Taken by the Cowboy (8 page)

After a long pause, he
frowned and asked, "Who
are
you?"

Her mind swam with the
disturbing implications of that question. In 1881, she was no one.
She didn't even exist.

"I've already answered
that." Focusing her gaze on the bullet holes again, she decided it
was high time to steer the conversation back to a safer topic. "Is
that the only time you took a bullet?"

"No," he answered
flatly.

"When was the other
time?"

Wade shuffled a few
papers around on his desk. "I thought we agreed you wouldn’t ask me
any more questions like that."

"I was just making
conversation. And I never agreed to stop asking questions. You just
said you didn’t like it."

He shuffled through
some more papers. “I have work to do.”

Clearly he wasn’t in
the mood to share. He slid his chair forward and began writing.

Jessica watched his
hand glide across the page. He paused, dipped the pen in an ink
jar, then began writing. The only sounds in the room were Jessica's
breathing, the clock ticking, and the fervent scraping of metal on
paper.

It was just as well.
Learning too much about Sheriff Wade could lead to a problem she
would do better without. If she wanted to keep her eye on the ball
and find a way back home to the future, she couldn’t afford to
become besotted with anything here in the past. Or anyone.

“Good day, Sheriff,”
she said as she turned to leave.

“Good day, Miss
Delaney,” he replied. “And try to stay out of trouble today, if at
all possible?”

“I’ll do my best.”

After leaving the
sheriff’s office, Jessica decided to visit
The Chronicle
and talk to the editor herself. Perhaps once he met her, he would
consider printing a retraction even before Truman came to see
him.

Bells jingled as she
closed the door behind her. A scrawny little man with thinning hair
was seated at a large oak desk strewn with papers. He looked up
when she entered.

“Miss Delaney,” he
said, rising quickly to his feet and nearly knocking over his
chair. He regained his balance and pushed his wire-rimmed
spectacles up the length of his nose.

“Are you Mr. Gordon,
the editor?”

“Yes.”

She approached his desk
with purpose. “I'm here to object to the stories you’ve printed
about me. They were false, and I want a retraction.”

The color drained from
his face. "But I get my information from a very reliable
source.”

Jessica narrowed her
unwavering gaze. "I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but
your source isn’t as reliable as you think it is."

Mr. Gordon pulled a
white hanky out of his pocket and blew his nose. His spectacles
slipped down again, and he pushed them back up. "Miss Delaney, you
don't think I made it all up, do you?"

She tilted her head to
the side and tried to size him up. "Someone made it up at some
point,” she asserted. “Who told you those things about me?"

"I’ m sorry, but I
can't reveal my sources."

Jessica considered this
for a moment. “You know, you'd have a much better paper and earn
more respect if you were more accurate and reported the truth."

He stuffed his hanky
back into his pocket. "People like the stories I print. They sell
because they're colorful."

Jessica drew in a
frustrated breath, thinking that, when it came to sensational
newspapers, things hadn't changed much in a hundred-and-thirty
years.

"Why don't you just
print a retraction?” she suggested, spreading her arms wide. “See
for yourself. I don't even carry a gun."

"I'm afraid I can't do
that. How do I know you're not lying to me now? It's your word
against the word of my source, and my source didn't shoot a man
point blank between the eyes two nights ago."

Jessica sighed heavily.
She couldn’t blame people for thinking she killed a man. She’d flat
out admitted to it.

"What about yesterday?”
she asked, not ready to give up on her reputation just yet.
“Sheriff Wade was the one who fired the shot in the street and
knocked Virgil out, not me. Lots of people saw what happened. Ask
any one of them."

Mr. Gordon began to
chew on his thumbnail. "Are you sure you're not carrying a
gun?"

A cynical laugh escaped
her. “I think I’d know if I were.”

He raised both hands in
the air, a clear demonstration of fear and submission.

Jessica pinched her
nose in defeat. Nothing she said to these people seemed to do any
good. She was obviously wasting her time here—time that would be
better spent trying to find a way home. What did it matter what
they thought anyway?

"Look,” she said in
calm, collected voice, “if you want to print something interesting,
print the truth. I’ll give you an exclusive interview.”

