Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) (17 page)

“Just as I thought. The fire started on the wall across the room from the stove.” He rubbed his chin and frowned as he studied the point of origi
n. The bank was right next door, too much of a coincidence.

This marshaling business
was
downright worrisome.

Mike Flynn
smiled as he tucked his watch back in his vest pocket. It had taken the marshal—or who the hell ever he was—less than a minute to get to the fire. By four minutes, the school bells were ringing, and the water wagon had made it to the confectionery a little more than five minutes after the first shouts. That was damned fast to hitch a brace of mules and get there.

Now he knew what he had to deal with. The key players were the mercantile owner, the phony marshal and his idiotic deputy, and the livery owner. With those four men out of the way, Flynn had a good notion that the whole town would have stood wringing their hands while the building burned to ashes.

He chuckled. The town leaders had played right into his hands. So, too, had the Rankin boys. He shook his head in disbelief. It was amazing what some people would do for a buck. He’d have required a hell of a lot more than a dollar to start a fire in broad daylight.

But that was good, too, because now he also knew that with very little money, they’d do anything he wanted. And what he wanted was the money in Oreana’s bank.

Patience would serve him well.

“Hey, Flynn,” Porker Rankin hollered, “did that stir up the hornet nest good enough to suit your fancy?”

“Quiet, you moron.” Flynn nudged his horse into a leisurely walk out of town. “Stay low. See you in a couple of weeks.”

Cole heard the door open. Quickly shoving his shirttail in his britches, he was relieved that it was only Bosco who came in.

Bosco strutted to the small mirror on the wall, tilting his hat this way and that, admiring his Stetson. “Bought myself a new hat so’s to spark the ladies.”

“A shave wouldn’t hurt, either, although by the looks of that gut hanging over your belt, I’d say you aren’t doing too bad as it is.”

Patting his belly and smiling, Bosco said, “I do like this here town. Yes, sirree.” He took his gunbelt from the hook on the wall and buckled it around his hips. “I better git. You sure you want the first half of the dance? You’re more likely to git lucky in the hay if you take the last half, you know.” A gape-toothed smile spread over his face. “And hell, I can’t complain ‘bout my luck.” He opened the door and turned back to Cole. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Cole shook his head. Not that he didn’t want to “get lucky,” why, he was getting downright desperate. But this cozy little town with its intriguing mercantile owner’s daughter was too dangerous for him. He could smell noose written all over her. And still he wanted her.

“Naw, I’ll leave the women to you, Bosco. You’re lucky enough for the both of us.” Besides, he didn’t trust himself. Noose or not, Miss Daisy already filled every thought and made him wish things were a whole lot different. If he had even one honorable thing to offer her, he’d drag her to the preacher faster than it took to say “I do.”

“All right then, tell the widder ladies I’ll be along shortly.” Bosco left, and Cole took a deep breath.

Time for merrymaking—if only he really could. He took his harmonica from his saddlebag and slipped it into his pocket. But he felt uneasy. And hopeful.

He knew damned good and well that the last place he ought to be was at a dance, especially one held for Miss Daisy to find herself a husband, but music had always been
irresistible
to him. Granted, he’d rather play it than dance to it, but he’d take anything he could get and it had been too damned long since he’d heard a good tune.

He also knew that his justification didn’t wash one whit, because all he could think about was holding Miss Daisy tight to his chest, swaying to a mournful ballad.

* * * * *

Daisy did her best to stay out of Aunt Grace’s way as she bustled around the dessert table, fussing with cookies and pies so they’d look their most appealing, and arranging wild flowers among the sprigs of sagebrush. Even though her aunt’s cooking was notoriously bad, no one could fault her organizational ability. She’d organized this whole barn dance and got word out to the entire countryside in a day. Daisy took after her, some said. She hoped so.

A fancy table couldn’t hold her attention, not when her heart leapt every time someone walked through the barn door, only to be disappointed when it wasn’t the marshal.

