Night Hawk (9 page)

Exclamations of disappointment and disbelief greeted the announcement. Ian began gathering his gear. “Let's go, Maggie.”

Most of the passengers were gathered outside for the walk to Topeka. Ian and Maggie saw what was left of the poor cow beneath the train's wheels. Fortunately for them because Smoke was in the cattle car, they wouldn't have to make the long walk to Topeka. Once Ian got the stallion saddled up, they mounted and rode towards town.

“Do you know anyone in Topeka?” Maggie asked them as they made their way.

“Used to and if she still has her boardinghouse we can sleep there tonight. We'll check on the telegraph while we're there, too.”

Maggie dearly hoped it had been fixed, but the way her life had been going lately, she doubted it would be.

And she was correct. A sign in the window stated that the office was closed until further notice. She sighed her frustration.

Ian didn't want to admit it, but in a way he was pleased to find the telegraph office closed. One part of him was disappointed of course due to the continuation of her unresolved problem, but other parts of him didn't want to turn her loose. The episode with Epps had revealed more about her past life, and what he learned not only angered him but made him want to protect her as well. The anger stemmed from the position Epps had put her in. She said she'd cried the entire time during the night with the man, and she had to have been scared as well. He wanted to find Epps and beat the tar out of him. It was a common ploy by pimps and other nefarious men who preyed on susceptible young woman. Yet in response to Epps's slurs she'd stood up and defended herself with courage and a spirit that made him want to cheer. Her past meant nothing to him. Granted there were men who'd hold what she'd done against her, and the fact that she wasn't a virgin, but he wasn't among them; not with his past. What he saw when he looked at her was a woman who'd done the best she could with the hand life dealt her, and in spite of it all was still standing. In that, she was a lot like his mother. Colleen had done whatever was necessary to keep him clothed and fed, even if it meant sneaking away in the middle of the night to avoid paying a landlord the money she owed due to a lack of funds, or stealing bread and teaching him how to do the same so they could eat. Life changed for the better once she caught the eye of a certain English earl, but he clearly remembered the hunger, the ill-fitting, hand-me-down clothing, and all the men who traipsed through her bedroom door before that. He knew firsthand how hard life could be, and that taking steps to keep living wasn't something to be ashamed of.

The streets of Topeka were fairly crowded. Ian spotted an old man sweeping the walk in front of a barbershop and asked after his old friend Lola. “Does she still have her place over on Century Street?”

The man looked him up and down as if trying to discern his ties to the gregarious boardinghouse owner before replying, “Yep.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Have Miss Lola get that young lady something for her eye.”

“Yes, sir.” Ian clicked at Smoke and they slowly galloped up the street.

On the way, Maggie asked, “Who's Lola?”

Trying to ignore the heat of her softness against his back, Ian replied, “Runs a boardinghouse. Used to be the only place between Kansas City and Denver where a man of color could get a decent meal and a clean bed just for the asking.” What he didn't say was that Lola prided herself on having the prettiest and cleanest girls, too, and the men loved her for it. “We'll sleep there tonight and reboard the train for Abilene in the morning.”

“Okay”

When they reached their destination, Maggie slid off the horse and looked at the neat little green house with a matching green sign out front that read simply: “Lola's.” She waited for him to tie the stallion's reins to the post and followed him inside.

He opened the screened door to let her enter first and it took Maggie's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior. There was a bar on one side of the room, but unlike at Wilma's no one was beating on an out-of-tune piano.

“Preacher! You just march your bounty-hunting arse right on out of my place!”

Maggie turned to see a short, well-endowed, curvy woman dressed in a low-cut blue gown bearing down on them with stormy eyes. Her red wig had seen better days.

“Now, Lola,” he said quietly.

“Don't you now Lola me, you traitor,” she tossed back as she planted herself before him, glaring the entire time. Tight lipped, she beckoned him with a long, red-nailed finger. He bent down and to Maggie's surprise, Lola kissed him on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

He straightened silently but Maggie could see the light of humor in his green eyes.

Lola declared dismissively, “You were a lot more fun when you were an outlaw.”

Maggie stared agape.
Outlaw.

