Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (3 page)

“Judge wouldn’t act on the rumors before because there wasn’t a body.” Even as he spoke, the cowboy was assessing the room, checking for opposition that might slow their departure.

Apparently satisfied he was in control, he continued, “A couple of weeks ago some Circle Five ranch hands found a grave on the open range. Animals had been at it and uncovered the remains of a woman dressed in scraps and rags.  That was enough to tip the scales for those who wanted their own version of justice. The good citizens of Eclipse had the trial last week and decided Ambrose was guilty.”

It was interesting to Quincy that she’d turned up in Buffalo Creek almost-dead three years before, but her
supposed
male relatives hadn’t been able to find her. She couldn’t speak for the soon-to-be-hung Eclipse prisoner, but it didn’t seem that her disappearance had caused the flint-eyed man in front of her any grief. Only saving his brother from a necktie party was a strong enough reason for his current search.

Hiram looked at her with doubt. “Quincy, you think this might be you?” He looked at the tintype again.

Before she could answer, the stranger snarled, “That what you’re callin’ yourself now? Not very original is it?”

“So what do you think my name is?” Quincy’s spine stiffened and her hands ached. She couldn’t believe how much she wanted to smack the sneer right off the man’s face.

“Quince,” he said. “You’re Lucy Quince, wife of Ambrose Quince—and God help you if we don’t get back in time to stop the hanging.”

Lucy Quince.
Her heart stuttered as she rolled the words around in her head, waiting for memories to fill the void in her mind. Nothing happened. Quincy swallowed her fear and came to a conclusion. It was time to find out what had happened to her.

“I’ll need to gather a change of clothes.” She moved away from the stranger toward the door.

”Sure you want to go with him, Miz Smith?” Hiram asked his question hesitantly, looking down at her as she passed.

She nodded and he stepped aside. “Guess it’s time you found your people. Mind you, whoever did this to you is still out there. Might be this husband you’re travelin’ to save.”

“I guess you know who to come looking for this time if I turn up dead or disappear,” Quincy said.

Hiram nodded, as did the spectators in the café at her terse answer.

Do I want to go with this unknown man to an Eclipse hanging?
She couldn’t climb on the horse fast enough to get there. She suddenly had no doubt she was once this Quince woman and those children in the picture were hers.

She had to make sure they were all right before she found the man who’d separated her from her family. It seemed likely his name was Ambrose Quince and when she met him, if she recognized him as her abuser, she’d smile when she watched him dangle at the end of the rope.

Upstairs in the living space the two women shared, Roberta clutched her kerchief in her hand, dabbing at tears as she watched Lucy pack. “You don’t have to go with that man. Hiram will protect you.”

“I guess I’ve been waiting for someone to figure out they didn’t succeed in killing me, Roberta.”

“Oh, Quincy…” Her friend sniffled anxiously as she offered advice. “Maybe you should move on and count yourself lucky to be alive.”

Quincy shut the flap on the satchel, punctuating her next remark with the slap of leather against leather. “I can’t do that. I can’t start to live again ’til I know what happened to me before.”

They were both orphans in life. Roberta had arrived in Texas, expecting to marry, but her intended had gotten himself killed before she arrived. Without funds to return to the Ohio town she’d left, she’d been stuck here. Her only skill was dressmaking, but there were so few women clients in Buffalo Creek, it was impossible to make a living that way. She’d already been there for eighteen months, pinching out subsistence as a seamstress, when Sheriff Potter had brought her a half-dead mystery woman to nurse.

“Roberta, had it not been for you, I’d have died. I wouldn’t leave now if I didn’t have to.”

Quincy credited Roberta with tipping the scales in her decision to live. As soon as she was well enough, the women had cleaned out an empty building and, using a cookstove left behind by the former tenant, they’d started selling breakfast to the single men in town.

At first, neither of them had known what they were doing, but Quincy was able to read and understand a cookbook and Roberta being prettier, with no scars to hide, made an entertaining hostess for the female-starved cowboys.