Jonas Howard placed stools he fetched from the school around the periphery of the barn and then spanned them with rough-sawn boards. Ruth and Sarah Howard followed, covering each board with a blanket, making nice benches for the townspeople to sit on. Then Jonas staked several large canvasses on the dirt floor to make a better dancing surface.

Several families had already arrived. All were dressed in their Sunday best, Sarah looking especially fetching in her blue silk with matching bonnet. At least she had three different Sunday dresses to wear—Daisy only had the one, the same green dress she’d worn to the dinner with Mr. Dugan.

But clothes weren’t her worry right then. The marshal didn’t seem particularly enthralled with her best green gown, which was why she needed to show her detective skills to catch his interest. The situation with him baffled her. Why, every time she touched him she felt like she’d melt in a little pool of wax. Both times they had kissed, he had seemed interested. Quite interested, in fact. There were some things a man just couldn’t hide. Yet, he avoided her, or at least it seemed so.

“Daisy,” Aunt Grace called, “take these flowers to the far side of the barn and arrange them around the back door, so they form a nice smelling entry for those coming in that way.”

As she collected the flowers, Sarah bounced to her side, grabbing the bouquet. “I’ll help with those. You’re hopeless at flower arranging.”

Daisy cast her an appreciative look and followed her friend across the floor. “Sarah, do you think the marshal is falling for me at all?”

“Of course not, you ninny. Otherwise, he’d have asked you to the dance, even though your parents set you up with Mr. Dugan.” Her hands whisked a daisy this way and that, until she found just the right spot for it. “Men are like bull elk, you know. They stake claims on their women. The marshal hasn’t staked a claim on you, so you still have a lot of work to do. And tonight’s the time to get it done. He
is
coming, isn’t he?”

“Dad actually ordered him to be here.” Daisy sighed, remembering her embarrassment at the marshal’s reticence to attend. “Catching a husband is turning out to be a whole lot harder than I had originally thought.”

“Maybe you should kiss him.”

“Sarah!” If Sarah only knew! The very thought of kissing the marshal made little tingles dart through her. And she had kissed him once, but he hadn’t taken the bait.

Just then, a bunch of men brought the piano in. It was the only piano in town, and the owner of the Branded Horse was kind to let them use if for the dance. Arlene Nafsinger followed, smiling as always, and carrying her Stephen Foster songbook. “Hi, girls! Ready for a fun evening?”

“We sure are,” Daisy answered. “Mom’s on her way. She was dressing when I left.” Mrs. Nafsinger and her mother were best friends. You’d think they were girls the way they giggled about things. Before Mr. Nafsinger died, he’d been Daisy’s dad’s best friend, too. Her dad still missed him, even though he’d been gone several years now.

Al Curtis escorted his wife into the barn. She carried a cake with scrumptious looking white frosting with pink decorations, and he toted a guitar. “You all got your dancing shoes on?” he bellowed to the crowd.

Not without the marshal, Daisy mused. Her dancing shoes were for him.

“Yes!” several people answered. A horse whinnied, and everyone laughed.

“We even got a dancing horse tonight.” His wife took her cake to the dessert table, while he guided Mrs. Nafsinger to a bench near the piano where they set about looking through her songbook. Daisy didn’t know why—they both knew all the songs by heart. Again, she aimed her attention squarely at the doorway.

A pinched look spread over Sarah’s face as she crossed her arms under her breasts. “Watching that door isn’t going to make the marshal get here any quicker. Let’s get the dancing started.”

“Aunt Grace will let them know when to start playing. Besides, you’re watching the door as closely as I am, and that hasn’t made Patrick Dugan get here any quicker, either.”

Just then, Patrick Dugan and his father walked in, taking their hats off as they entered. Sarah smiled. “Did, too.”

“Hrmph.”

“Music?” Sarah reminded, not taking her gaze off her prey. “I feel a dance coming on.” She grinned, and looked like a racehorse champing at the bit.

