Lawman in Disguise (4 page)

“All I know so far is what the doctor told me you said yesterday—that you've been riding with the Griggs gang, taking part in their robberies and raids, but you claim not to be one of them,” Bishop challenged. “Is that true?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Then suppose you tell me right now what you were doing, robbing a bank with them yesterday? If you're going to stay here in my town while you recover, then I need more of an explanation than I've gotten so far. Unless you want to receive the rest of your care in one of my jail cells, that is,” he added.

Thorn raised a hand—the one that wasn't clenched into a fist, since the doctor was sponging that burning liquid over the wound in his shoulder—to indicate he was willing to talk, as soon as he could do so without groaning.

“I'm working for the State Police,” he said eventually. “My orders are to infiltrate the Griggs gang so that I can warn the authorities where the gang is likely to strike next. The goal is to set a trap to catch them in the act, so they can be brought to justice.” He kept his eyes locked on Bishop's, and as he expected, suspicion remained in the lawman's steady gaze. “You don't have to believe me,” Thorn said. “You can telegraph the State Police headquarters in Austin. Address it to Captain Hepplewhite and he'll confirm my identity and my assignment.”

“You're working with the State Police,” Bishop repeated, with the same curl to his lip he might have had if Thorn had said he was employed by Ulysses S. Grant or William Sherman.

“Yes, although at heart I still consider myself to be a Texas Ranger rather than a state policeman. I was a Ranger and stayed here to protect Texas rather than going off to war, and God willing, I'll be able to call myself a Ranger again someday.”

He thought the frost melted a little in Bishop's eyes at his last remark, but the lawman's tone was as cold as ever when he spoke again. “If that was the plan, why weren't you able to warn us before our bank was robbed?”

“I just joined the gang a fortnight ago. Griggs doesn't fully trust me yet, so he doesn't confide his plans to me,” Thorn said. “His closest men watch me like a hawk. Reckon it'll take a while before they trust me enough so that I'll know of a holdup far enough ahead of time that I can sneak away to warn the law. Meanwhile, my orders are to play along with whatever the gang chooses to do, so that I can win their trust, while avoiding harming the citizenry, of course.”

“Sounds like the kind of harebrained scheme the carpetbag government police would come up with,” Bishop said with a sneer. “What makes you think they'll ever trust you that much, if you're not shooting innocent people right along with them? Maybe they're just playing along, pretending to trust you, till they catch you ratting on them.”

His last remark played right into Thorn's deepest fear. He'd been warned that the plan was dangerous, that the Griggs gang would show no mercy if they found him out.

“Maybe they are,” he agreed. “It's the chance I've agreed to take.” The gang would just continue hurting decent people until they were stopped. Thorn might not be proud to say he was a state policeman, but he'd certainly be proud to play a role in stopping Griggs and his gang. And besides, it wasn't as if anyone would miss him if he failed and paid the ultimate price.

He'd thought his last admission would be enough to satisfy Bishop, but evidently the lawman was even harder than he appeared, for his gaze remained narrowed. “What makes a fellow willing to take such a risk as you're taking, Dawson? Money?” he murmured, in a tone that suggested the topic was of only mild interest—though the intensity in his eyes told a different story.

“They'll pay me well enough, if I succeed,” Thorn drawled, in that same careless tone the sheriff had used.

“Maybe so, but I don't believe that's all there is to it,” Bishop shot back. “What is it you're atoning for?”

The man was too shrewd. Thorn shifted his gaze, hoping the other man hadn't seen the wince that gave away how accurate the shot-in-the-dark question had been, and set his jaw. “I reckon that's my business, Sheriff, especially since it has nothing to do with the Simpson Creek bank or anything else about this town. And I'll tell you right now that Mrs. Henderson and her boy have nothing to fear from me.”

He kept his eye staring unblinkingly at the man, hoping the sheriff could see how deeply and truly he meant the words. After a long moment, the lawman shrugged. “You can keep your secrets, Dawson. But you go back on your word and do one ounce of harm to Mrs. Henderson and her boy, or anyone else in this town, and I'll make you wish you'd never been born.”

Thorn could tell the sheriff meant what he said. Good thing he'd rather die than harm one hair on Daisy Henderson's head—or Billy Joe's. But couldn't his presence here potentially harm her by sullying her reputation? He'd have to remedy that as soon as he was able—by leaving once he'd recovered enough to be able to ride again.