Teasing her friend affectionately, Quincy handed Roberta her recipe book. “Bad food served with a pretty smile is better than what the single men were eating before we began the Robin’s Nest. You’ll do fine.”

Finished with her goodbyes, Quincy swung the satchel from the bed and made one more observation before carrying it through the door. “Until I find out what happened to me, I’ll never be free to move on.”

Except for the faceless demons in her nightmares, she’d managed to keep Buffalo Creek men at bay, making it clear she wanted to be left alone.

When a few cowboys had disagreed, she’d asked Roberta for a weapon. Her friend had obtained a six-shooter and a rifle from Hiram. For months, Quincy had left Smiley cooking chili in the kitchen every Monday while she spent the day practicing with the guns.

She’d never bothered with the fancy holsters or leather draws, keeping the handpiece hidden in a pocket or apron. She’d quickly realized that surprise was worth more than speed. Although she’d never perfected her ability with the six-shooter, she’d developed quite a knack with the rifle.

“You have your protection ready to use?” Roberta questioned her anxiously, accompanying her to the street where the stranger waited beside Quincy’s saddled horse.

Quincy touched her skirt and nodded. She’d strapped the knife Roberta had given her to her thigh. Hiram slipped a derringer in her reticule when he hooked her satchel over the saddle horn, warning her gruffly, “Keep this as backup nobody knows about.”

Quincy and the stranger were mounted and ready to ride out when an old drover, partial to her shepherd’s pie, stepped close and handed her a Winchester lever-action repeating rifle.

“Me and the other cowboys got you this ’cause we appreciate the fine vittles you’ve served. You take care, Miz Smith, and if things get rough, use this and come on back to cook for us.”

Quincy ignored the loud snort her escort made, nodding her appreciation at the friends who’d equipped her with weapons, making her armed and dangerous. The man who claimed to be her brother-in-law didn’t look scared.

Just to make a better impression, she sighted down the barrel of the rifle, checking the balance at the same time she made him her target. He straightened in the saddle but said nothing, waiting ’til she sheathed the Winchester to begin their journey.

“You sure you want to go with this man?” Roberta sounded distraught.

Lucy suspected it was not only because she was losing her cook, but because they were best friends. Since Hiram Potter had been courting Roberta for the length of Quincy’s memory, she figured he’d pop the question as soon as she was on her way.

“You’ll be fine,” Quincy reassured her. “Get Smiley back in the kitchen. He can cook ’til I get back.”

Roberta looked relieved and spoke loud enough for the stranger to hear. “I’ll send Hiram over to check on you from time to time.”

Quincy nodded and took up her reins. “Tell him to ask for Lucy Quince, Roberta. I think I’ve found who I am.”

She touched the new rifle as though it were a talisman of good luck and spoke to her guide back to hell. “I’m ready.”

* * * * *

They rode hard and silently. The stranger didn’t offer his name, and Lucy didn’t ask for it. It was sufficient to know that he was kin to her children and once, to her. She didn’t doubt that at all.

It was midmorning Friday by the time their exhausted mounts carried them into Eclipse, where the day’s entertainment had already begun. Folks were lining the streets—wagons and buckboards served as the gallery.

Lucy and her escort were behind the tightly packed crowd, too far from the gallows to reach it in time, but from horseback she had a clear view of the accused standing with the rope around his neck, feet planted defiantly, ready to swing.

Suddenly she locked gazes with the man about to be executed. Unsheathing the Winchester, Lucy hitched it to her shoulder and took aim.

Her new relative pulled his gun. “Put it away, lady. You’re not shooting anyone,” he warned her.

He had a choice—he could stop her with a bullet and let his brother strangle at the end of a rope or let her take her shot. She didn’t wait to discuss it. Steadying the rifle against her shoulder, Lucy sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger.