“The fiddle player isn’t here, yet.” She dodged a couple of little girls playing tag. “Besides, the dance isn’t supposed to start until seven.”

“It’s after seven,” Sarah said, keeping an eye on the younger Dugan, who seemed a lot more interested in the pies than in dancing. His father had taken up with Widow Courtney, much to the disgust of Widow Proctor, if looks could tell.

“Anyway, we haven’t come up with a plan to get the marshal to propose to me."

Which wouldn’t happen any time soon, she could see, because her parents and Forrest whisked in.

“Let’s dance!” her father yelled and clapped his hands.

The musicians struck up
Oh! Susanna
, and he whirled his wife onto the dance area. Others joined, and within ten bars, everyone was dancing—except Daisy, Sarah, and Patrick Dugan.

Daisy swallowed hard. “Maybe the marshal isn’t coming.”

“And maybe you’re worrying too much.”

Patrick cut in on Mrs. Courtney, leaving his dad without a partner. He danced over to Sarah, bowed, and asked her to dance.

Now, Daisy stood there watching the door all by herself. Her folks had planned this night to snag a husband for her, and she was the only person above the age of twelve who didn’t have a dance partner. She went over to the dessert table and busied herself by ladling blackberry punch into cups. She sighed deeply to ward off the tears—it didn’t look like the marshal would be there at all.

Oh! Susanna
drew to a close, but not a moment went as Mrs. Nafsinger and Mr. Curtis launched into a vigorous rendition of
Little Brown Jug
. Everyone scurried for new partners, and before she knew it, Jonas grabbed her and they whirled around the dance floor. He was a big man, and she had to hop and leap to keep up with his steps.

The musicians played and sang every verse, and by the time the song ended, everyone in the place gasped for air. Jonas brought her to a stop by Sarah and Mrs. Howard. Both huffed and puffed, although Sarah would never admit to such. Daisy, too, tried to catch her breath as she looked toward the door, hoping to see the marshal. He still hadn’t come, and here she was, plumb dewy already.

But she had little time to bemoan her plight, because at the first beat of
The Camptown Races
, her dad grabbed her and started dancing. She winced as he stomped on her toe—he made up for his lack of dancing ability by his exuberance—and she picked up her step to match his out of self-defense. The twinkle in his eye as he spun her around the floor soon made her as exuberant as he was, and she laughed and let the lively rhythm soak into her soul.

Mr. Roth, the banker, tapped her shoulder. “My turn,” he said to her dad.

Her father whirled her around into Mr. Roth’s arms.

No mournful ballad greeted Cole as he neared the livery—
The Camptown Races
could hardly be called a ballad, or mournful. Hoots and hollers rang from the barn. Luck was with him tonight—he’d be safe from Miss Daisy. He strode in like he belonged there and headed straight for the punch bowl, hoping it really did have some punch. He needed it, for sure.

Before he raised the cup halfway to his lips, Mrs. Courtney descended on him—a frightening sight with her jaw set and the foot-long feather in her bonnet poking straight out.

“Marshal, how lovely to see you here this evening,” she twittered. “Is Deputy Kunkle here, too?”

Nothing like being subtle, he thought. “He’ll be here at nine, ma’am.” He took a drink. Nope, just blackberries. No punch in the punch. Damn.

“I suppose he’s keeping us safe from murdering bandits.” She sniffed. “Shouldn’t you be
—
”

“Have some dessert, marshal.” Mrs. Howard held out a plate with a five-inch slice of pound cake.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said as he took it. The first bite was pure heaven. Bosco had it right about the food in Oreana. The women, though, could be downright frightening. He wished he could enjoy himself the way Bosco could, but then, Bosco just lived in the day, never thinking about the future. That worry fell to him. It always had.

The thought of women drew his gaze to the most dangerous female of all, Miss Daisy Gardner. Looking for her was not in his plan, but nonetheless, he scanned the room hoping to catch a glimpse of her.