Night Hawk (10 page)

Ideally if he was to pursue a wife, he'd want her to be made in Maggie's image. Back home in Wyoming there were women who'd gladly volunteer for the role, but compared to their sweet milk ways, Maggie was like a kick of raw tequila At one time in his life, he'd craved the innocence of a Tilda to counteract the wild and wooly man he'd evolved into since meeting Neil July on the train those many years ago, but Ian was older now. He'd tasted life in all its many forms and flavors, and all he wanted now was to heal, and to let the accumulated darkness and death bleed out of him so he could enjoy the years that remained in peace.

So where did that leave him and Maggie. Right where they were, he supposed. After they went their separate ways, he'd keep an eye out for a woman whose beauty, wit, and inner strength mirrored hers. It occurred to him that it might be easier to find a nugget of gold on the streets of Topeka, but life had always been hard.

Chapter 10

M
aggie was lying on a bed in one of Lola's bedrooms with a warm, moist tea towel over her black eye. She had no idea where the marshal had gotten himself to and in truth, she didn't care. Being the center of all that male attention down in the main room had been nice, mainly because they'd been so nice and polite—for the most part. There had been one indecent proposal but that was because he thought she was one of Lola's girls.

She'd especially enjoyed Tate Greer and got the impression that had they been allowed to speak longer than thirty seconds she might have learned more about him, but Bigelow had put the brakes on that. No one had ever proposed marriage to her before, and it wasn't as if she'd been in a position to say yes, but that she hadn't even been allowed to enjoy imagining such a scenario was what irked her.

But even as she grumbled about the marshal's interference, in the back of her mind his parting words continued to resonate.
If things were different, books.
What type of man promised a woman books? He'd left her speechless and her heart pounding. She remembered telling him her dreams, but didn't think he'd paid her words much mind. Apparently he had, and she wondered what his dreams were. Did they revolve around how he made his living, or were they more intangible? She knew he'd loved his wife, so did he dream of having another, or was he one of those men who lived only for her memory?
More questions.
She imagined that if he did take someone else into his heart, the woman he chose would need to be strong and patient and have the ability to make him laugh. He seemed to take life far too seriously, but then again, she'd never walked in his boots, just as he'd never walked in hers.

Hearing the door open and someone walk into the room, Maggie assumed it was Lola. “This is making my eye feel better.”

“Good” came a familiar low-toned voice. It wasn't Lola.

She eased the folded towel aside, surveyed him with her good eye, and closed off her vision again. Next she knew he was beside the bed.

“Let me see.”

“I'm fine.”

“You are such a pigheaded woman.”

She removed the cloth and glared up to find a smile playing across his full lips. “You've been finding an awful lot to smile at these past couple of days.”

“I'm blaming it on you. Didn't used to.”

He touched the bruised skin lightly, and her blood shimmered in response.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as yesterday.” She was held captive by all that he was. There was a heat burning within him that was palpable enough to reach out and hold in her hand. She didn't know how she knew, but the woman inside her was certain that when he loved, he loved passionately and well, and Lord help her, she wanted to be that woman, because she'd never experienced that, either.

Hearing herself, she shook herself loose and replaced the towel. It had cooled though and needed reheating, so she sat up. Ignoring him, she walked over to the small brazier burning below a small pot of water in the fireplace. After soaking the end of the towel in the hot water and wringing it out, she refolded it, placed the warmth against her eye, and resumed her position on the bed.

“I could've done that for you.”

“My eye hurts, Marshal. Not my feet.”

Ian's eyes traveled innocently down to the aforementioned appendages, and the erotic sight of her bare, ruby-tipped toes hardened him so swiftly and completely he fell into a coughing fit.

She moved the towel aside and looked down at her feet, turning them back and forth as if admiring them. “Pretty, aren't they?”

Ian was fighting to breathe.

“Lola fixed them up. It's oil mixed with crushed rose petals. You put it on and then buff the toes with a chamois until they shine. Smells heavenly, too.”

She held out her foot. He stepped back.

“Something the matter, Marshal?”

Ian headed towards the door. “I told Lola I'd help her with something. I'll be back later.”

In the silence after his departure, Maggie looked up at the ceiling and chuckled softly. She couldn't predict her future but she was sure he'd remember her for a long time to come.

