Beyond Betrayal (6 page)

Even now, six years later, the pain of what had followed had the power to bring a lump to Samson's throat. Poor sweet Melissa had not known what to do. She'd never in her life defied her father, and couldn't find the strength to do it then. Instead, terrified that her father would have the man she loved killed, she'd implored Samson to forget her and find another love. She'd made him promise not to interfere, saying it would only make matters worse. And so, he had stayed away and Melissa had done as her father demanded, marrying according to his choice. The day after her wedding, she'd tried to kill herself by jumping into the river. Only her mother's intervention had saved her.

It was that news, and images of what must have preceded her rash act that had made Samson disregard his promise to her. He'd gone to the Corrigan property, still crowded with wedding guests, and landed a few very satisfying punches on both Pete Corrigan and the groom the man had chosen for his daughter. Samson couldn't even remember the man's face, and had never learned his name. Nevertheless, it had been satisfying to make that man feel a small measure of pain for his callous treatment of his new bride. Of course, Sam had sustained a few bruises himself when Corrigan's body guards pulled him away and threw him off the property. A day later, warned that Corrigan wanted him dead and knowing that Melissa was forever lost to him, Samson had fled the area. He'd eventually become a hired gun—on the side of right—and lived a decent life until. . . until the day he'd made the mistake of stopping in Cedar Crossing, Wyoming.

He sometimes still wondered about Melissa, but he knew he could never again fall in love with such an innocent. Had she only had the strength to stand up to her father, or to leave behind the comforts of her affluent home and run away with him, they might have married despite Corrigan's ambition. But Melissa had done neither. Samson's young heart had eventually healed, though it still ached for what might have been and he'd long ago decided that he never wanted to suffer that kind of pain again.

He would not, could not, love again.

And so, he avoided innocent women. Women who could worm their way into his heart with their need for protection. Women who admired his strength and appearance. And women who, not knowing the score, might grow to depend on him. He'd grown too old and too cynical to accept their admiration, and too interested in staying alive to be dependable.

Once more his gaze, of its own accord, sought the shapely form belonging to the young widow, Mrs. Sterne. Her pace had increased as she came toward him on the opposite side of the street.

A safe, discreet relationship with an independent widowed lady who knew the score would suit him the best. There'd be no emotional commitment to make leaving hard when it became necessary. No parental interference. No clinging dependency. And, best of all, no more celibacy. Hell, it'd be blamed near perfect. He studied the object of his consideration intently.

Mrs. Stern's small, rapid-fire steps echoed on the boardwalk. Her gown, dusty with travel from the tip of its high-necked collar to its hem, was in the process of picking up an extra layer of red-brown dust from the street. Still, despite her travel-worn state, his initial assessment stood. This lady was beautiful. Too damned beautiful. Getting near her could be about as smart as trying to stare down a grizzly. Maybe he should reconsider.

Yet he found himself fascinated by her obvious gentility. A man didn't get the opportunity to see very many ladies of her quality out here.

Carrying a black parasol to protect her delicate complexion from the brutal sunlight, she walked with her backbone as straight as a poker and her head held high. A small bonnet sat securely fastened atop her thickly coiled hair, but its purpose was obviously ornamental. Samson watched as she lifted her skirts, ever so slightly with the fingers of the same hand in which she carried her carpetbag, in order to skirt a small pile of horse manure as she crossed the street. He didn't even catch a glimpse of ankle. In fact, every move she made was as schooled and as graceful as though she was out for a Sunday stroll in a city park. The only thing that was even remotely unladylike about her was the carpetbag in which she carried that silly looking dog of hers. It made the bag look as though it had sprouted an animal head. Carpetbag aside, however, this lady was all class.

“Breeding will always tell,” his mama had often said.

For the first time in a very long time, Samson knew he was looking at the evidence of that breeding. He tipped the brim of his hat as she drew abreast, "Afternoon, ma'am," he murmured.