“By the way, Dr. Walker, how're your other patients doing? The teller and the bank president, I mean?” Thorn asked. In truth, he had been worried about the two bank robbery victims, but he also hoped his query would further strengthen the evidence that he was a good man.

Dr. Walker looked pleased that Thorn had inquired, but Sheriff Bishop showed not so much as a flicker of approval. The man would be an excellent cardsharp, if he ever decided to give up being a lawman, Thorn thought. His face revealed nothing.

Fine with Thorn. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to see Griggs and all his miserable thugs land in jail where they belonged. And the sooner he could get back to that task, the better.

* * *

“When did you become such a clock watcher, Daisy?” Tilly inquired, as Daisy dished up yet another helping of the day's special, chicken and dumplings, and handed it to the waitress.

Daisy wrenched her gaze away from the clock on the shelf above the sink. “I don't mean to be,” she said. Trust the other woman to notice if Daisy's attention wandered off of her work for so much as a second. Tilly seemed to resent even the brief half hour Daisy could call her own during the workday, even though she received her own work break right after Daisy returned, during which time Daisy had to take on the waitressing as well as the cooking. “I just need to go home on my break to check on things, that's all.”

“Things” meant the wounded man in her barn, of course. Had she been right to leave him to her son's care? Though he'd been asleep, she had thought that Dawson had looked well enough when she'd left for work. She hadn't seen any indication that an infection was troubling him, or that he was sleeping poorly. But who knew what could happen in her absence? Maybe his wound had reopened, causing him to bleed to death, or maybe a fever had spiked and he'd died. But no, surely Billy Joe would have run to report to her if any calamity had happened. She'd told him to let her know if there was a problem. Had the doctor returned to check on his patient this morning as he'd promised to?

She knew why she was worrying so much. It wasn't really because of the man himself, but because of the memories he stirred of Peter. She still blamed herself—would always blame herself—for the way her brother's injury had led to his death when she was supposed to be looking after him. She couldn't let that happen to Thorn—that is, to Mr. Dawson.

“That boy of yours causing you worry again? Better nip his mischief in the bud, or he'll turn out just as bad as his daddy,” Tilly opined with a triumphant gleam in her eye. She seemed never happier than when she managed to find a new opportunity to remind Daisy of all the shortcomings of her late husband. As if she could ever forget. The scars—both the physical marks and the bruises he'd left on her heart and her soul—would never go away.

Sometimes Daisy missed Mrs. Powell, who had been the cook when she herself was a waitress. The older woman had been a crank and a bully, but her bullying tactics hadn't been so full of innuendo and malice as Tilly's were. Besides, Mrs. Powell had seemed to hate just about everyone, so spread her vitriol around generously, insulting and belittling everyone who crossed her path. Tilly had only one target, and struck it as often as she could.

Daisy wished no one had ever told Tilly about her late husband when the waitress had moved to town after her own engagement to a local rancher had been broken off. But in such a small community it was inevitable someone would have told the younger woman Daisy's sad marital history. After all, everyone knew he had been an abusive tyrant—toward her and Billy Joe, and toward the schoolteacher who William had eventually gone to jail for attacking. For most people in town, that history was a reason to treat her with kindness and compassion, showing understanding for the difficulties she'd faced. But with Tilly, any flaw or shortcoming in Daisy was something to be pounced on and mocked.

“Billy Joe's been good as gold,” Daisy replied, striving to keep the defensive note out of her voice, even after Tilly's face took on a skeptical look at her assertion. “It's just that I had set him to a task, and I want to make sure he did what I told him to.” That wasn't a lie, was it? She
had
given him the task of watching over the wounded man, after all.

Tilly bent to peer out the narrow opening of the serving window between the kitchen and the dining room. “Looks like all the noon crowd's gone, so go ahead and take your break, why don't you? Reckon I can handle anyone who happens to mosey in while you're away. But you won't be late getting back to prepare supper, will you? Mr. Prendergast might come in to check, and you know he'd ask when you left. I wouldn't want to lie.” She made no attempt to hide the malice in her tone, and Daisy knew Tilly would be delighted to have any opportunity to show her in a poor light to their employer.

