The Rustler (29 page)

She knew such novels were sensationalized; the popular term for them was “yellow journalism.” As a young girl, she'd read a few, in complete secret, and thrilled to the adventures of women like Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane Canary.

No human woman could have done all the things attributed to Miss Oakley or Calamity—Sarah had known that even as a starry-eyed adolescent. It was purely logical to assume that the spectacularly implausible feats ascribed to Wyatt Yarbro were tall tales bearing no real relationship to the truth.

Still, the bat-brained banker's daughter had struck a little too close to the bone for Sarah's comfort, and she'd withdrawn from Wyatt, if only slightly, in order to get some perspective.

And he
had
been a train robber, a part of the infamous Yarbro gang.

Doc's words came back to her, for about the hundredth time, as she ducked into her father's office, smoothed her skirts, and sat down to work.

In my experience, outlaws are generally not the sort to lend a hand with dead bodies or bring a hurt dog to a doctor in a wheelbarrow.…

Sarah straightened her spine. “Stop thinking about Wyatt and get something accomplished,” she told herself aloud.

She'd been balancing ledgers for the better part of an hour, wondering with part of her mind how things were going with Davina and Kitty over at the house, how her father was, and what Wyatt would have to say for himself once he'd read those dime novels—for she was certain he would—when a knock sounded at the office door.

“Come in,” she said, after patting her hair. She'd expected a farmer or a merchant looking to make a loan payment, or offer an excuse for
not
making one, so she was at something of a loss when Wyatt came in, steering a sunburned, sullen and filthy Owen by one shoulder.

“Give her the telegram, boy,” Wyatt said.

Owen jutted out his chin. He'd been crying, his new overalls were fit for the ragbag, and his lower lip trembled. “I won't go,” he said, taking the wired message from his pocket, crossing to the desk, and laying it in front of Sarah.

Her hands trembled as she picked it up. When the words registered, she gasped and put one hand to her throat.

“Everybody take in some air,” Wyatt counseled grimly. He held his hat in one hand, and his clothes looked rumpled, though they were in considerably better condition than Owen's.

Sarah couldn't hold back her tears. “Owen,” she said, in a ragged voice, and the little boy ran to her, scrambled into her lap, clung to her neck with small, wiry arms.

“Don't make me go,” he wailed, wetting her dress with his own tears. “Please, don't make me go back there!”

Sarah looked up at Wyatt. He was a tall blur, standing awkwardly just inside the closed door, like someone on a narrow and rapidly crumbling precipice, poised either to jump into a rocky chasm on one side or treacherous floodwaters on the other.

“I won't,” she said, holding Owen tightly. “I won't let you travel all that way by yourself.”

By then, Sarah's vision had cleared enough to see Wyatt's jawline tighten.

“I won't,” she repeated, this time for Wyatt's benefit. “Owen's only ten years old, and Philadelphia is halfway across the country!”

Wyatt sighed. Owen still clung to Sarah, his sobs beginning to subside, probably from exhaustion rather than a lessening of grief, and heartrending to hear.

“Charles must be
out of his mind
even to suggest such a thing!” Sarah rushed on, frantic.

“Reckon he's not thinking straight, with his wife so ill and all,” Wyatt reasoned calmly. Sarah felt a stab of chagrin, which only made her more impatient with Wyatt. “You could accompany the boy on the trip, Sarah. Or you could just send an answer by telegram, saying you won't allow him to make the journey without someone along to look after him.”

Sarah rocked Owen, thinking hard. She couldn't leave her ailing father to escort Owen to Philadelphia, and she knew if she sent a wire protesting Charles's terse instructions, he would simply hire someone, a Pinkerton or a lawyer or a business colleague, to collect her child and put him on an eastbound train.

Still, she had to acknowledge the message in some way. If she didn't, Charles might call out the military, or something equally drastic. With his influence and resources, he could do it.

She took a deep, shaky breath. Used one hand to wipe her cheeks. Then she stood Owen on his feet, gripped his shoulders firmly, and looked into his eyes.

“I don't know what I'm going to do,” she told him, “but I am going to do
something.
I promise you that.”

Owen sniffled, nodded.

“You go on home, now. Read to your grandfather and look after Lonesome. I'll be along as soon as I can.”

Again, the child nodded.

Sarah watched with her heart in shards as Owen left the office without another word, his small back straight.

“It might be a mistake, getting his hopes up like that, Sarah,” Wyatt said.

“It might,” Sarah agreed stiffly, rising from her chair. She'd leave Thomas in charge of the bank, send Charles an answering telegram, and pay an unexpected call on Judge Harvey.

“Owen came all the way out to Stone Creek Ranch on foot,” Wyatt persisted. “He's full of talk about running away, so be real careful how you handle this.”

“I'm grateful that you brought him home,” Sarah replied, reaching past Wyatt to take hold of the doorknob and go about her business. She couldn't allow herself to think much about all the dangers Owen might have encountered—wolves and rattlesnakes were only two of the many possible perils—she might lose her composure if she did.

Wyatt waylaid her, his grip light on her arm, but not to be escaped until he deigned to let go. “
Think,
Sarah,” he said. “Be careful what you do. What you promise that boy.”

“Let me go, Wyatt,” Sarah said.

He released her.

And Sarah headed for the telegraph office.

 

“I'
LL BE DAMNED
if I know why she's mad at me,” Wyatt told Rowdy, fifteen minutes later, as the two of them led Rowdy's horses back from the livery stable to settle them in the barn behind his house, where they belonged. “I brought the boy home, after all.”

Rowdy's grin was thoughtful. “Women are complicated creatures,” he said. “Once, when Lark was carrying Hank, I told her she wouldn't need a bustle to stay in fashion, and she cried for a week.”