“Who's this?” Lola asked him.

“Maggie Freeman. Officially she's a prisoner.”

“So now you're arresting young women? I know you aren't the one who gave her that black eye, so who did, and is that why she's in your custody? Did she shoot the man responsible I hope?”

Maggie liked her instantly. Next she knew, Lola's red-nailed, flamboyantly ringed fingers had her by the jaw and were gently turning her face so Lola could get a better look.

“I have something that'll help with the bruising and those scrapes. Did Preacher find you in a briar patch, honey?”

“No, ma'am.”

For the first time, Maggie noticed that they were not alone. There were a few men seated at some of the tables sipping drinks and playing cards. All eyes were trained on the marshal and he seemed to be evaluating them from beneath the wide brim of his black hat.

“None of them are wanted, so put away your interest.” She turned back to Maggie. “You look like you could use a hot bath and a warm meal.”

“I could.”

“Then come with me.” She had a final warning for the marshal, though. “And don't you dare arrest anyone while I'm gone. You hear me!”

He gave her a nod. As Maggie followed Lola out of the room, she looked back and saw him watching her.
Outlaw!

“Was he really an outlaw?” Maggie asked once she and Lola were alone.

“Yep, then he got married, lost her to that hell spawn Bivens, and turned into something straight out of the Old Testament. Lots of fire and brimstone. Even had a shoot-out here a few years back trying to collect a bounty. Cost me customers and plenty in renovations. Cursed him for months.” She then eyed Maggie. “Has he been fair to you?”

“So far.”

“Even as an outlaw he was always a gentleman. So what's your story?”

Maggie explained, and when she was done with the telling, Lola shook her head sadly. “Judge could go either way on that one.”

“I know. The marshal said he thinks Sheriff Wells may okay him letting me go.”

“Well, we'll hope for the best, but in the meantime, let's see what we can do to get you spruced up a bit. It'll make you feel better all the way around.”

They were in a large room that held a big white bathing tub with claw feet. Fancy red drapes lined the walls and gave one the impression of being in a velvet cave. Because of the drapes she couldn't tell whether the room had windows, but it was softly lit by two gas lamps. Each had a coyly smiling nude woman painted on the base, which when coupled with the draping made Maggie wonder if Lola's place doubled as a cathouse.

Lola pulled some drying sheets from a whitewashed armoire beside the door. “I'll have water brought in. You take as long as you like. My girls won't be needing the room unless they snag somebody special tonight.”

Maggie had her answer. Lola turned a critical eye on Maggie's clothing. “You want a set of clean clothes?”

“Yes, but I don't have any funds to pay for them.”

She waved a ringed hand. “Don't worry. I'll add it to Bigelow's bill. He owes me anyway.”

Maggie wasn't sure about that, but Lola didn't impress her as being one to argue with, so she offered up a simple, “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Once you're clean we'll get that face of yours fixed up. I do most of the doctoring for the race around here, deliver all the babies, too. Learned my doctoring during the war.”

“Where are you from?”

“South Carolina. Trained under Susie King Taylor.”

Maggie was unfamiliar with the name and it must have shown on her face because Lola explained. “Susie helped nurse the Black troops of South Carolina's Thirty-third Regiment. She was fairly well known back during those days.”

Lola stopped a moment as if reflecting on those times, and as Maggie listened she told how Susie's family, including her brothers, father, and uncles escaped slavery on a Union gunboat and joined the Union Army. “She was about fifteen when the Yankee officers came to St. Simon Island to recruit soldiers. She was hired to be a laundress at first, but when they found out she could read and had been teaching school, they realized she was a very smart young woman. Before you knew it, she was doing everything from writing letters for the men, to clerking for the officers, to nursing. Followed the men into battle a few times and could even take a rifle apart, clean it, and put it back together. She was something.” She went on to tell Maggie about Susie's nursing of the troops afflicted with smallpox and how the young woman married one of the soldiers, a man named Edward King.

“Where'd you meet her?”

“On that same gunboat she and her family were on. I'd gotten on a few days earlier with my husband and mother. Lost them both by the time emancipation was declared, but that little Susie taught me everything I know about nursing. And the salve I have should make short work of all those cuts and scrapes you're sporting.”

