Rachel Donnelly (7 page)

“I’m sure Pa won’t fall to pieces without you.”

The sarcasm dripping from his words grated, but she managed to maintain a stiff smile. “If you resent him depending on me so much, why don’t you start pulling your weight?”

“There’s no need to get snippy.” He gave Flossie a conspirator’s wink. “You’ll have to excuse my cousin. She’s not used to working for a living. I’m afraid the strain is starting to show.” He turned back to Christie. “You can tell Pa I’ll be there directly.”

“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear it. He thought you were helping to raise the barn, so he’s loading the wagon to deliver an order out to the Sutton Ranch.”

Leigh sent forth a hoot of laughter. “And your knickers are all in a twist you couldn’t go with him, I suppose?”

“On the contrary, I’m quite happy to wait to enjoy Mathew’s company at the dance tomorrow night.”

Leigh’s jaw went slack.

“So nice to meet you, Flossie,” Christie said with a polite nod, before marching off across the dusty street. It was all she could do to contain her triumphant smile. Let him chew on that for a while. If denying her attraction to Mathew Sutton wouldn’t shut him up — perhaps confirming it would.

But it wasn’t Mathew Sutton who’d haunted her dreams lately, or even her dear sweet Robby — it was Nat Randall. Ever since his lips touched hers, he’d intruded on her mind night and day. Just remembering his cool blue eyes could freeze her thoughts and make her heart hammer hard against her breast.

A shout from down the street jerked her back to the present as she reached for the knob on the mercantile door.

“They caught one of the Everetts! They’re bringing him in now!”

Christie swallowed hard.

Very slowly she turned around. Her hand trembled as she pressed a stray curl back under her bonnet. She’d hoped to avoid fulfilling her obligations as a witness, but it seemed Nat Randall had done his job after all.

Men poured out of the saloon to gawk at the riders dismounting in front of the jail.

Christie lifted a hand to block out the bright rays of the afternoon sun.

Sheriff Brimley stepped out on the stoop to meet them just as Holt pulled his bound prisoner from the saddle like a sack of feed.

After exchanging a few words with the sheriff, Holt shoved him toward the jailhouse door.

Christie shifted her gaze, squinting passed them down the street.

But it was empty.

No more riders came.

Something sank in the pit of her belly.

Then her knees went weak.

Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Had the same fate befallen Nat as his last witness? She stood staring at the empty horizon, willing him to materialize, fighting back an overwhelming sense of panic.

Then her fighting spirit took hold.

She straightened her back.

No.

He couldn’t be dead.

Men like him didn’t die that easily. It was silly to get carried away by fanciful notions without knowing for certain. Besides, she had Uncle Will and the sheriff to protect her. It wasn’t as though the Everetts could just ride into town and snatch her away.

She turned the knob, then pushed the door opened with the toe of her boot. The mercantile seemed empty and lonely without Uncle Will there to greet her. A rush of homesickness swept over her, making her throat constrict.

The smell of freshly ground coffee and gunpowder seemed foreign today. She longed for the scent of bees’ wax, lavender, and windblown sheets — the sparkle of innocence in Evie’s eyes when she knelt at her bedside to say her prayers.

Then Christie remembered — the letter!

She hastened to the counter to set down her parasol. One good pull on the string and the pile of letters scattered over the wooden counter. When she came across one with familiar handwriting, she let out a squeal of glee. Joy bubbled up in her chest. She tore it open and began to read.

Christie brushed the tears from her eyes. She refolded the letter with trembling hands. Dear Bess, their housekeeper, still playing the mother hen — her father, still working himself to death day and night.

Christie slipped the letter into the pocket of her gown with a shuddering sigh. News from home should have made her happy, or at the very least, relieved. But mention of her father’s proposed trip to Charleston sparked her blood to boiling. Why wouldn’t he listen to reason? Why could he not understand?

She gathered the rest of the letters, slapped them down on the counter, then strode to the closet for the broom to begin attacking the floor with a vengeance.

She didn’t care how many gold mines Mr. Cavanaugh owned! Or that he was a decorated war hero. He was a stranger. Not to mention the fact that he sounded too much like her father — successful and confident to a fault. Oh no, no, no, she wasn’t about to spend the rest of her life with another difficult, stubborn male. Not if she could help it.

She wanted someone to share her life with, someone she could talk to about art, politics, literature — someone who was gentle and kind, but inspired confidence and respected her opinions.

He was out there. She was certain of it. If only her father would give her a more time.

But no, he was bent on forcing the first man on her who came along!

What manner of man considered an arranged marriage in these enlightened times? A man that didn’t care who he married, that’s who! And she was supposed to say, oh, thank you very much, if he walks and talks I’ll take him. Never mind about compatibility. His money will do just fine.

Christie was so caught up in her silent tirade she didn’t hear the bell when it clanged against the door. The sound of coughing, followed by a loud sneeze finally made her cease her wild sweeping. By then she was lost in a cloud of dust.

Deputy Carter stood with his hat in his hand by the door, his ruddy complexion gone brilliant from his violent fit. “Afternoon, Miss Wallace.”

“Mr. Carter!” she expelled breathlessly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No need to apologize. I can see you’re right busy.” His frog eyes blinked, as though in wonderment at the condition of the room. “The sheriff sent me to fetch you. He’d like you to identify the prisoner. That is, if you can spare the time.”

She clutched the broom tighter, staring back at him through a haze of dancing dust particles, ignited by the afternoon sun. Her mouth went dry. She had to lick her lips just to make them work, and when they did her voice had raised an octave. “I can’t come until I’ve locked up.”

The deputy nodded awkwardly. “I reckon that’ll do just fine.”

Christie stared at the door long after he banged it shut.

