Dawn Comes Early (2 page)

The town looked abandoned but oddly, she felt the weight of a thousand eyes upon her. Her imagination playing tricks on her, no doubt. Had to be. Still . . .

“Hello,” she called. The word felt like a rock in her dry mouth. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time louder. “Anyone there?”

She came to a side street and breathed in relief. Horses were tied to wooden rails, their tails swishing back and forth like pendulums measuring the passing of time. A buckboard wagon was parked on the side of the street along with a buggy.

Never did she think to see a more welcome sight. Horses and wagons meant people. This apparently was the heart of town. It had a bank, a hotel, and a sign that read Marshal—but all appeared to be deserted. At the far end of the street stood a windmill and water tank. Anticipating the feel of cool water in her dry mouth, she quickened her step.

“Hello,” she called again, but her call was met with silence. She narrowed her gaze to the doors of the Blue Rooster Saloon. Where was everyone? Had she miscounted the days? Was this in reality the Sabbath instead of Tuesday like she supposed?

“Shhh.” Bessie Adams hunkered behind a pickle barrel in Green's General Merchandise Store. A shadow inched its way across the floor indicating someone outside walking past the store window. The shadow stilled and Bessie's heart thudded.

Finger to her lips, she signaled for her sister not to move. Lula-Belle peered from behind the potbellied stove, her rounded, fear-stricken eyes staring from a well-worn face.

Bessie's joints ached from kneeling on the hardwood floor. At age sixty she was too old for such calisthenics. Was it too much to ask that a woman come to town to do her weekly marketing without having to fear for her life?

As the town's resident outlaw, Cactus Joe had long worn out his welcome. Now he stood outside the shop, and only a pane of glass and a barrel of pickles separated her from him. It was enough to give a person heart failure.

If only she hadn't worn her flowery skirt and yellow shirtwaist. It would be easier to hide an elephant amid the store's adobe walls than her brightly colored garments.

At the first round of gunfire, Mr. Green had bolted the door and locked himself into the stockroom in back with absolutely no regard for the safety of his customers. Bessie hadn't seen hide nor hair of the store owner since. Just wait till she got her hands on the scoundrel. It would serve him right if she took her business elsewhere.

The doorknob jiggled and Bessie's stomach lurched. Gaze riveted on the dark form standing outside the door, she looked around for a weapon but the tools were kept at the back of the store. Only dry goods, sewing notions, and groceries were displayed in front. She eyed the bin of onions and potatoes but settled instead on a can of VanCamp's beans on a nearby shelf. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was the closest at hand. Let the outlaw raise one finger toward her or her sister and she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. God forgive her.

Something caught her eye and she practically fainted. The peacock feather on Lula-Belle's ridiculous hat waved like an engineer trying to stop a train. Bessie reached across the aisle and snatched her sister's hat off her head.

“Ouch!” Lula-Belle hissed, glaring at her. She grabbed the hat in Bessie's hand, and the two struggled for a moment before the boater shot up and caught on a ceiling hook used to hang meat.

“Now look what you've done!” Lula-Belle rubbed her head, her tightly wound curls bobbing up and down like tiny springs. “That hurt,” she mouthed.

“A bullet will hurt more,” Bessie mouthed back.

The doorknob jiggled again and Bessie ducked out of sight. Despite her frazzled nerves, she thought up a plan. Unfortunately, the plan required her sister's cooperation—never a good thing.

Mercy, it was the same old story. Nothing would get done if it wasn't for her. Her husband, Sam, would starve to death if she wasn't around to feed him. As for her two grown nephews, their lack of domestic skills was the least of it. Neither one of them had the slightest idea how to find a wife. This meant she had no choice but to put her considerable matchmaking skills to work yet again. Now it looked as if she would even have to do the marshal's job and catch Cactus Joe herself.

Heart pounding, she forced herself to calm down. It was no time to panic. Lula-Belle would panic enough for both of them. “I'll hide on the other side,” she whispered, pointing to the cracker barrel. “When he comes inside you distract him. Make a lot of noise.”

Lula-Belle's already-pale face turned as white as the shawl around her shoulders. “What . . . what are you going to do?”

“While he's looking at you, I'll sneak up behind him and hit him over the head.” She held up the can of beans. “I'll hold him down while you get the marshal.”

Lula-Belle stared at the tin can in Bessie's hand, her face suffused with doubt. “I don't think . . .”

The sound of breaking glass sent Bessie scurrying across the floor on hands and knees and ducking behind the cracker barrel. She grimaced. Her knees and back would never be the same. Too late she realized her sister had followed her and was now hunkered down by her side.

“You were supposed to stay on the other side.”