Maggie truly hoped so.

“So, I'll send in the water and bring you some clothes. They won't be new though.”

“Doesn't matter. I'll be appreciative of whatever you can spare.”

“Good girl.”

And with that, she sailed from the room and Maggie was alone.

Chapter 9

I
an settled into the hot water, glad that Lola was still in business. The tub, one of two in the house, if his memory served him correctly, was large enough to accommodate two people if need be. Even though it had been years since he'd last seen her, he'd expected to be railed at. After all, the fight that highlighted his last visit had reduced her place to shambles. Matt Stapleton had been wanted for killing a man in Denver and decided not to go quietly when Ian hunted him down to take him back to Fort Smith for trial. Lola's place had always been a haven, and lawmen usually respected that, but Stapleton's crime had been especially heinous because he'd shot the victim in front of his wife and children. During the initial fight with him, Ian proved to be better with his fists. As a result, Stapleton drew his gun, but soon learned that Ian was the superior in that category as well. When the dust settled, Lola had been as mad as the proverbial wet hen. While patching up the bullet holes in Stapleton's shoulder and leg she'd told Ian he was banned from her place for life. Apparently she'd changed her mind after Ian wired her the bounty money he'd collected for bringing Stapleton in. She was a businesswoman, after all.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his musings, and before he could ask who was there, the door opened and Cleo, one of Lola's girls, slipped in.

“I heard you were here. Been a long time.”

“Yes it has.” But not long enough for him to forget the nights they'd shared. “How've you been?”

She shrugged. She was still a good-looking woman even though the passage of time had softened both her face and what he could see of her body in the thin red wrapper she had on over her obviously nude frame. She came over to the tub and sat down on the edge. “You miss me?” she asked sultrily, and slid her hand into the water. Before she could reach her target he gently but firmly locked onto her wrist. She paused with mild surprise. “No?”

He shook his head.

“You married again?”

“No.”

“Then what's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

She sat back, folded her arms across her ample breasts, and viewed him as if trying to determine the reason for his response.

“Nothing to do with you,” he offered.

“But you're not interested.” It was more statement than question.

“No.”

She sighed with what sounded like resignation and stood. “Suit yourself.”

As the door closed softly on her exit, Ian sighed and wondered if he'd lost his mind. Cleo was a sorceress in bed and would have been the perfect solution to the pangs he'd been suffering since waking up that morning with Maggie's sweet little body sprawled atop him so intimately. Yet he'd turned her down and didn't know why until the voice inside tossed back,
Because you want Maggie.
Not wanting to give the voice any credence, he cursed and got out of the tub.

S
tepping out of the warm, scented water, Maggie wrapped herself in the bathing sheet and dried off. The marshal had been on her mind the entire time because after hearing about his past life, she now had more questions to add to all the previous ones. What made him turn outlaw and how long after his arrival in America had it taken place? Had he been a desperado in the country of his birth? She knew next to nothing about Scotland so had no idea if there were outlaws there or not. What she did know was that the marshal was a walking, talking conundrum. He was a bounty hunter, a marshal, and an outlaw all wrapped up in one. It was enough to make her head spin. It appeared as if the people who knew him, like Rand and Betsy Tanner and Miss Lola, were aware of some of his many sides, but she wondered how true that was. Although she had nothing solid to go on, she sensed that there were aspects of him no one knew. So many questions, so few answers and so little time, she thought.

She put on the plain skirt, underslip, and blouse Lola had brought in while she was bathing and used the borrowed comb and brush on her hair. Lola had been in and out, bringing this and that and making good on her promise to help Maggie look and feel brand-new from head to toe. The orange oil she'd provided restored the shine and luster Maggie's tresses had been lacking because of her inability to afford any in the recent past. After braiding it into one long plait, coiling it, and pinning it low on her neck, she faced herself in the mirror. The small scrapes and cuts from being dragged behind the sheriff's horse were healing well. The moist, warm tea towels Lola had insisted she hold against her face while she bathed had indeed reduced the swelling. The color seemed to be lighter, too, but she wasn't sure if that was the truth or just wishful thinking. As she turned from the mirror and left the red velvet bathing room, even though her eye felt better she silently cursed Carson Epps and hoped he was somewhere still walking.

