Give Me A Texas Ranger (21 page)

“Believe what you want, ma’am. I had some time off, went fishing in the foothills of the Rockies and got my Warrant of Authority wet.” Hayden locked his fingers behind his head and leaned farther back in the chair, curiously eying Ella. “Wired my captain for a new one, and got word a replacement would be at Molly Lou’s. I didn’t just wander into town—I was on my way to pick up the warrant and made the mistake of stopping for a drink first.”

“And that’s the truth?” She squinted a little, making sure he knew she didn’t completely believe him.

“All I wanted was to pick up the paper, wet my whistle, and fill my belly before gettin’ back on the trail. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, I sure as hell didn’t expect to get a wife with my whiskey.”

“And I wasn’t expecting to snag a husband!” She untied her apron and hung it on the hook. “It’s late. I know you’re tired, and I’ve still got some bookwork to do. If Dixie didn’t tell you, your room is upstairs on the—”

“Audrey Jo told me.” He stood. “Ella, I’m gonna honor your request about not comin’ to you for husbandly favors, but I have one condition of my own.”

Ella turned back. “That’s fair. What is it?”

“Since it’s my wedding night, I figure you owe me at least a kiss…a real kiss.” He disarmed her with his smile.

Without reservation, Ella moved toward him and slipped easily into his waiting arms. He lifted her chin with his finger and ran his thumb across her lower lip, making her heart flutter wildly in her breast. She had no difficulty responding to the pressure of his lips on hers. The air between them seemed to vibrate with awareness.

Shamelessly her body pressed against his, and she slid her arms around his neck. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she felt every inch of his body mold over hers. So powerful. So thrilling. So naughty.

Their bodies took pleasure in the intimate contact, savoring the sweetness of the moment.

Sanity be damned.

One kiss spun into another, and then another.

She was in the embrace of a man—not just any man, but a Texas Ranger.

As quickly as he had taken her in his arms, he released her. Holding Ella at arm’s length, he said, “Thank you. I do have one more request, Patience Eleanor McGraw.” He shot her a sinfully delicious smile. “But I’ll save that for another night.”

Hayden leaned against the porch railing and listened to the cicadas nestled in mesquite bushes sing their deafening chorus. He fought a smile, thinking back on the look on Ella’s face when he said he had one last request. She was too damn sexy for her own good. Now what was wrong with requesting that she keep a supply of bear claws on hand?

He felt her stare from the kitchen window. He thought about the kiss. He hadn’t meant to ask for one, but it just seemed the thing to do. A special, first time kiss; but he knew without a doubt it wouldn’t be the last. No sir, it wouldn’t be the last. He wouldn’t have to go to her bed; she’d come to his. He’d seen it in her eyes. Hell, he felt it in every luscious, promising kiss. He had never experienced a kiss that satisfying, but then about every woman he’d ever played footsies with he’d known for no more than three drinks.

But was he willing to open his heart to the possibility of getting hurt? Suddenly Hayden had an undeniable need to protect Ella…to hell with his heart.

He took out what was little more than a cigarette butt from his shirt pocket. Pretty banged up. He tossed it and pulled up a blade of grass, sticking the stem in his mouth. The slight sweetness and drop of moisture only added to his memory of Ella’s soft and dewy lips.

That’s when he thought about the hair clip. He’d save that for another day. She’d been pretty displeased and impatient with him until he tried to lighten the mood. He was upset with himself for drilling her like a suspect. But, hellfire and brimstone, he could’ve been raised by a pack of curried wolves for all he knew about women. He was civilized enough to get along with the fairer sex, but could quickly turn dangerously inept with them if one tried to comb him.

By damn, he’d learn. For once in his life, he had a reason.

First, he had to settle the uneasiness he had in his insides that made him feel Ella was in jeopardy. The first person he wanted to scrutinize was the most unlikely. The one who couldn’t be accounted for at the moment.

Muley Mullinex.

Hayden reminded himself that it was his nature for everything to be black or white, nothing gray. Same with people. They were either stand-up folks or shady. They couldn’t be both. So just where did Muley figure on Hayden’s scale of people? There was just something about him that made Hayden think he was good but had a dark side. Experience with people told Hayden that.

After checking on Stewball at the stables, Hayden returned to the saloon and circled to the back, thinking he might take that long awaited smoke before hitting the hay.

