Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) (19 page)

Al Curtis rejoined Mrs. Nafsinger, and Cole put his harmonica in his pocket and stood. “A pleasure to play with you two.”

“Thanks, marshal,” Al said. “Join us anytime. I don’t know where Barney is—he was supposed to play fiddle tonight, so we’re glad you could help us out.”

Cole shook his hand and headed for the punch bowl, when Cyrus Gardner motioned him to come to the back door. Carefully picking his way through the dancers, Cole didn’t feel all that steady on his feet. Funny, his wooziness had all but disappeared while he played, but it was back full force. The last thing this nice little town needed was a drunk lawman.

Just then Daisy whirled by on the arm of an appreciative young man that Cole didn’t know. What he did know, was that the slimy bastard didn’t deserve her. And neither did he. And, deep in his heart, he knew the other fellow wasn’t really a slimy bastard.
Gardner
shouldn’t let her associate with the likes of randy young men like that.

Like he was. Damn.

“I imagine after all that playing, your whistle is a little dry.”
Gardner
opened the door. “I got a little something you’ll like better than that sissy punch in there.”

Cole doubted it, but after seeing Miss Daisy being manhandled by all flavors of men, he was ready for another drink of a substantial nature. He kneeled beside his host.

“Plum wine,”
Gardner
said proudly, holding the bottle up to the lantern, “decantered straight from Mrs. Gardner’s crock. You won’t find better.” He poured each of them a large glassful and handed one to Cole. “Here’s to the best damned bunch of firemen this side of the
Mississippi
, and east, too.”

Cole’s stomach turned a bit. He really should have eaten dinner, and would have if he’d known Oreana’s leading citizens all had their private stashes of liquor. He held his glass up and let
Gardner
do the clinking, afraid he might bust glass all over the place. “To the firemen—and the one firelady, Miss Daisy.” He drank deeply.

The wine tasted awful, but the alcohol was useful. Anyway, it was almost time to spell Bosco—the widows waited for him like water drops on a hot skillet. He had a feeling that instead of doing the late night rounds, he’d have an appointment with his cot. He took couple of gulps. He had a vague notion that
Gardner
was talking to him, but didn’t much give a damn to listen. He finished off his glass and held it out for a refill.

“Sure is fine wine,”
Gardner
said. “Probably oughtta give young Dugan a little to get his wheels greased. He don’t seem to be paying much attention to my daughter.”

Cole didn’t agree. At all. Dugan, and every other young fellow had danced with Miss Daisy, put their grubby hands on her waist and held her hand. Hell, he hadn’t. He hadn’t touched her. Tonight, anyway. But he’d kissed her, and she’d kissed back like a woman ready for lovin’. She lured him like a moth to fire.

He shook his head and downed half a glass of wine. Lord Almighty, he couldn’t be thinking these randy thoughts right there in front of her father. What kind of weasel was he? A frustrated one, that’s what. He tossed the rest of the drink down his throat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“My daughter did show a fine head during that fire, didn’t she?”

Cole belched. Was the man blind? Miss Daisy was the most beautiful woman he’d even seen. Much prettier than Etta. “Yes, sir, there’s no finer woman than Miss Daisy.”

Gardner
sent him a sharp glance. “That’s right, and she doesn’t need no lawman for a husband, either, so don’t you get any crazy notions.”

The ground wouldn’t stay put, and Cole’s legs felt a bit like jelly, but he managed to stand.
Gardner
had no idea what crazy notions streamed through his head all night—and every other time he’d seen the little auburn-haired vixen. But he’d keep it in check. That, he would. “No, sir. This lawman won’t be sniffing at your daughter’s skirts. You can bet on it.”

“Ah, I didn’t mean to insult you, marshal. Just that she needs a man who’s stable. Home all the time. Someone who can keep an eye on her. She gets the silliest damned ideas of any female I ever knew. And a lawman just can’t be there every minute.”

True words, Cole thought. True words. “I better spell Bosco. See you tomorrow, and tell the folks I had a real good time.”