Night had fallen in the lengthy time she'd been gone, and the main room was now lively with piano music, men of all races, and Lola's four girls wearing low-cut gowns and face paint. There were card games being played, a buffet at the back of the room, and lots of noise and drinking. She glanced around the dimly lit room for the marshal and found his eyes waiting for her. The spark that flowed between them flared again and she found herself unable to look away. He seemed to be all she could see or wanted to see. Were the circumstances of their meeting different, where might that spark lead? she wondered. He was certainly a formidable and handsome man, but for the moment, he was on one side and she was on the other.

“Wish he looked at me that way.”

The female voice broke the spell and Maggie turned to see one of Lola's girls standing at her side. “Pardon?”

“Bigelow. The way he's looking at you. Wish it were me. I'm Cleo by the way.”

“Maggie Freeman.”

“Yeah, I know. Lola said you're his prisoner. You sharing his bed?”

The query caught Maggie off guard. “Yes, I mean, no.”

The tall, sable-skinned Cleo raised an eyebrow. “So which is it?”

Maggie was put off by the rude questioning. “Why?”

“I see the hunger, and was just wondering.”

“Hunger?” She turned back to Bigelow. He hadn't moved.

“Yes. The hunger a man has for a woman.”

Maggie wondered if the woman had had too much whiskey. “You must be mistaken. All he wants is to be rid of me.”

“What a man says and what he wants are often two different things.”

“I haven't known the marshal very long but I'm certain he knows his own mind.”

“I agree, and you're what's on it.”

“Only as someone in his custody.”

Cleo smiled. “Whatever you say, honey. I'll see you later. Go get you something to eat.”

She left Maggie's side to greet a rotund man in a nice suit who had the bearing of someone important and a light in his blue eyes that shone brightly at the sight of her coming his way. She hooked her arm in his and they walked to one of the tables in the shadows on the far side of the room.

Maggie turned back to the marshal and found him still watching her with the same veiled intensity. She doubted the hunger referenced by Cleo had anything to do with her personally. More than likely the only hunger he had was for the food on the buffet.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

The question was from a man who was tall, brown-skinned, and nice-looking. His plain shirt and trousers pegged him as an ordinary citizen of the plains. She guessed him to be a few years older than she.

“Pretty girl like you shouldn't be alone.” His smile was engaging.

She sent a quick glance the marshal's way and saw him approaching. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

“You're new here.”

“Um, yes, but I'm just visiting.”

“Oh, I see. Married?”

She shook her head.

“Looking to be?”

She grinned. “Not at the moment, no.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I'm available. Name's Tate Greer. Own a ranch not far from here.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

He winked and departed just as the marshal walked up. “What did he want?”

“To buy me a drink and to marry me.”

She liked the surprise that grabbed him. “Think I'll get something to eat.” Walking away, she felt his eyes but didn't look back.

Ian studied the man she'd been talking with. He'd retreated to the bar but his attention was focused solely on Maggie, now filling her plate with samplings from the buffet. He doubted the man had been serious about marriage, but due to the paltry number of good women on this side of the Mississippi, Ian couldn't be sure. That same dearth was one of the reasons Wyoming allowed women of all races to vote when no other state did. The unconventional legislation had less to do with suffrage than with trying to entice Eastern women to move to the rugged, mountainous territory and bolster a female population that was nearly nonexistent. Intelligent, literate women were hard to find, and were as valuable to the ranchers and farmers of the West as water rights.

While Ian watched and sipped his watered-down whiskey, more than a few of the men enjoying Lola's hospitality came over to the table where Maggie was sitting and began chatting. To her credit she rebuffed them all with a pleasant smile, but he knew she might have responded differently had she been free to do so. As it stood, she wasn't, and when the man who'd wanted to marry her came over and slid into one of the empty chairs at her table, Ian thought it time to let everyone know he had prior claim, even if it wasn't formal or binding.