“You told her she had a big backside?” Wyatt marveled.

“That's how she interpreted it, anyhow,” Rowdy admitted. “I
liked
the way she looked, but she damn near peeled off a strip of my hide.”

Wyatt laughed, shaking his head. “If you're stupid enough to say something like that,” he said, “I guess there's hope for me.”

Rowdy slapped him on the back. “If you care about Sarah, and it seems you do, stick with her. She might lose the boy, there's no getting around that. Langstreet has the full weight of the law behind him. She'll need somebody to lean on, and even though she won't take comfort from it now, there'll be other children in time.”

The thought of Sarah carrying, bearing and nursing his child filled Wyatt with a yearning so fierce, he ached. But he was fond of little Owen, and no matter how many babies he and Sarah had together, none of them could replace the boy.

Wyatt was silently miserable. He should have stuck to his old policy of not letting himself care too much about anybody. It had been one hell of a lot safer.

“After we put these horses away,” Rowdy said, “let's stop by the dining room over at the hotel and put away a couple of specials. It's fried trout on Fridays, caught fresh in Stone Creek and battered as soon as they quit wiggling.”

Wyatt's stomach rumbled. He'd long since burned off the pears and peaches he'd had for breakfast, but Sam O'Ballivan had given him a job and he meant to do it.

He was set on riding back to the ranch as soon as he and Rowdy got the horses back home—his own mount was still tethered to the hitching post in front of the bank—so he started to refuse.

Then he felt that prickle at the back of his neck again, keener now, as though somebody was watching him. Staring a hole right into him, hot as a beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass.

He stopped, looked around.

“Something wrong?” Rowdy asked.

Wyatt shook it off again. “Just a peculiar feeling,” he said, just as Jody Wexler and his bunch rode around the bend into town and drew up to say howdy.

“I'm looking to hire some ranch hands,” Wyatt said, glad of the distraction, and glad he might be able to make this trip to town count for something in Sam O'Ballivan's eyes. He'd sure made a snarl of things with Sarah, and never mind that he'd been trying to help.

She didn't want his help, and he was ninety-nine percent certain she meant to do something rash, if she couldn't reason Charles Langstreet into letting Owen stay with her.

“Be a good thing to get these wasters off the street,” Rowdy joked, grinning at the boys. “They've got too much time on their hands.”

“Not much money,” Wyatt added, “and a whole lot of hard work. If you're willing, head on out to Stone Creek Ranch and pick out a bunk.”

Wexler beamed, already reining his horse in that direction.

They took off, racing down Main Street, whooping and hollering like a pack of Apaches on the warpath.

Rowdy shook his head. “If I wasn't so set on eating trout for lunch,” he said, “I'd lock the whole pack of them up for reckless behavior on a public thoroughfare.”

“You don't have a jail to put them in,” Wyatt reminded him.

“There's that,” Rowdy agreed, with a nod.

They put the horses away, made sure they had plenty of hay and water, and headed for the hotel. The fish being fried up inside smelled so good that Wyatt relented, went inside with his brother, and ordered himself a special. For all he knew, Thaddeus was still in charge of the stove out at the bunkhouse, and a man had to eat, didn't he?

 

S
ARAH PRESSED PEN TO PAPER
so hard, writing out her telegram to Charles, that she punctured it and even scarred the counter beneath.

“Guess you're some rattled, Miss Tamlin,” observed the telegraph operator, who, like Thomas, lived with his mother and passed on every whit of gossip that came in or went out over the wire. Which, of course, was considerable. “Everything all right? I hear your father isn't well—”

“My father, Elliott,” Sarah broke in sharply, “will be just fine.”

Elliott reddened. “Yes, ma'am,” he said.

“I need a fresh sheet of paper, please,” Sarah told him, speaking more moderately, by dint of great effort and forbearance.

Elliott gave her the paper.

She wrote her message, which she'd been rehearsing in her head since she'd stormed out of the bank to send it.

Elliott's eyes widened as he read. Since he was the telegrapher, there was no way to keep the missive private. “That'll be twenty-five cents,” he said.

Sarah took the change from her skirt pocket, since she rarely carried a handbag, and plunked down five nickels.

Elliott scooped them up, still blushing. “If there's an answer, shall I bring it to the bank?” he asked.

“The bank closes promptly at three o'clock,” Sarah said, keeping her head high and her backbone rigid. “After that, I will be at home.”

Elliott went to his desk and began tapping out Morse code on his telegraph key. Sarah listened for a few moments, as if she understood the incomprehensible dots and dashes and clicks and wanted to make sure the message was being sent correctly, then turned on one heel and marched to the door.

“Give your mother my best regards,” she said, passing Elliott a level look.

Elliott, blushing fiercely, merely nodded.

Wyatt's horse, Sarah noted abstractly, was still standing in front of the bank, slurping water from the trough. Looking around, she saw Mr. Yarbro walking into the Phoenix Hotel with Rowdy.

Her hackles rose.

She crossed the street briskly, skirt hems fluttering.

Stomped up the steps in front of the hotel and straight into the lobby, then the dining room adjoining it.

Wyatt and Rowdy had already taken seats at a table by the window but, seeing her, they both got to their feet.

Sarah looked briefly at Rowdy, apologetically furious, then turned to Wyatt. If she hadn't been raised as a lady, she would have slapped his face for him, and the worst thing about it was that she didn't have the vaguest idea why she wanted to do that in the first place.

“Join us?” Rowdy asked, grinning slightly and gesturing toward the chair next to Wyatt's. “We've already ordered, but I could go fetch Wong Su from the kitchen.”