Her bullet found the rope, cutting him loose at the same moment the hangman dropped the hatch. Ambrose Quince plummeted through the trapdoor, landing in a heap on the ground.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” her brother-in-law said, kneeing his horse into motion as Lucy chambered another round, following him through the gauntlet of staring faces and the fifty guns trained on her. As they neared the law officials standing by the gallows, the expectant audience quieted, straining to hear the coming exchange. It wasn’t necessary. The sheriff cursed loud enough for all to hear.

“Goddammit, Ham, he’s been tried and found guilty. You didn’t have no call to cut him loose. That was a brand-new rope. Yer gonna pay for it and spend some time in jail for yer interference.”

Lucy paid no heed to the lawman, more interested in the man on the ground staggering to his feet. He was taller than his brother, with the same shaggy black hair and hard features. His picture hadn’t done him justice. He’d only looked stern before. Now he looked savage.

She nudged her horse toward the prisoner, ignoring the loud threats of the sheriff as he harangued. It was a bizarre occasion—her seated on her horse, pushing through the crowd toward an unknown man to whom she apparently was married.

Time hadn’t been kind since the photographer had captured Ambrose Quince’s likeness but when he turned his head and looked at her, she could see it was the same man she’d viewed in the tintype.

Lucy looked around for the children, being more interested in finding them than releasing the cold-eyed stranger she’d just saved. She could feel his eyes following her and like a magnet, her gaze returned to him. She was glad his hands were tied behind his back because even shackled as he was, his fingers opened and closed as though he wanted to strangle someone.

At the moment she had an uneasy feeling it might be her neck his fingers craved. As Lucy stared down at him he drawled, “It took you long enough to come home, Lucille.”

The way he drawled her name—
Luseeaal
—seemed stretched to ten syllables—hanging in the air between them, mocking her.

The sheriff’s curses piddled out as the crowd abandoned him, closing around her to hear her reply. The Winchester made an impressive noise as she chambered a round.

Leaning forward she asked, “Mr. Quince, where are my children?”

Ambrose looked surprised at the same time the sheriff said, “That ain’t Lucy Quince. It’s someone shammin’, pretending to be her.”

“Why would you say that, sheriff?” It wasn’t an accident when Lucy turned the rifle toward the words and left Ambrose standing, still bound.

The sheriff gulped, noticeably shocked when he faced the barrel of her Winchester. He dropped his hand from the gun he’d been reaching for and said, “Lucy Quince didn’t give a damn about her children when she was here, and if you’re who you say you are, you walked away from them without even a
kiss my ass
or
goodbye
. The Lucy Quince I knew wouldn’t have asked about her children.”

Lucy said, “I just hate it when a man tries to beat a woman down with words.” She pulled the trigger and shot a hole next to his foot. Dirt kicked up and splattered both him and her brother-in-law.

Ham didn’t even flinch but the sheriff stumbled back, swearing, “Jesus Christ, Lucy, they’re over in the wagon.” He’d given her children front-row seats.

If the sheriff hadn’t pointed at them, she wouldn’t have recognized them from the tintype. Three years was a lot of growing time for youngsters. Lucy added another count to the list of horrors committed against her. She’d lost time with her children.

She faced them from the back of her horse, suddenly devoid of the courage needed to climb down and stand before them.

The girl, who had neatly braided hair the same brown color as her mother’s, glared at Lucy from aquamarine eyes that matched her own. “You’re not my mama. Mama was a lady and she was beautiful. You’re not my mama. My mama’s dead.”

Lucy judged the little girl to be about eight years old. Her freckles stood out on her round cheeks and she trembled in shock, having just witnessed her father snatched from sure death.

The boy with his arm around her shoulders had changed just as much since his picture. Then he’d been stocky, baby chubbiness not quite melted away. In the picture he’d looked at his mother—at Lucy—with eyes of adoration.

Now, even sitting, she could tell that he’d grown taller, thinning down like his father. His hair was black and he pinned her with an accusing stare that screamed he’d never seen her before. But his words said different.