He sat down and shook
his head. “That’s very generous of you, Miss Junebug. I mean, Miss
Delaney. But I think I’ll stick to my sources. They haven’t steered
me wrong yet.”

She glanced around the
office at all the clutter and decided she’d spent enough time here.
She had more important things to do.

“Fine,” she said, “but
if you cause any trouble for me, Mr. Gordon, I swear I will slap
you so hard with a law suit, you won’t even know what hit you.”

He stared at her in
bewilderment.

“Good day," she
politely said as she strode out the door.

* * *

Truman walked out of
the jailhouse and locked the door behind him, just in case Miss
Delaney decided to backtrack and ask him more questions. He led
Thunder over to Hoover's Saloon, tethered him at the rail, and
found comfort standing at the bar with a full bottle of whisky. A
drink didn't pass his lips often, and things had to get pretty bad
before he gave in to that urge. But little Miss Junebug was making
things about as bad as they could get.

Truman filled his glass
and tossed back a bitter swig. He arched his back to release the
tension and ache of old wounds, then rolled the glass between his
palms and clenched his jaw as he thought of her.

Why did she insist on
making him remember things he damn well wanted to forget? He felt
as if she knocked things over in his mind. Spilled things, was
making a mess in an otherwise tidy place.

Since she arrived in
town, he’d been thinking about Dorothy again, trying to believe her
death wasn’t his fault. Of course, he had done his best to care for
her those last few months. He’d tried to make her happy. He’d given
up bounty hunting the day he spoke his vows in front of the
preacher, just like she’d asked. He’d even tried to make a go of it
on their meager parcel of land. But when she got sicker and sicker,
everything started to die. He’d promised her he wouldn’t try to
collect any more rewards, but there came a day when they needed the
money, and it was the quickest, easiest way. He was only going to
be gone a few days....

Truman wrenched his
thoughts out of the past and took a second drink. Or was it the
third? He reached for the bottle and tipped it to pour another, but
his steady hand slipped when a ruckus outside caught his
attention.

Ah hell, not
again…

Laughter and cussin'
came sailing through the air. The saloon doors swung open, and in
came five dirty, tobacco-chewing, card-cheating, horse-stealing
thugs. They whistled, laughed, and howled as they headed toward the
rear of the saloon. Judging by their smell, they needed baths
something awful, and their language was about as foul as their
gone-off odor.

Truman covered his
badge and kept his head bowed low under the brim of his hat as they
passed by. None took notice of him, but they sure did take notice
of Wendy, the young barmaid. He suspected they hadn't seen a woman
since last oyster season.

"Hey, pretty thing,"
one of them yelled as he sat down at a table. "Why don't you come
on over here and cook us up a drinkin' contest?"

Truman slowly turned to
keep an eye on things as Wendy carried her tray to their table.

"What can I get ya’?"
she asked, spitting in an arc toward the nearest spittoon. The girl
had pluck.

"I can think of only
one thing." The stockiest member of the gang grabbed hold of
Wendy’s arm and pulled her onto his lap.

Struggling fiercely,
she dropped her tray onto the floor. It rolled like a dime toward
Truman and stopped at his feet. He made no move to pick it up. He
simply watched the situation, hoping it would work itself out
before anyone got hurt.

"Now, now, don't be a
baby,” the man cooed. “I'm just tryin' to make friends with you,
that's all."

"Let me go, you
disgusting brute.”

The others laughed
raucously.

"My name's Bart,” he
said, undaunted, “and this here's Corey. Corey wants to know what
you're doin' later tonight."

"I'm busy," she said.
"Now let me go, and I'll get you some drinks."

"Give me a turn, Bart!”
Corey pleaded. “I want her on my lap next."

"Don't be greedy,
Corey. I saw her first."

The gang froze when a
gun cocked in Bart's ear. Corey's words were sucked down his throat
as his eyes widened in panic. He sat back in his chair as far from
Bart as possible.

"I think you better let
the lady go, Mister," Truman drawled.