Her big brilliant blue eyes lit on him for an instant as she acknowledged his greeting with the barest dip of her haughty little chin, "Sheriff Chambers," she said, and then she moved on. Her brisk steps carried her directly into the Lucky Strike Saloon.

Whoa! Back up them thar horses!
The
saloon
?! Sam inhaled in perplexity, forgetting entirely about the hard candy he'd been sucking, and ended up inhaling the blasted thing. As a paroxysm of coughing gripped him, he continued to stare at the spot where the lady had disappeared into the Lucky Strike. Finally, old man Potter stood up and gave him a good whack between the shoulder blades, displacing both the candy and Sheriff Chambers' uncharacteristic fascination with one of the female persuasion.

Able to breathe again, Sam turned to speak to Potter. "Well, I better be getting back . . . ” He trailed off as he realized the old man was grinning from ear to ear in toothless mirth.

Potter resumed his chair and slapped his thighs in jocular rhythm. "You better stay away from that filly, sonny. She don't jest affect yer hearin', but yer breathin' too. And that's downright dang'rous."

"Shut up, Jeb," Samson muttered, giving the old man a warning look.

"Sure thing, Sheriff. Just makin' an observation is all.” Jeb's eyes glinted with unrepentant laughter.

He frowned. There were some definite advantages to keeping people afraid of you. There weren't many people in town who would have dared to enjoy a laugh at his expense. Perhaps that was exactly why Samson tended to seek out Jeb when he was in the mood for some honest conversation.

Ignoring Jeb's impertinence, Samson decided that on the way back to his office, he'd just stop at the Lucky Strike to wet his whistle and have a peek to see exactly what that lady might be up to. Maybe she was one of those hellfire and brimstone preacher's widows come to Red Rock to reform the whores. If so, she had one heck of a job ahead of her, and it could prove downright interesting to watch. Besides, when Miss Cora threw her out of the saloon, she might just need someone to see her to the hotel.

By the time Sam entered the saloon, the bartender, Mitch Crebs, was pouring the widow a glass of what looked like peach cordial. With her carpetbag on the floor at her side and her back as ramrod straight as a schoolmarm's, the widow stood at the bar slowly perusing the establishment. Samson followed her gaze.

The evening business hadn't yet begun, and there were only four other customers in the saloon. Simon Earl, a local rancher, his foreman, Frank Cook, and Simon's son, Travis Earl, sat at a table in the center of the room sharing a bottle of red-eye and a game of stud-poker as they argued about the fate of the beleaguered cattle industry. They studied Mrs. Sterne with a measure of surprise and no small amount of interest before returning to their argument. Old Bill Crumley, the town drunk, sat in the back corner nursing a tumbler of cheap booze while he swatted half-heartedly at a blue-fly buzzing near his head. The widow's gaze halted briefly at the poker table, its green surface dusty with disuse, and then moved on to the old piano which, come nightfall, would be belting out all kinds of lively ditties in response to Phil Marcham's dexterous fingers.

"What can I getcha, Sheriff?" Mitch asked as he moved down the bar toward Samson.

"Give me a shot of whiskey would you, Mitch?” Samson hooked the heel of his right boot on the brass railing at the bar, and waited.

". . .  Course the damned rustling don't help," Simon Earl suddenly said in a loud voice. "You ever gonna do anything 'bout that, Sheriff?" he asked, drawing Samson's attention from the widow. "Or are you figurin' on the Almighty doin' your job for ya?"

"Aw, pa. . . come on, don't . . . ," Travis began.

He was interrupted by a cuff to the side of the head from his father. "You talk when I tell you to boy, an' not before."

Travis lowered his gaze to the cards in his hand. "Sure, pa.” He was a grown man and if he allowed his father to treat him that way, there wasn't much Samson could do about it though his guts churned with cold rage.

Simon switched his gaze back to Samson. "Well, Sheriff, you got anything to say for yourself."