Daisy stifled a huff of exasperation, not wanting the other woman to see that the needling had gotten under Daisy's skin. Of course Tilly would think tattling to their boss would further her ambition to replace Daisy as cook.

“You've never had to cover for my lateness, and today will be no different,” Daisy said evenly. She pulled off her hotel apron. It was all she could do to keep from running out the door, but she managed to walk casually until she was out of sight of the hotel.

She concentrated on looking calm and at ease, but in truth she was a bundle of nerves, worrying about the state she'd find Dawson in when she returned home. And those nerves only got worse when she got further down the road and caught sight of two men heading in the opposite direction: Dr. Walker and Sheriff Bishop.

Were they coming from her place? Had the sheriff discovered she was sheltering a fugitive?

Chapter Four

“I
saw Doc Walker and Sheriff Bishop walking back toward town from this direction,” Daisy said by way of greeting as her eyes adjusted to the dusty gloom of the barn.

“They were just here,” Thorn said, answering her unspoken question.

“And...?” She couldn't believe the sheriff hadn't insisted Thorn do the rest of his recovering in a jail cell.

Her patient shrugged. “The sawbones said I was healing up well as could be expected, though he thought the wounds looked a little inflamed. And the lawman told me to watch my step around you,” Thorn added evenly, his expression giving away nothing. “The sheriff knows why I was riding with the outlaws, ma'am, and I believe I satisfied him that he has no cause to worry about your safety or Billy Joe's, as far as I'm concerned. He says the bank president and teller are recovering well, too.”

Relieved, Daisy let out a sigh, feeling tension draining from her shoulders. But along with the relief was curiosity, wondering what he had told Bishop that he hadn't told her. The town sheriff wasn't an easy man to satisfy when it came to anyone or anything that threatened the safety of Simpson Creek, Yet Dawson had apparently managed to set his concerns to rest, at least for the time being. It was an impressive feat, and it made her feel a little better about her own decision to let Dawson stay. Even if he didn't feel he could share his full story with her, the fact that the sheriff was content with it gave her a real sense of comfort.

Suddenly the sound of his stomach rumbling in the silence reminded her that it was long past noon and the man before her might be hungry. “Here,” she said, reaching inside her reticule and bringing out the plate of chicken and dumplings she'd wrapped in heavy paper and brought from the hotel, careful to carry it so that the food wouldn't spill over the plate inside its wrapping. She'd stopped at the house long enough to fetch a fork and napkin from her own kitchen, knowing she didn't dare borrow them from the hotel under Tilly's all-seeing gaze. As it was, she'd have to make sure the waitress saw her bring the plate back. It would be all too like the woman to spread a rumor that she'd stolen it. “I brought your dinner.”

He eyed it, but made no move to take it from her. “Did you already eat at the hotel?”

She dropped her gaze from his. “No. But I'm not hungry,” she added too quickly before her stomach betrayed her by rumbling, too.

“Miss Daisy, it's not nice to fib to your guest, even out of politeness,” he chided gently. “That's your dinner, isn't it?'

She nodded, eyes still downcast. She hadn't dared take more than the usual modest portion she usually consumed, for if she'd placed a hearty man-size portion on the plate, Tilly might have noticed and suspected that something was up. And if her suspicions were raised, she was the sort to poke and prod until she found an answer. Once Tilly started digging around to try to find answers, Daisy might as well invite the waitress home to meet Thorn Dawson there and then, because there would be no hiding the secret from her any longer. Nor would there be any way to keep her from spreading the story all over town, and putting the worst, most damaging slant on it that she could. The only way to prevent that disaster was to keep Tilly from suspecting anything at all, for as long as Daisy could.

“Then why don't you sit down here and eat it?” he said, gesturing toward the cot.

“Oh no... I couldn't...” she mumbled.

“Couldn't what, eat in front of me? Just because you don't have enough for both of us? Please, don't let that stop you. It hasn't been all that long since I ate that big breakfast you left for me, so I'm not hungry, but sounds like you are. You'd be keeping me company,” he coaxed.

Uneasily, she sat down on the end of the cot. “What...what's Billy Joe doing?” she said. “I expected to find him in here with you. I hope he hasn't been plaguing you with his chatter.”

“Not a bit,” Thorn assured her. “He brought me my breakfast just as you instructed, then went back in the house when the sheriff and the doc came. You might find he's gone back for more shut-eye. Growing boys like him need their sleep.”