With the aid of various hitching rails and walls, he wobbled to the jailhouse. It was Bosco’s turn to weather the storm.

* * * * *

Daisy watched Mrs. Courtney take a dose of Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters right out of the bottle, then screw up her face and make a beeline for Mrs. Proctor, who danced with Deputy Kunkle. While cutting in was the normal practice and nobody thought anything about it one way or the other, Daisy thought the widows carried it too far.

When the deputy had come in, Mrs. Proctor had seen him first and pulled him onto the dance floor. Then Mrs. Courtney had cut in. Then Mrs. Proctor. Now, Mrs. Courtney looked ready for bear. She didn’t just tap her estranged sister’s shoulder, she literally pulled her away!

Mad as a one-winged mosquito, Mrs. Proctor tromped off the floor. Unluckily for Daisy, she was the widow’s next target.

“Tell that woman she has no right to cut in like that.”

Daisy had no intention of telling the widow’s sister any such thing. She knew better than to get in between the two warring sisters. They’d been married to business partners, both of whom were killed in a mining accident. First the women fought over money, then heirlooms, then refused to speak to each other. All that happened several years previous, before her family had even moved to Oreana.

“I’m sure you can have the next dance, Mrs. Proctor.” Daisy handed her a plate of cookies and a glass of punch. “Have a little something to eat, and I bet before you’re finished, another fine gentleman will ask you to dance. After all, you’ve danced nearly every dance so far.”

But her words were obviously of no comfort to the angry widow. “I don’t want those other men. I want Deputy Kunkle.
That woman
didn’t even so much as boil water for him until I gave him a nice meal. Of course, she tried to outdo me, but then he likes my cooking better.” She sniffed. “Deputy Kunkle told me so.”

“Yes, you’re a very good cook.” Daisy didn’t know who had cooked the deputy his first meal, but it didn’t really matter. Those two old biddies warred about everything, and woe unto anyone who got in their way. They could have just as vicious a fight over a puppy or a piece of calico in the store.

One thing for sure, she had to get away from this situation, the faster the better. She hadn’t seen the marshal for some time now, so she figured he was on his rounds while Deputy Kunkle enjoyed the dance. Now was her perfect opportunity to get him alone—and show him the fingerprint kit! That was it. A great excuse. She mentally patted herself on the back.

But her dad would notice if she slipped out, so she needed a legitimate excuse to leave, and he definitely wouldn’t cater to the fingerprinting story. No, it would be better to make a clean getaway, and while the town danced, she’d bag the marshal, and get him to propose, good and proper. Maybe other things not so proper. She giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Mrs. Proctor glowered at her.

Daisy had forgotten the woman was there. “Oh, nothing.” She eyed the blackberry punch, and wondered if it would permanently stain green silk. Probably so, and this was her best dress. She dismissed the thought, although it would have been a very good reason to leave.

At the end of the song, Deputy Kunkle and Mrs. Courtney made their way to the refreshment table. The widow wagged her finger in Daisy’s face. “Tell
that woman
to leave me alone while I’m dancing.”

Mrs. Proctor stepped forward. “Tell her she’s rude and inconsiderate, and that good manners will win in the end.”

Deputy Kunkle eased himself to the other end of the table and helped himself to a three-inch slice of Mrs. Curtis’s cake.

“Good manners?” Mrs. Courtney leaned closer to Daisy, crowding her. “Tell that old hag that if good manners win a man, she never would have landed the good Mr. Proctor.”

“Well, I never!” And with that, Mrs. Proctor threw her punch at Mrs. Courtney, who dodged behind Daisy.

Her green silk took the worst of it—now she’d find out for sure if blackberry punch stains silk. She grabbed a towel and dabbed at herself. “Now look what you’ve done!” Then blushed as she realized she was the focus of every single person in attendance.

Her mother rushed over to her and helped mop the punch off her dress. “You’ll have to get this off and soaking in cold water right away. Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, mama. I’ll be back after I’ve changed.”

