Sterling's Reasons (29 page)

Old buildings sandpapered smooth by the wind, faded by the unrelenting sun, leaned lazily while others stood stoically against the colorful backdrop of Oklahoma sky. Light blues, dull grays, and red dust that came with the breeze and rolled constantly, coating every flat surface. Hitch-rail brown, wrought-iron black and green. Lots of green. Tall buffalo grass swayed on the hill beyond. The deep, dark dusky green of the tree line below punched toward the cloudless sky towering above the sprinkles of bright yellow, purple, and pink wildflowers skipping along the edge of the pond that glistened from the hollow.

At the first sound of commotion from the other end of town, Wes turned his gaze, along with the crowd, to watch. The air was filled with actual and fabricated tension.

The stage careened around the corner and sped down the street to pitch and roll to a stop in the middle of town. It was surrounded by five desperadoes, handkerchiefs pulled up over their noses, pistols firing in the air. The stage driver slumped over in the seat after a brave attempt to reach for his shotgun.

Dead. Ordered to disembark, the frightened passengers climbed down. The cowboy riding shotgun watched, helplessly, as the two men and lone woman proceeded to slide rings and watches and empty wallets into a cloth sack.

The man on top of the stage was ordered to throw down the strongbox.

And as he did, he reached for the same shotgun that did in the driver. He was gunned down immediately.

The bandits’ horses skittered and danced a circle. A passenger made a grab for one of the holdup men and was booted in the face to land in the dust. The tourists let out a groan in unison. Wes smiled. It was like watching some bad spaghetti Western. Suddenly he itched to get on with his job. And then he saw her.

The woman dressed in 1870s garb who had blindsided him only a few moments ago lifted her skirt knee-high and wrapped her fingers around a derringer held tight to that smooth skin by a gaudy lilac and lace garter. A sound of appreciation worked its way through the crowd. He smiled and thought she must have legs up to her shoulders.

To the cheers of the crowd and the support of the kids and their cap guns, she planted herself in front of the thieves and fired at them. The little gun popped, and two of the big men grabbed their chests and folded, flinging themselves off their horses and dramatically to the ground. The remaining

banditos, including the one with the strongbox over his saddle, hightailed it out of town in a cloud of dust and a thunder of hooves.

Just then, from behind the jailhouse, came a mounted rider, hat pushed low on his head, droopy mustache and dark eyes revealing his determination to capture the outlaws. He fired the shotgun and reloaded on the run. The hero took up chase and the crowd roared and clapped their support. Dust whirled to settle down once again. Tourists stepped off the boardwalk and began their explorations once more, smiling and enthusiastic.

Wes pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Shaking his head, he chuckled low. Three bandits ran from a lone woman with an empty derringer before the lone rider began his chase? No way.

Looking back out on the street, Wes watched as the reenactors loaded some of the kids into the stage and set out for a ride.

Glancing at his watch, he turned toward the hotel and his meeting.

Buck was waiting for him. Seated at a table, the aging cowboy ate a cheeseburger and french fries, washing them down with orange juice. Wes grimaced and smiled. Who else would have lunch for breakfast? There wasn’t another man in all of Oklahoma like Buck, unless, of course, it was his father. Put the two of them together and you had one hundred percent disregard for rules, regulations, and good eating habits.

If one didn’t know this was all pretend, he wouldn’t take a second look at the scruffy cowboy wearing worn boots, work-faded jeans, and a ten-gallon hat with a crinkled crown. His shirt had a rip down the sleeve and his suspenders were stretched out to capacity from long use.

At other tables scattered around the room, the tourists enjoyed a buffet that Wes eyed speculatively. He was hungry and the aroma of food reminded him how much.

“Morning, Buck.”

Buck set his burger down to rise and slap Wes on the back. “Get yourself a plate, boy, and fill it up. We’ve got some talking to do.” But when Buck spoke, he would catch attention. His voice was low and raspy, as though it was worn out from issuing orders all day long. His eyes were kind eyes, worldly eyes. A twinkle of his love for life shone through, along with a spark of the mischief Wes knew he indulged in from time to time.

Tickled that the show went well, Victoria pushed through the door of the hotel. Buck spied her on her way up to her room and called to her.

“Yo! Vic. Come on over here, girl.”

He watched her cheerfully turn and head back at the exact same time Wes turned from the food bar. He had to swing his plate up and out of her way to keep her from bumping it out of his hand.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry.” She laughed, recognizing him and feeling the flush of embarrassment pink her cheeks.

“Seems I’m developing a habit of getting in your way.” A ripple of anticipation rolled through her. She felt like steel being drawn, sliver by sliver, toward a magnet.

Wes grinned and tipped his hat. “Some habits are hard to break. In your case, I hope you leave it alone.”

• Sterling�s Reasons
  
• Joey Light
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Epilogue
  
• About the Author
  
• Look for these titles by Joey Light
  
• Now Available:
  
• High-Riding Heroes
  
• After a most unusual inheritance, Victoria Clay is bound for Glory! Glory Town, Oklahoma, that is.
  
• High-Riding Heroes
  
• � 2012 Joey Light