Her patient was probably right, Daisy realized. Billy Joe seemed able to stay awake all night if one of his pals loaned him a penny dreadful to read, but he could be almost impossible to wake up in the morning. Some days when she had to go to work before it was time to get him out of bed, she'd awakened him, only to learn later that he'd fallen back to sleep after she'd left, and was tardy to class. At least school was out for the summer and she didn't have to worry about that problem right now.

Thorn gestured toward her little paper-wrapped plate. “Come on, open that up and eat your meal. As a mother of a boy like Billy Joe, you've got to keep up your strength.”

The truth of that made her smile, and she obediently unwrapped the chicken and dumplings. “All right, then.” She hoped he wouldn't just silently watch her eat—she couldn't imagine swallowing a bite under his dark-eyed regard.

“Why don't you tell me some more about yourself?” she asked him, to turn the focus away from herself.

He smiled as if he sensed her need for diversion, and was willing to indulge her. “What would you like to know?”

“Well...” she said, searching for something to ask. “Start at the beginning. Where are you from?”

His smile tightened a bit, as if this was a painful subject, but he answered readily enough. “My sisters and I were raised on a hardscrabble ranch near Mason, Texas.”

“Sisters?”

At that, he relaxed a bit. “Yes, ma'am—a whole passel of them. I have five sisters.”

“No brothers?

“No, I'm the only boy.”

“Are your sisters older or younger than you?”

“All older. My parents kept trying for a boy, you see, and finally they got me. But my ma, she passed on when I was young. My sisters were the ones to raise me, really.” He kept her entertained for the next bit with stories about his antics as a child, and the struggles his sisters had getting him to behave. “As soon as I was old enough, my pa was putting me to work. I learned responsibility and hard work early, but that just meant that any little bit of time that I had free, I was looking to find some mischief to get myself into. I'm sure I was quite a trial to my sisters, but they were always very good to me, all the same.”

“Is your family still there out by Mason?”

“They sure are, though they're not still on the ranch itself. All my sisters married, and that meant they had to go where their husbands could find work, or where they could acquire some land. I'm just thankful that none of them had to go too far. There wasn't enough of our ranch to split it between all of us, so my father left the whole property to me. He passed on some years ago, so one of my sisters, Ellanora and her husband, Hap, are living on the ranch now. They're holding it until the day I return to live there.”

“And that's what you plan to do when you're—” Daisy tried to find a delicate way to bring up the outlawing that was occupying him and keeping him from his ranch for now “—through with the gang?” she concluded.

“That's been the plan,” he agreed. “Ellanora always said the house was mine whenever I wanted it, but I'll probably just build another house either for them and their young'uns or a smaller house just for me. Either way, I reckon I'll add their names to the property deed, since it wouldn't be right to make them start over somewhere new when they've taken good care of my ranch so long.”

How very decent of him, she thought, but then everything this man did seemed to be decent and fair. She just didn't understand how he came to be an outlaw—and at the same time,
not
an outlaw, if his word could be believed. She hoped she would get the full story someday.

Daisy thought she noted a certain wistfulness in his face when he spoke of his ranch. “Do you think you'll go back to live there soon?” she asked.

His gaze left hers and he stared into a shadowy corner of the stall and shrugged. “Maybe. Ranching's hard work, so I don't want to wait until I'm too old to do it. And what I'm doing now...well, a fellow doesn't want to stay in it too long. It's the kind of work that can be dangerous if he's pushed himself too far or overstayed his welcome...”

Was he doing that now, overstaying his welcome? Daisy wondered. She wouldn't force him to leave, not before he was recovered, but that didn't change the fact that he was making her life more dangerous every day that he stayed. Why was he lying here, wounded, in her barn? If it was true that he wasn't an outlaw, what sort of dangerous game was he involved in, and why couldn't he simply tell her the truth? Didn't she deserve that?

Suddenly, she had to know. “Thorn, then why—”

“Now you know all about me,” he said quickly, before she could complete her question, “so I think it's time you told me at least a little about yourself.”

Oh, I hardly think I know all about you.
But she guessed he wasn't ready to tell her any more now, at least. Perhaps he never would be.