“I’m so sorry, dear.”

Daisy wasn’t.

Cole thought the walk had done him good—his head did seem a little clearer, but he never knew zig-zagging through wagons could get so complicated. His roiling stomach, though, was another story. At least it had had the decency to wait until Bosco was gone before he had to dash for the outhouse. He never made it. Right there, in front of Mrs. Howard’s Boarding House, came Mueller’s beer, Jonas’s whiskey, and
Gardner
’s plum wine.

He dunked his head in the horse trough to rinse off, and made his way back toward the safety of his cot, watching his feet every careful step. It had to have been the plum wine that did it. The buildings kept moving up and down, and the office seemed five miles away. Christ, he’d never take another drink again as long as he lived.

Finally, using every ounce of strength left, he reached his office. He’d feel so much better if only he could lie down. It was all he could do to make the five paces to his cot, and he flopped down with a groan. He ignored the vague niggling that he should take off his boots. They were just too damned far down on his legs for that to be a reasonable proposition.

At least the dusky room had stopped spinning. The rounds could wait—the bad guys could have their fun tonight. He shut his eyes, hoping for a nice, long snooze.

His body relaxed, totally. But his mind raced, recalling every detail of Miss Daisy’s evening, how he wanted her smile to be for him. He pictured her lips, full and ready to kiss. He ached to waltz with her so he could pull her to him, her breasts soft against his chest. He’d kiss the top of her head, then she’d raise her face to him, inviting him to kiss her full on the mouth. In front of everyone.

And that he had the right to kiss her in front of everyone, except he wanted her alone, out of that pretty dress, out of the corset, pressing herself against him. That she wanted him and only him, for him to touch her hair, her throat, her naked breasts. Oh, how he loved her perfectly rounded breasts, to flick his tongue across her nipples, to feel her squirm against him for more.

He opened his eyes. The dusky room had grown darker and his britches had grown tighter. Damn, he wished he had the energy to shuck them off. He mustered his strength to turn on his side so his eternally optimistic private part could have a little more room.

Nothing helped. Whether his eyes were open or closed, all he could think of was Miss Daisy, head tossed back, swaying to his harmonica.

Oh, his harmonica, it could use a little blowing.

Daisy ran all the way home. She had her dress off and her corset unlaced before she scrambled halfway up the stairs. She poked the bodice portion of her dress in the water pitcher—that would just have to do for the soaking. Her future was worth the sacrifice of one dress, even if it was her best one. She yanked off her petticoats and left them where they fell.

The corset would just get in the way of what she planned. She threw it on her bed, then stopped and stared at it. What if he thought her a loose woman? No decent woman would go outside her bedroom without a corset, and she was sure the marshal would never associate with a woman who didn’t wear one. Reluctantly, she put it back on. Besides, she reasoned, none of her dresses would fit without it, and she could hardly wear her nightgown.

She chose a turquoise calico for her mission. It wasn’t exactly alluring, but it had fewer buttons and ties than any of her other dresses. It also had a matching bonnet and gloves. No parasol, but she hated the dreadful things.

Swallowing didn’t help her dry throat, and her tense midriff could not be attributed to the corset. She wondered if she were making a dreadful mistake. But her mind was set—this was the night she would seduce the marshal, not so that he would propose, but so he’d see that he couldn’t live without her.

She shoved her gloves on and grabbed her fingerprinting kit. After staring at the door momentarily, she took a deep breath, pursed her lips, and yanked the door open. She’d go at him with both barrels. She looked down at her breasts. Too bad she was a ten-gauge rather than a double-aught.

Every step to the marshal’s office brought her more resolve. The marshal would be hers by the end of the night, she vowed. But when her hand touched the doorknob, her courage failed her. She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes. Could she do this?

Relations with a man couldn’t possibly be that bad; otherwise, there wouldn’t be many babies born. Almost every woman had at least one baby, so
they must all have let a man do…
whatever they did
…
at least once.