yellow and red. Puss had soaked the linen that aided as a bandage. It looked absolutely awful.

  “Have you called the doctor?!” George shouted at Jones, who exchanged the cold rag on her forehead with a fresh one, his eyes filled with deep sorrow and worry.

  “I have telegraphed—”

  “TELEGRAPHED?!” George interrupted him. “You don’t have a doctor in town?”

  Billy and Jones exchanged anxious looks, their eyes filled with utter fear.

  “I’m afraid not. The closest doctor would be in Alamosa or Santa Fe, both about two da
ys away.” Jones sighed with grief.

  George turned back to Esther, leaning close to her face, tears swelling in his eyes. Not once in his life had he experienced such pain or anxiety as he did in this very moment. The thought of losing her was like a knife stabbing into his heart.

  “Esther…” he whispered, leaning his head against her hot cheek. “Esther can you hear me…?”

  Nothing. No response whatsoever.

  His head sagged down onto her arm, despair choking him up from the inside. This could not be it. She couldn’t just leave him like this. His brave little guide, now his fragile little lover.

  “Is there nobody in town who could help?” George begged. Jones and Billy threw each other searching stares again.

  “A…wet nurse…healer…ANYBODY?” he cried out, holding Esther’s burning hand closely against his cheek.

  Billy let out a loud sigh, instantly drawing Jones and George’s attention to him.

  “There…is…a…a medicine man…” he carefully stated, knowing he was entering dangerous territory.

  “The Apaches?” Jones clarified, his eyes and mouth wide open as if Billy had just said the unthinkable. He then wildly shook his head.

  “Why not? Their knowledge of healing plants is far superior to ours. The doctor from Santa Fe said so himself when that girl was bit by the rattler, remember?”

  “That might be… But Billy…where have you been over the last few months? With me here imprisoned in Chama or on the moon?” Jones barked sarcastically, clearly letting off steam as way of dealing with his own pain. “We have mistreated the Apache for months. Stolen from them, trying to trick them into these despicable agreements. Now you want their assistance in healing our sick? Out of the question! They will never agree to this! They will rightfully shoot us on sight!”

  “The natives use herbs that we don’t know of. It’s worth a shot.” Billy pleaded his case, stepping closer to Jones who pushed him out of the way to get fresh water from the basin.