“You didn't tell me that,” Lula-Belle argued.

Bessie rolled her eyes and tried to think how to salvage the situation. The cracker barrel wasn't wide enough to provide adequate protection for both of them. Before she could think of a solution, the door flew open and Lula-Belle grabbed her arm.

Cactus Joe stepped inside the shop, glass crunching beneath his boots. Holding his gun aloft, he was dressed in his customary black trousers and shirt. He had dark, greasy-looking hair, a thin mustache, and an eye patch. It was the patch that saved them as he obviously couldn't see to his left.

It was now or never. After prying Lula-Belle's fingers from her arm, Bessie shot up quick as a jack-in-the-box and threw the beans hard. The can sailed past the outlaw, knocked over a stack of Log Cabin syrup cans, and bounced off the wall before ricocheting back to hit Cactus Joe on the shoulder.

Startled, the bandit fired his gun. The bullet whizzed straight up to the ceiling whereupon Lula-Belle's prized hat fell atop his head.

Blinded by feathers, Cactus Joe yelped and danced around the store, knocking over canned and soft goods alike in an effort to rid himself of the felt confection.

Lula-Belle let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Save the hat!”

Just as the outlaw freed himself, a woman stepped into the shop—a stranger.

Looking straight at Bessie, she said, “Thank goodness. I thought I heard a gun—” She spotted Cactus Joe and froze, her rounded eyes riveted on his weapon.

Cactus Joe swung around, grabbed the stranger with one arm, and dragged her outside.

“Quick, lock the door,” Bessie yelled, even though the broken glass wouldn't keep out a fly. At the sound of gunfire, she and her sister dived behind the counter, cracking their heads together in their haste to hide. Never in all her born days did Bessie pray so hard.

Kate's captor dragged her along the deserted boardwalk. “Let me go!” she cried. Her ears still ringing from the deafening report, she hit him hard with her fist and kicked him in the shin.

“Ow, that hurt.” Sounding annoyed, he jerked her back and waved his gun.

She gasped.
This is my imagination. Please, please, let it be so.
Only it wasn't. His fingers digging into the flesh of her arm convinced her of that. She glared up at him and shuddered. The formidable black-clad figure glared with one good eye. He had a thin, slightly crooked mustache, shoulder-length black hair, and pockmarked skin.

He pointed the gun at some distant target and fired again. Kate flinched. The man shot at the trunk she'd left in the middle of the dirt-packed street, and her clothes and books were now scattered on the ground.

“You didn't have to do that,” she cried. “You didn't have to shoot my trunk.”

“It's this blasted eye patch,” he muttered. He sounded almost apologetic, but the steel-like grip on her arm remained. “Can't see worth a plugged nickel. I was actually aiming for that saloon.”

Another shot sounded, this time from a distance away. A chip of wood flew off a nearby sign. Fearing that the distant shooter would fire again, she screamed, “Help, help!”

The outlaw yanked her closer, slamming her against his chest. “Shut up.”

“Let her go, Cactus Joe,” someone called from atop the Golden Star Saloon.

“Come and get her, Marshal,” her captor hollered back. He fired another shot, this time aiming at the roof.

Mercy. If she was writing this scene, her heroine would have a weapon in her boot and the courage to use it, but at the moment she lacked both. Since her high-button shoes contained nothing more than two sore feet, the man named Cactus Joe had little to fear from her.

Pointing his gun at the saloon, he moved backward to the opposite side of the street, pulling her with him. He reeked of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat. Fear knotted inside her. Her body shook so hard that at first she thought the jingling sound was her rattling bones instead of his spurs.

He walked faster now, dragging her along with him.

“You . . . you have no right to make me a party to your n-nefarious ways,” she stammered.

“I hate to disappoint you, lady, but we ain't goin' to no party.”

He forced her down an alley and behind the buildings toward two horses. No—one horse. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. She felt dizzy, faint, her legs weightless. Her head began to swim and she swayed. With a muttered curse the outlaw shoved her away. She fell forward, hitting the ground hard.

Momentarily stunned, she fought her way through the thickening fog. Confusion surrounded her. Running feet. Shouts. The pounding of horses' hooves. She raised herself up on both hands but was blinded by the sun.

She had no idea how long she lay there, unable to move. Finally a shadow swept over her, mercifully blocking out the relentless dazzling light.

“Ma'am?”

Chapter 2

T
he woman wasn't injured as far as Luke Adams could tell, but she was definitely dry as a bone. He helped her to her feet, but she started to crumble to the ground again. One hand behind her back, he slid an arm beneath her legs and lifted her off the ground with a quick swoop. She felt light, almost weightless in his arms, as he carried her into his blacksmith shop.