Ian took a seat at a table in a shadowy corner at the back of Lola's main room and tried to slow his breathing. As he sipped on a shot of the house's watered-down whiskey, noise, music and the high-pitched squeals of the girls echoed around him but he barely heard it. He'd never been one to drink to excess, even in his outlaw days; drink dulled the mind and reflexes. In his line of work he'd needed both to stay sharp, so he usually appreciated her doctored spirits. Not tonight. Tonight he needed something stronger, say a bottle of raw tequila, to rid himself of an overpowering hankering for a bruised-faced, one-eyed woman with rose petal toes. Thinking back on the arousing display made his manhood surge again. He tossed back the drink and set the glass down on the tabletop. From the moment they met she'd done nothing but surprise him, and now the toes . . . It had taken all his discipline not to fall on her and slowly kiss, touch, and suck his way from the toes to her sassy mouth. He ran an amazed hand down his unshaven face. This was supposed to be a simple transfer of a prisoner to the proper authorities, nothing more, yet here he sat throbbing and pulsing like a stallion in heat.

His attention settled on Lola pouring drinks behind the bar. This was all her fault and whether she was aware of it or not, the turmoil plaguing him from Maggie's toes was more than an apt revenge for all the damage he'd caused during the fight with Stapleton. He got up to fetch another drink.

Lola splashed more whiskey in his glass. “Doing pretty good business tonight. How's Maggie? She show you her toes?”

His hard-eyed glare made her howl.

“Got you going, didn't they. Figured they would. The queens of Egypt favored ruby red. Cleopatra preferred crimson.”

Ian didn't know if any of that was true, or how she'd come to possess such knowledge. It made him wonder if madams were given some kind of secret schooling in man pleasing. He tossed back the whiskey and set the glass down. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you need prodding. You've been stuck in your grief like a calf in mud since your Tilda was killed. I'm just trying to make you climb back onto solid ground. Remember, I knew the man you used to be.”

Ian gazed unseeingly out into the crowded boisterous room while considering her words, and admitted that they were in line with his earlier thoughts of wanting to shake free of Vance Bigelow and reclaim Ian. “She's not for me.”

“Sure she is. Have you met a better candidate?”

In truth he hadn't. He was just about to admit that when he heard a loud male voice shout, “Bigelow! You got five seconds to get your gun 'fore I send you to the devil.”

He spun and met the angry drunken eyes of a man he didn't know. The grizzled gray hair on his face showed his age but Ian couldn't attach a memory to it. Two younger men flanking him couldn't have been older than sixteen. Both were armed. Both looked scared. Ian immediately flashed back to another kid holding a gun on him and slapped the image away. “Who is this?” he asked Lola almost impatiently.

She sighed. “Matt Stapleton's daddy, Dale. The two boys are his sons, Dale Jr. and Billy. They must've heard you were in town.”

While the patrons scrambled to get out of the line of fire, Ian cursed silently and drew both guns so quickly the gaping crowd swore later it was like magic. “Boys, take your daddy home.”

Lola added to the warning. “Go home, Dale. You don't want those boys to have to bury you, too.”

Keeping his eyes on his adversaries, Ian asked her, “Who else they bury?”

“Matt. Killed in a prison escape last winter.”

Ian didn't understand why Stapleton was holding him accountable. “I'm not responsible for your son's death, Mr. Stapleton.”

“Yeah you are! You brought him in! Hadn't been for you, Matt be still here.”

“Your son killed a man in front of his wife and children. If I hadn't brought him in, some other bounty hunter would've.” Ian watched one of the sons touch his daddy's arm with what appeared to be concern.

Stapleton snarled, “Get your hands off me! You ready, Bigelow?”

Ian cocked both pistols. In the thick silence it sounded like cannon shot.

Stapleton fired. Ian unleashed his own guns, dropped to the floor, and rolled. Dale Jr. screamed as hot lead tore through his shoulder. Brother Billy followed with a piercing cry as his bullet-shattered knee gave way and the leg folded beneath his weight. The elder Stapleton kept firing. Ian managed to pull a table down in front of him while counting how many shots he'd heard Stapleton use. The sons hadn't gotten off any before being taken out of the fight, and didn't seem inclined to reenlist. In fact, the one who'd been shot in the leg reached over and tried to grab the Colt from his father's hand. “Stop it, Pa! I ain't dying for Matt's memory!”