She should go now — get it over with. There were no customers to be had with everyone at the barn raising. But she’d already closed up once to go to the post office, and there were cans to be stacked from the crates that arrived on the stage that morning. There was inventory to update. And what of the floor? She had to finish sweeping it!

By the time the clock over the counter struck six, she’d completed every task she could think of — some twice. There was nothing left to delay her. It was time to close up shop.

When she finally stepped out onto the wooden walkway, the distant sound of hammering had ceased. The blue skies had changed to orange and mauve. The air was still warm, but it didn’t stop the chill running up her back as she strode slowly toward the jail across the street.

She drew her shawl closer and squared her shoulders.

She couldn’t allow fear to get the better of her.

Uproarious laughter slid under the door of the saloon where a dozen or more horses stood tethered to hitching posts.

The jail stood two doors down from the saloon.

Christie hurried on, waiting until she was well past it before crossing the street.

Her steps slowed as she approached the jailhouse door. One quick look, that’s all it would take. Perhaps it wasn’t even him. She took a long deep breath, then pushed opened the door.

The sheriff sat at his desk behind a half empty bottle of whiskey. Another man sat in the shadows with his back to the wall. He stood as she closed the door. The soft glow of the lantern swinging overhead revealed his hard features.

Randall’s cool blue gaze made the breath hitch in her throat.

He was alive!

Relief washed over her. And here she was wearing the oldest plainest gown she owned — a pale green, chintz day dress. Not that it mattered. Why should it matter?

“Good evening,” he said, eyes never straying from hers. He wasn’t looking her up and down like the ragged, dusty miners who stumbled into the store, half starved for the sight of a woman. His gaze searched deeper.

He must not have liked what he found. His mouth flattened in a grim line. He didn’t look pleased.

But she wouldn’t be swayed. She had to see justice done. It was the right thing to do. And dash it all; she was going to do it!

She looked away, pushing her fear and uncertainty aside.

“Evening, Miss Wallace.” The sheriff picked up the black iron ring of keys on his desk. “He’s right through here.”

She could feel the heat of Nat Randall’s gaze as she followed the sheriff to the cell. But she kept on walking. When the sheriff opened the door, the smell of sweat and urine was so overpowering, she had to lift one gloved hand to her mouth to stop from gagging.

“On your feet, Hank!”

Christie’s legs grew weak.

The outlaw swaggered toward the iron bars.

Her heart pounded like a runaway horse. For a second, her mind went blank. She’d had such a brief glimpse of the outlaw’s face before he covered it with his kerchief. Was it enough to identify him? If they were brothers, it was likely they’d have similar features. What if she identified the wrong man? It might hurt the sheriff’s case.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“Brought me dessert, did you sheriff? Well, I’m much obliged.” Hank’s gaze licked over her with hungry concentration.

Christie recognized the eyes, but not the face. This man was darker skinned with a thick black beard and full laughing lips. His wide girth and meaty hands gave him the look of a caged bear. He appeared to be favoring one arm as though recently injured. “I was holding out for that apple puddin’ you were promisin’ me, but she’ll do just fine.”

Christie let out the air she’d been holding in a soft whoosh. “It isn’t him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” She turned on her heel, trembling with relief.

“Hey! Where are you goin’, sweetheart!” The prisoner called after them. “Don’t I get a little kiss first?”

Christie fled through the open doorway on shaking limbs.

She emerged to find Nat standing by the window, his carefully controlled features blank.

Her panic eased. “It wasn’t him.” She searched his face for disappointment, but found none.

His gaze shifted past her to the sheriff. “Maybe you didn’t get as good a look at him as you thought.”

“I saw him as clearly as I’m seeing you right now,” she said with firm assurance. “I’ll never forget that face.”

“The mind’s a funny thing.” A hint of a smile touched the edge of his lips. “It can play tricks on us sometimes, especially in a situation like this.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my mind, or my eyesight!” How dare he presume to tell her what she saw! She knew what she saw, and when that man materialized she would identify him.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Wallace.” The sheriff hung the ring of keys on a hook behind his desk, then saw her to the door. “I’ll let you know if we need you again.”

She gave a curt nod before sailing past Nat. She emerged from the jailhouse gulping for air. Though her attempt at justice had failed, she felt an immediate sense of relief, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

The orange skies had turned to indigo, sprinkled with a million glittering stars. Piano music and laughter drifted on a faint breeze. Uncle Will must be home by now, wondering where she was.

She hurried across the street, anxious to put as much distance as possible between her and the jail, all the while remembering Nat Randall’s face — his unreadable expression — the note of satisfaction in his voice. Had he known it was the wrong man all along? He knew the Everetts better than anyone. He’d have known which one he was chasing into the mercantile that day.

She stopped in her tracks.

Yet he put her through that terrifying charade for nothing. Had it been a test to see how reliable a witness she was? If she’d identified the wrong outlaw, her credibility would be ruined. Wouldn’t he love that, since he was bound and bent she wouldn’t testify.

Well of all the … It was all too clear — his impassive manner, the fact that he hadn’t tried to stop her from identifying the prisoner, as though he’d wanted to demonstrate to the sheriff how ineffectual her testimony would be.

She’d a good mind to march right back in there and tell him exactly what she thought! But she’d likely find him tipped back in his chair, laughing.

Incorrigible rascal!

Ohhhh!

And to think she’d actually feared for his safety — almost begun to mourn his passing. Well! That was the last time she’d spare an ounce of compassion for him. A man with such a dangerous mind and questionable character deserved no sympathy.

She reached the mercantile still huffing. Unfortunately there was no one to share her troubles. It was as silent as a confessional on Monday — no light upstairs, shining from the parlor window where Uncle Will usually sat in the evening to read his paper. Not a sound.