“Evening,” Ian said to the man as he sat down at the table, too. “Name's Preacher.”

“Tate Greer,” came the reply, along with a look of annoyance. “The lady and I are having a private conversation, if you don't mind.”

“I do, seeing as how she's with me.”

Greer stilled and turned to Maggie in confusion.

Ian received a look from her that should have set his hat on fire before she made the introductions. “Mr. Greer, this is U.S. Deputy Marshal Bigelow. I'm in his custody at the moment.”

“Custody? You're under arrest?”

“Afraid so.” She gave him a weak smile and Greer looked her up and down as if it might help determine what she'd been arrested for. She must have sensed the same, and so explained, “I inadvertently caused a man's death.”

“I see.” He slowly rose to his feet. “I'll be moving on then. Nice meeting you.”

“Same here,” she said softly.

As he walked away, Ian saw her shoulders sag, and when she looked up she was full of quiet anger. “I was just having a conversation. It wasn't as if I was going to elope with him.”

“You're under arrest. You can't be keeping company.”

“Thank you for the reminder. Shall I stand on the table and make an announcement to that fact? Lord help us if I try and enjoy myself while I'm with you.”

“We're not here to have fun.”

“Thanks for that reminder, as well.”

Ian wanted to smile but was afraid she'd turn her cutlery on him. “You're probably way too spirited for him anyway.”

“So now you're a prognosticator.”

He did smile then.

“He's the first nice man I've had the pleasure of meeting in quite some time, and it isn't funny.”

“I'm not laughing.”

She snarled quietly and went back to her food.

Ian tried to make amends. “Man like him just wants to put you behind a plow, give you a bunch of babies, and work you to death.”

“And what will you give me besides a date with the judge?”

“If things were different, books.”

Her mouth dropped. He rose to his feet and walked over to the exit and out into the coolness of the night.

Outside, he lit a cheroot and blew the smoke at the moon. A puff later, Lola was beside him.

“Saw you running off Maggie's men.”

“She's a prisoner, not a dance hall girl.”

“Saw the way you been watching her, too. Like a stallion eyeing a mare.”

He didn't respond.

“What are you going to do about her?”

He told her of the wire he'd sent. “I'll pick up the reply in Abilene since the telegraph office here is closed.”

“Why not just let her go?”

“I'd like to. Thus the wire.”

“She should be somewhere in a man's arms making him smile. I believe she and Tate would do good together. He's got some schooling, owns his own land—a lot like you.”

Ian blew out another stream of smoke.

“Of course, his past doesn't include train robbing, gunslinging or bounty hunting, but I'm sure Maggie would be willing to overlook that.”

“You're having fun, aren't you?”

“Sure am. How about you?”

“No.”

“A good woman can cure that.” She patted his shoulder consolingly. “See you back inside.”

Ian stared out at the night and mulled over Lola's words. Apparently he'd been wrong about Greer, but if the rancher was as good a catch as she'd claimed, he shouldn't have any trouble finding a suitable wife, even if it meant advertising back East for one. Had he really been interested in marrying Maggie or just pulling her leg? He remembered the talk they'd had about her dreams: wearing a nice dress, being able to sit and read a book, having her own place where she could watch her garden grow. With a husband she might be able to attain those things. He turned his mind away from thoughts of her with another man. Since Tilda's death he'd been insistent upon not taking another wife, but because of Maggie and her feisty spirit he was sensing cracks in the foundation of that stance. Could the light of a woman dissolve the darkness inside him? Could it soften the years of being in the saddle day and night in all kinds of weather? Would it reinvigorate a heart that had to grow callous in order to arrest a man at his mother's funeral or on his wedding day, and then turn to stone from having to face the keening grief of the mother of a seventeen-year-old boy who'd drawn on Ian in effort to get his picture in the paper—and he had, lying in a coffin. The boy's death was regrettable, but he felt nothing for the others. Every man he'd brought in dead or alive had been a murderer, rapist, or coward who'd used his fists on women and children. The world was a better place with them either behind bars or dead and in hell, but in doing his job, Ian had paid the price in terms of who he'd become.