But the wiry old man fought to keep possession. The second son joined the fray on the side of his brother and for the first few seconds it was impossible to determine who might gain the upper hand. A shot rang out. The father's eyes widened in disbelief and he clutched his chest as he fell against his son before slowly crumpling to the floor. The front of his blue cotton shirt showed an ever-widening stain of his life's blood as it soaked through the fabric. The sons dropped to his side. Ian's calculation had been correct. Stapleton's gun had had one bullet left.

Lola ran out from behind the bar with a handful of towels and pressed them to the wound hoping it might stop the flow, but the effort was futile. Stapleton looked at Billy and then at Dale Jr. He cursed them both, and died.

Still holding the gun, Billy Stapleton looked over to where Ian stood waiting in the now silent room. He asked in a grief thickened voice, “Are you going to arrest us?”

Ian shook his head.
Another useless death.

“Thanks,” Billy whispered softly. “We'll be taking our daddy home. That all right?”

“Yes.”

Billy turned to Lola. “Sorry for all the commotion, Miss Lola.”

“Sorry for your loss, Billy. You too, Dale Jr.”

Dale nodded while holding the towel she'd given him to the wound in his shoulder.

Ian wondered if they had a mother or other family to help them with the burial. “You boys have a way to get him home?”

“Just over his saddle.”

Ian glanced at Lola. “Do you have a wagon we can use?”

She nodded.

“Have it brought around. I'll drive. Let me speak with Maggie and I'll ride home with them.”

Ian headed down the hallway and found her standing in the faint light cast by the oil lamp sconces. He stopped. The sight of her seemed to melt the frost encasing his heart. He was so weary of death.

Her voice was soft with concern. “I saw what happened. Are you all right?”

“No, but I want to help them get their father home.”

“That's very noble.”

“You'll be here when I return? You won't run?”

She shook her head. “I won't run.”

As time stretched between them in the silence, she placed her hand gently against his scarred cheek. The balm of her touch flooded him with so much sweetness he ached. He covered her hand with his, then eased it away so he could press his lips against the center of her small palm. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Holding on to the sweetness she'd placed inside, Ian strode away.

The Stapletons lived on a small piece of land not far from the town of Topeka in a crumbling, dilapidated structure that was little more than a shack. Not even the dark could mask the family's poverty. Ian saw the black outline of a lean-to that might have doubled as a barn or the place where the boys slept. From what he could see of the interior in the light held high by the tired-looking woman who answered the door, the house wasn't large enough to hold four people.

The woman was their mother. Dale Jr. made the introductions and told the story of how his father died. Pearl was her name and she met the news of her husband's demise with a dry-eyed silence and instructed the boys to “Leave him out in the yard. We'll bury him in the morning.”

She faced Ian. “Thank you.”

She and the light disappeared back inside. Only then did her wails of sorrow and grief pierce the night.

Weary in mind and spirit, Ian made the solitary trip back to Topeka. He drove the wagon to the livery and walked through the darkness back to Lola's place.

The interior was quiet. Order had been restored to the room and the place didn't look too much worse for wear considering all the shooting. She was alone washing glasses and stacking them on the sideboard behind the bar.

She smiled sadly when he walked over. “Everybody left after all the excitement. Thanks for what you did—taking him home and all. How'd Pearl take the news?”

Remembering the sounds, he shook his head soberly.

“Such a waste, but he brought it on himself so don't go blaming yourself.”

“I won't,” or at least that's what he told her. “Maggie still here?”

She nodded. “You go get some rest.”

“We'll be leaving in the morning.”

“Why not stay a few more days, put your feet up.”

“Can't. I have to get to that wire in Abilene.” And he headed for the hallway.

“Good night, Ian.”

Surprised to hear her use his true name, he stopped and turned back.

She smiled. “Have known it since you rode with the Twins. Neil and his brother are lousy secret keepers.”

He could only smile. “Night, Lola.”

The darkness in the room he'd be sharing with Maggie was lightened by pearly moonlight streaming in through the partially opened shutters. She was asleep, so he removed his gun belt as quietly as possible and used the same care in taking off his boots. He eased his weight down onto the bed and stretched out. The grieving wails of Stapleton's thin wife continued to fill his soul, and he wondered how he'd be able to block them out so he could sleep. Wishing Maggie were awake so they could at least talk and maybe set his mind on something else besides death, he glanced her way. He wanted to hold her; pull her back against his body and let the balm that flowed from her earlier ease the rawness inside.