Samson's gaze sharpened.
Give me a reason, Earl.
"Well now, Simon, I don't remember anything in my job description sayin' I had to report to you. If that changes though, I'll be sure to let you know.” With those words, he dismissed the pompous rancher and turned back to his drink. Silence reigned. And then, slowly, Frank Cook began a conversation that drew his employer's attention and they returned to the poker game they'd been playing.

With the tense moment past, Samson looked back at Mrs. Sterne. The widow had to have had some purpose in coming in here other than a drink—unless she was one of those suffragettes—and he figured if he bided his time he'd find out what it was.

He didn't have long to wait.

"Bartender?" Mrs. Sterne called out in a soft voice.

"Yes, ma'am," Mitch responded as he moved back down the bar toward her.

"Would you be the proprietor of this establishment?” For the first time, Samson noted a faint Southern lilt in her tone.

Mitch shook his head. "No, ma'am. That would be Miss Cora."

The widow smiled though Samson wasn't sure he understood why. "And would you be so kind as to tell me whether Miss Cora will be in attendance here this evening?"

Mitch hesitated. "Yes, ma'am," he responded a bit warily. "Can I ask you why you'd be lookin' for Miss Cora?"

The widow sipped her cordial before responding. "Oh, it's nothing untoward, I assure you. I simply have a business proposition for her."

"A business proposition?"

"Yes.” The widow didn't elaborate, but Mitch continued to stare at her expectantly. Finally she commented, "I notice your gaming tables appear to be in a state of disuse. I've been told that there is no dealer in town. Is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. Most folks in town don't quite cotton to professional gamblers."

The widow's expression sobered slightly. "How sad. There's truly nothing amiss in an honest game of poker, though. Wouldn't you agree, sir?"

Samson set his glass down with a definite clunk on the scarred wooden bar. He had a bad feeling about this. A
real
bad feeling.

Mitch flashed a glance his way, then cleared his throat. "I wouldn't know about that, ma'am. The ones we had here didn't know the meanin' of the word
honest
. Trouble-makers through and through, they were. Here to swindle the local hands out of their month's pay and the miners out of their gold and silver."

The lady didn't respond.

"Is that what you want to talk to Miss Cora about, ma'am? Gamblin'?"

The widow drew a deep breath and then flashed Mitch a smile so dazzling that Samson caught the reflected brilliance. "Yes, sir, it is."

Sam grit his teeth. Dammit! The
lady
was a gambler!

If there was one thing Samson could not abide, it was professional gamblers. They were a cold-hearted lot who brought nothing but trouble in their wake. And that trouble got good men killed. Men like his father.

Samson had started cleaning the town up when he'd taken on the identity of Matt Chambers' and the sheriff's position in Red Rock two years ago. It had taken more than a year to do it, and he didn't intend to let all his work go for naught because a little slip of a woman with big-blue eyes had a penchant for vice. Not on your life.

He turned to face the widow. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but if you've come here to set up a gaming table, you've come to the wrong place. We don't allow professional gambling here."

The widow pinned him with her blue-eyed gaze and moved down the bar to join him, sliding her glass of cordial with her. Then, setting her carpetbag at her feet once more, she got right to the point. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Sheriff. Isn't it the prerogative of the proprietor to decide whether or not gaming will be permitted in his or her establishment? Or has a law been passed of which I am unaware?"

Samson fought back a scowl. She sounded like a blamed school teacher. "There's no law against gambling, ma'am, but there is one against cheating. And, since I
am
the law in Red Rock I'll see that it isn't broken."

Mrs. Sterne's left brow arched. "So then, your
law
doesn't include honest gamblers?"

Samson hesitated. "I've yet to meet a professional gambler who stayed honest when ridin' a losin' streak, ma'am. That's why we don't allow gamblers in Red Rock."

The widow's lips tightened perceptibly and the blue of her eyes deepened. "You mean that
you
don't allow gamblers in Red Rock, don't you, Sheriff?"

Samson nodded sharply. "That's what I mean. I run a clean town. Cheats get run out real fast."