The drummer’s wagon, led by two mules, pulled to a stop beside the shed. The driver, who Hayden recognized as being the man he saw in town with the big, boisterous, bald guy, jumped down. He spat tobacco juice on the ground and went inside the rickety shack.

In short order he returned accompanied by Muley, of all people, who stumbled along juggling an amber bottle of whiskey. He stopped and took a long draw like he was trying to suck the bottom out of the bottle, then bellowed, “You’re a sorry sonofabitch, Willard Porter.”

Hayden didn’t know where Muley had been from the time Hayden saw him in town to now, but sure as hell knew what he’d been doing. Yet Ella indicated he was a shy, bashful man. Like most drunks, the more liquor the bigger the mouth. With Muley’s small, almost mangy-looking stature, it wouldn’t take much to dull his brain and engage his mouth.

Hayden slipped into the shadows just out of their sight, and with a little work he positioned himself so he could get a good view of what was going on.

While Muley perched himself on a tree stump and took another slug of alcohol, Willard unloaded bags of sugar, two at a time. A whole lot more than what Hayden imagined Ella would use in months of baking and jelly making. And storing it in the shed didn’t make sense either.

“If’n I weren’t feelin’ so poorly, I’d help ya.” Muley slurred his words.

“Don’t make me haul off and kick your ass, Mullinex,” Willard barked. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with you a good lickin’ won’t take care of.”

“Still sore, ain’t ya?”

“Damn straight.” Willard lugged two wooden crates from the back of the wagon. “Cain’t trust any man who doesn’t have any hair ’cause with no coverin’ his brains get fried.”

Unnoticed, Hayden continued watching as the peddler unloaded more wooden crates of what looked like amber whiskey bottles. On the next trip, Willard reappeared with more crates and carted them to the wagon. He worked up a sweat, even in the coolness of the night, while Muley continued to drink and make surly comments.

Hayden had more than one question, but the most paramount—why was Willard taking empties into the shed and returning with filled bottles?

Were they storing whiskey? If so, why?

Bootleggin’?

The lawman had heard rumors that there was suspicious activity involving whiskey bootleggin’ coming out of Texas and into New Mexico, but so far the Rangers had not been brought in to investigate. Not yet, at least.

Hayden stood very quiet, just barely in earshot. Willard knew what he was doing, and seemed to ignore most of the drunk’s mumbling.

“Got no ears, Willard?” Muley said.

“Hush up, you ol’ fool. You’ll wake the womenfolk,” Willard said.

“Ain’t them I’m worried ’bout. It’s that…” Muley rambled on beneath his breath, then took another snort. “It’s that one that’s snoopin’ around.” Muley pulled to his feet and stood there for a few seconds getting his bearings. Wobbly legs carried him in Hayden’s direction. “Gotta take a piss.”

Hayden had to make a move or be discovered. It was too late for a retreat, so he released the top two buttons on the fly of his pants and pulled his shirttail out, before stepping from the shadows not far from Muley.

“Just finished myself.” Hayden buttoned his pants.

Muley smelled worse than being downwind from a skunk eatin’ cabbage. Hayden shuddered and tried not to breathe.

Not bothering to acknowledge the lawman, Muley was more intent on taking care of his business right in the middle of the yard than with Hayden’s sudden appearance.

Hayden moseyed toward the drummer, not sure if it wouldn’t be in his best interest to holler a call to camp. He took his chances and said, “Evening.”

“Evenin’. You must be Miss Ella’s better half.”

“And you’re Willard.” Hayden wiped his hands on his pants. “Ella told me about you. I’d offer to shake, but you’ve got your arms loaded. Need some help?” He reached for the crate the drummer was clutching.

Willard stopped and didn’t respond for the longest time. Finally he said, “Sure.” He held tight to the box. “Mighty kind of you. If you’d take this whiskey to the saloon, I’d be much obliged.” He frowned in the bartender’s direction. “Ain’t got much help from Muley. He’s feelin’ poorly tonight. Reason he cain’t work.”

“Be proud to help out.” Hayden almost had to pull the crate from the drummer’s hands. Bottles clanged against one another.

“Would ya pick up Miss Ella’s jars of jelly from the kitchen on your way back, so we can load ’em?” Willard disappeared into the back of the wagon.

“Don’t mind at all.” Hayden meandered past Muley, who was wobble-leggin’ it back to his stump and his bottle.