“There's very little to tell,” she said, also shrugging. “My parents settled in Simpson Creek shortly after it was founded, and I grew up here. I met my husband when he attended a social put on at the church—he'd just come to Simpson Creek to live—and we were married shortly afterward. Why, I didn't even know his middle name till we were standing up in front of the reverend,” she added with a little laugh that contained no mirth.
Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

“Which was...?”

At first she didn't understand what Thorn was asking, and her confusion must have shown, for he added, “His middle name?”

“Oh! Wilbur,” she said, with a brief smile.
William Wilbur Henderson.
She'd almost laughed out loud, right there at the altar, when the reverend had first said it. It was fortunate for her that she hadn't, though it wasn't until some days later that she'd learned how dangerous laughing at her new husband could be. How dangerous doing anything around William could be, if he was in the wrong sort of mood.

“What did he do? To make his living, I mean,” Thorn asked.

Daisy was glad he'd clarified his question. For a second she'd panicked, thinking Billy Joe might have mentioned that his father had died in prison, and Dawson wanted to know the crime he'd committed. Or that maybe he'd already guessed how abusive her husband had been and was asking what he had done to her. She wasn't ready to talk about that yet. Perhaps she never would be.

“Oh, this and that,” she said, trying to sound airy, as if the years of uncertainty and privation while she waited for her husband to settle into a career had never happened. “He helped build the mercantile, worked at the saloon for a while... He could do lots of things.” But sticking with a job wasn't one of them. He wasn't incapable, but he'd been lazy and unreliable—not to mention driven by a mean temper. Sooner or later he'd get offended by something his boss required of him, or start spending more time drinking than he did working... She'd gotten used to having little money to buy necessities, to selling family heirlooms she'd brought into the marriage just to make ends meet. Fortunately, her husband didn't mind providing for them through things like hunting and fishing, and was fairly good at both tasks. And Daisy had worked hard at keeping a vegetable garden. So they hadn't ever gone hungry, at least.

She'd thought he would change when she'd succeeded at giving him a son, naming him after his father. Wasn't that what every man wanted, a son to carry on his name and his legacy? And for a time William Henderson
was
a better man—made an effort to be a good husband and father—but eventually Billy Joe's existence only gave him another person on whom to take out his frustrations. On his good days, he was a neglectful and uncaring parent, showing no interest in his son's activities. And on his bad days, well... She'd done her best to put herself between William and Billy Joe, to shield her son to the best of her abilities, but when her boy had gotten older, he'd turned protective of her in turn. And there hadn't been much a little boy could do to stop a grown man other than try to draw William's attention to himself.

Through it all, she'd kept silent about her troubles, for she'd been raised to believe a lady didn't air her dirty laundry outside the family. Caroline Wallace, Billy Joe's schoolteacher and Daisy's friend, had suspected the boy was being abused when she'd been hired by the town two years ago, but it wasn't until Daisy's husband had gotten involved in that horrible plot to kidnap Caroline that William Henderson's true character had come to light for everyone in Simpson Creek.

To her relief, the townspeople had known Daisy wasn't responsible for or in any way complicit with her husband's misdeeds. They'd realized that she feared her husband, with good cause, and had given her a sum of money to resettle herself and her son elsewhere if she wanted so her husband couldn't find them when he was released from jail. But since he'd been killed in a prison riot long before his sentence was up, moving away hadn't been necessary. Determined to make her own way, Daisy had used only a small portion of the money she'd been given, leaving the rest hidden away in case of an emergency, so it would last as long as possible.

“I... I'm sorry,” Thorn murmured. “I didn't mean to make you sad.”

She hadn't even noticed the tears that had escaped her stinging eyes, but now she felt their wetness streaking down her cheeks. Embarrassed that she'd given in to weakness in front of this near stranger, Daisy reached for the handkerchief she kept in one of the deep pockets in her skirt and dabbed at her face.

Darting a glance at Thorn, she saw the awkward expression he wore. Men hated women's tears—her husband had told her so often enough. He'd sneered when he'd told her that women cried for no reason other than to manipulate their menfolk. How could she have been so careless to have let Thorn—
Mr. Dawson
, Daisy reminded herself—see her cry? Would he think she was trying to manipulate him? No, surely not. It wasn't as if Thorn was
hers
, and therefore someone she could persuade to do as she pleased, even if she'd wanted to. And she didn't, of course. Besides, what could she even ask of him? All she wanted was for him to recover his health and go on his way, without ruining her reputation in the process.