Bart slowly lifted his
hands like a bank teller in a holdup. Wendy bolted, taking cover
behind the bar.

"And who might you be?"
Bart asked, still holding his hands high over his head.

"You're the one who
oughta' be answering that question," Truman replied, "before I take
your ear off."

Bart cleared his
throat. "Didn’t you hear me introduce myself to the lady? The
name's Bart. Now why don't you put that gun down, friend, and have
a drink with us?"

"I ain’t your friend,”
Truman said, “and I've had enough for today." Keeping his revolver
tight against Bart's cheek, Truman flexed his fingers around the
ivory handle.

"You gonna stand there
all day with that thing pointin' in my face?" Bart asked, growing
more and more fidgety by the second.

Truman considered how
long he wanted to stand there, then eventually lowered his gun and
holstered it. As he did so, he pushed his coat aside to let the
shiny star reflect into Bart's eyes.

"Damn. You're Sheriff
Wade, aren't ya?"

"What's it to you?"

Bart grinned, revealing
a gap-toothed smile. "This is quite an honor, ain't it, boys? Hell,
we've heard all about you." Bart lowered his hands, then slowly
reached two fingers into his pocket. He took out some tobacco and
chewed off a hunk.

Truman took a good look
at each of the five men, but one in particular caught his eye. The
man wore a brand new Stetson on his head and a red bandanna around
his neck. He had a common face, nothing unusual about him, and yet
he looked familiar. "Any of you boys been in Dodge before?"

They all glanced at
each other, while the familiar one rolled a cigarette. "Don't
reckon we have," he said, without looking Truman in the eye.

"You gentlemen are just
passing through then." It wasn’t a question, but rather a very
strong suggestion.

Turning back toward
Truman, Bart sported a glare that would stop a train. He spit
tobacco onto the floor next to Truman's boots.

"You better be careful
where you spit, Mister,” Truman warned him. “I'm likely to get
insulted by your stinkin' mouth."

Bart slowly rose from
the chair and showed off his size. He was a buffalo, complete with
the foul odor and unsightly hump on his back.

In the flash of a
second, one man at the table drew a weapon. By the time his gun
went off, it was flying through the air, riding on Truman's bullet,
which lodged in the wall behind them. Dust floated from the ceiling
onto the man's hat, and his gun landed in a spittoon. He swallowed
hard, then looked at Bart with eyes wide as saucers.

Truman cocked his
weapon again. Corey's jaw clenched. He drew and fired. Half a
second later, Corey's revolver was spinning on the floor behind
him.

Truman was getting
tired of this game. He pointed his six-shooter at each man at the
table, daring anyone else to draw. No one did.

"Okay, Sheriff," Bart
said. "You've proved your point. That's enough boys. We don't want
any more trouble." Bart sat back down and waved at Wendy to bring a
bottle.

Truman backed away from
the table. "I expect you boys'll be leavin' town first thing?"

"We'll be gone before
you know it," Bart replied, without looking up.

Turning to leave,
Truman flipped a coin toward the barkeep, who caught it in his
hand. He pushed through the saloon doors, hopped off the boardwalk,
and freed Thunder from the hitching rail.

Just then, Wendy came
running out of the saloon. "Sheriff Wade!"

He paused, still
holding the reins.

"Those men in there…”
she said. “Do you know who they are?"

"They look like a bunch
of ignorant horse thieves to me. Other than that—"

"They used to ride with
Left Hand Lou."

Truman glanced back
into the saloon and suddenly remembered where he had seen the one
who was rolling the cigarette—sleeping in a jail cell once, a
couple of years back.

Truman laid a
reassuring hand on Wendy's shoulder, then turned away and hoisted
himself up into the saddle.

"Aren't you going to
arrest them?"

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"No time to explain
now. Let me know if they cause any more trouble. There's something
I gotta do."

Wendy backed away, and
Truman galloped off. He had something to tell Miss Delaney, and he
had to tell her now.

* * *

From the second story
bedroom window of Mr. Maxwell’s house, Jessica saw a horse and
rider galloping up the hill, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
She recognized that black hat and black coat sailing on the wind.
It was Sheriff Wade.