Once Muley was out of sight, Hayden picked up speed. As fast as a ferret fetchin’ food, he deposited the liquor on the bar, grabbed the box of jelly and swiftly made his way to his original vantage point without disturbing hardly a blade of grass. He focused and waited until the peddler came out of the shed and crawled up into the bed of the wagon.

“You yellow-bellied, sap-sucking numskull.” A big dose of anger etched Muley’s words as he bound to his feet. “I can git rid of the bastard better then ya did.” He pulled his pistol and waved it through the air, balanced with the liquor bottle in his other hand. “I’ll make sure he don’t stick around.” He teetered. “Lettin’ him help us was stupid. Didja hear me, you idiot?”

“Pot sure as hell callin’ the kettle black.” Willard spoke from the back of the wagon, but loud enough for Hayden to hear. “I gave him something to do, so we can get those damn crates of whiskey hidden. We don’t need no Ranger nosin’ into our business. Besides, didja see those Colts he’s flauntin’?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Ya always have the answers.” Muley took another swig. “So many answers that we’ll all be bait for the gallows before we turn around twice.”

“As soon as we get that woman’s damn little bit of nothin’ loaded, I’m movin’ out tonight for Wagon Mound. Cain’t wait till mornin’” Willard hopped to the ground. “Lay low, you drunken imbecile, and nobody will be the wiser. Sober up and get back to business tomorrow, you hear!”

“Don’t need to boss me around.” Muley took a drunken swing at Willard, who sidestepped him. The scrawny man plopped down on the tree stump. “I ain’t no imbecile and ain’t drunk.”

“If you weren’t so pathetic, I might feel sorry for you.” Willard slapped at a cast-iron skillet hanging from the side of the wagon. “If you hadn’t been crawling inside a bottle, we’d never have to have that bald sonofabitch involved.” Willard moved to the front wheel, searching the ground as he walked.

“It ain’t him bein’ around, it’s that addlebrained woman who served that doofus Ranger out of the wrong bottle.” He swayed on the stump, almost falling off before he pulled himself upright.

“Rangers don’t bother me. They’re nothin’ but a bunch of irregular hooligans.”

“Might be irregular as hell in everything ’cept gettin’ the job done,” Muley countered.

Willard turned his back to the path leading to the kitchen, and said, “It ain’t McGraw I’m worryin’ about. I can take care of him. It’s that gal.” With one hand, he pulled the bartender to his feet by the front of his shirt. “You better make it right or I will.” He shoved the man to his knees. “You drunken fool.”

Hayden couldn’t afford to eavesdrop any longer or the peddler might decide his bullying wasn’t enough.

Stepping out of the shadows, Hayden panted as if he’d been hustling. “Hell, guys, I ended up takin’ the long way to the bar.” He took his bandana out of his pocket and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “Guess I’ll learn the ins and outs sooner or later.”

Willard took the box. “Much obliged.” He turned to Muley, who was trying to steady himself back on his seat. “I’m headin’ back to Buffalo Springs for the night, so I can set out at first light,” the drummer said.

In the still of the night, with the sound of the running stream and cicadas trying to drown out one another in the background, Willard climbed aboard his peddler’s wagon, snapped his whip, and moved the mules forward toward the bridge.

When Hayden looked back, Muley had disappeared into the darkness, probably ready to nurse one hell of a hangover, if Hayden had to put money on it.

Not being as trusting as Ella, Hayden would reserve judgment on Muley until he knew more.

Earlier Baldy had also mentioned Wagon Mound, apparently the final destination for the drummer. Although the run to the little town in New Mexico from Mobeetie was a killer, it made sense. Mobeetie was in the early stages of being targeted for a general cleanup by the Rangers. Eventually it would be all well and good for the citizens, as they would be rid of the rustlers, gunslingers, and gamblers who created havoc in their community. Just rumors of the pending cleanup were enough to already push the smarter outlaws farther down the trail, many settling in Buffalo Springs.

Wagon Mound, with its volcanic outcroppings and lava palisades, was easily recognizable and had sprouted into existence because it was on the Santa Fe Trail. Now that a railroad was being built, supplies, lumber, and liquor were in demand, and traders could expect premium payment for their efforts.

The goings-on around Molly Lou’s were questionable at best. Something very shady was happening.

Hopefully, Ella wasn’t involved, but at the same time, how could Hayden be sure?

Who could he trust?

And the orders he had from his captain—“Status quo.” A cryptic message warning him to stay fixed; keep his mouth shut, eyes open, and guns cocked.