The Rustler (34 page)

“Wyatt!”

“If I remember correctly, you liked where I put my mouth.”

“Open the door,” Sarah blustered, “or a window. It's so hot in here.”

“I can't do that, Sarah,” Wyatt said reasonably. “It's hard enough keeping you quiet, without the door and the window open so half the county can hear you calling out my name.”

“Why, you—”

He pushed the skillet to the back of the stove again.

Sarah backed up a step. “Wyatt Yarbro,” she warned.

He came to her, undid the belt and opened her wrapper. Waited smugly for her to protest.

She didn't.

He caressed her breasts, suckled at her nipples.

Sarah groaned, let her head fall back. The wrapper went the way of the wedding dress and the petticoats.

And then Wyatt turned her around, bent her over the table, and took her in a single, hard thrust.

It was a very good thing, Sarah would admit later, that they hadn't opened the window or the door.

M
ONDAY WAS NOT
, despite Sam O'Ballivan's generous offer, set aside for more honeymooning. It was to be Owen's first day at Stone Creek School, after all, and Sarah couldn't, in good conscience, leave the bank for Thomas to manage alone. At the first sign of a scruffy cowhand with a gun on his hip, looking to make a deposit or inquire about a mortgage on some patch of land, he'd probably panic and head for the hills.

So Wyatt hitched up Sam's buckboard and loaded Lonesome and his tools in the back, and he and Sarah went to town.

Her father was resting comfortably, though there had been no significant change in his condition, either for better or for worse. Owen was fully dressed, his hair slicked down and his face washed and his new boots on his feet, chomping at the bit to start school. He'd made his own breakfast, and he'd gathered his tablet and pencil box and other school-going gear before dawn, according to an amused Kitty. It had been all she could do, she reported, to keep him from heading for the schoolhouse before it was even light, he was that anxious for classes to commence.

If Kitty noticed the blush in Sarah's cheeks, the light in her eyes, and the new spring in her step, she had the unusual good grace not to comment.

Owen scrambled into the back of the buckboard, greeted Lonesome, and asked Wyatt not to spare the horses. He had things to learn, he said, and he didn't want to be late.

“Not much danger of that,” Wyatt said, after consulting his pocket watch. He hoisted Sarah back up into the wagon seat, having waited outside for her and Owen. “Like as not, that pretty new schoolmarm hasn't even opened her eyes yet.”

Sarah gave him an elbow. “How do you know she's pretty?” she demanded, smiling.

He chuckled. “Word gets around,” he replied. “Jody Wexler took one look at her—from across the street—and decided to get himself an honest job and save up for a house. It's odd how a woman can have that effect on a man.”

“You're all rascals,” Sarah said, quietly merry. “Every single one of you.”

“Me, too?” Owen piped up, as though it were an honor of some sort. “Am I a rascal, too?”

“Most definitely,” Sarah answered, with another smile, thinking if she loved that child any more than she already did, she'd perish from it.

Although the start of the school day was still an hour away, it turned out that Owen wasn't the first pupil to arrive. A band of boys and girls played some chasing game in the school yard, and Davina Wynngate, clad in another prim brown dress with tidy black piping on the bodice, was on hand to supervise.

“Lord,” Wyatt said at the sight of her.

Sarah elbowed him again. “You,” she told him, “are a married man.”

“I still have eyes,” Wyatt answered. Then he laughed and kissed her lightly on the nose.

“Stop spooning,” Owen ordered from the back. “Everybody will see.”

Davina approached the school yard gate, opened it, and walked toward the wagon as Owen jumped nimbly to the ground. Although she turned a reserved and somewhat chilly glance on Sarah, Davina greeted Owen with a genuine smile.

“Put your tablet and pencil box inside,” she told the boy. “And join the other children.”

After staring up at her in naked adoration—Davina Wynngate would be Owen's first love, it seemed—he rushed to comply.

“His name is Owen,” Sarah said, relieved that whatever Davina's opinion of Sarah herself might be, she clearly didn't intend to hold it against the child.

Davina nodded. Her gaze strayed, measuring, to Wyatt.

He tipped his hat.

Sarah refrained from elbowing him a third time, but barely.

Introductions were made, and Sarah and Wyatt went on to the bank.

“Don't worry, Mrs. Yarbro,” Wyatt said, holding Sarah unnecessarily close for a few charged moments after he'd helped her down from the buckboard. “I was just teasing you, back there at the schoolhouse. You're all the woman I'm ever going to need. Maybe even a bit more.”

Sarah blushed—she was always blushing, with Wyatt—but she felt relieved, even if she could admit that only to herself. “May I remind you,” she purred, “that we are on a public street?”

“More's the pity,” Wyatt said. And then he kissed her. Left her trembling, there on the sidewalk as he climbed back up into the buckboard seat to drive off.

Sarah's heart seemed determined to chase after him, scramble right up into the back of that wagon with Lonesome and go wherever Wyatt went.

She turned resolutely, got out her key and opened the door of the Stockman's Bank as if it was any other Monday morning of her life.

It wasn't, of course.

Thomas appeared only long enough to plead sickness and ask for the day off. Since he
did
look a little green around the gills, Sarah told him to go home and get into bed. If she happened to see Doc, she said, she'd send him by, in case the malady was serious.

She'd conducted several transactions when the two cowboys came in. They were familiar, though not local men, but she couldn't place them. When the shorter one leered at her, she recalled his previous visit.

He tugged at the brim of his seedy hat and looked around as though he'd never been in a bank before. There was something about the avidity of his attention, both to Sarah and to the bank itself, that troubled her, but she quickly shook it off. Strangers came in all the time, asking questions, looking to do some sort of ordinary business.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” Sarah asked.

“We're thinking of conducting some banking,” the shorter man said.

Sarah produced two forms from under the counter and set the ink bottle and public pen nearer to hand. “If you'll just enter your names and places of residence, I'll be happy to help you.”

There was a pause. The taller man, his clothes as shabby and trail-worn as any Sarah had ever seen, looking as if they could stand up on their own, without him in them, didn't even glance at the form. The other one grinned, showing very bad teeth to accent his pockmarked complexion, took up the pen and wrote,
Wm J. Smith
on his form, printing the letters in a childish script.
Genrall Del., Stone Crek, Arizona Terrtary.

He was barely literate, Sarah concluded. Again, that was not unusual.

“This here's Josh,” William J. Smith said, cocking a thumb at his sidekick. “He don't write. Just makes an X when it's required.”

“That's fine,” Sarah said, mildly disturbed by something in his stance or manner, but unable to put her finger on just what it was.

“We might be dealing in large sums,” Smith went on, after laying the pen aside. “So if it wouldn't be too much trouble, we'd appreciate it if you'd let us have a look at your safe. Can't be too careful, these days.”

A vague, prickling alarm danced in the pit of Sarah's stomach. She told herself she was being silly. It was perfectly reasonable for someone planning on making a sizable deposit to ask to see the safe.

“You'll find it sound,” she assured them. Then she crossed the room and opened the door beside the one leading into her father's office. The safe was inside, the finest to be had, standing almost six feet high and taking up most of the space. The door was solid iron, seven inches thick, and only Sarah and her father knew the combination, which changed weekly. Delivering and installing the monstrosity had required the help of four strong men, several mules, and a variety of pulleys and ramps.

At the same moment Mr. Smith approached to take a closer look, the door of the bank opened and Rowdy came in, the picture of affable goodwill.

“Morning, boys,” he said to Mr. Smith and the other man. “I haven't seen you around here before, so I thought I'd stop in and say howdy.”

The man called Josh reddened slightly around the jowls, and his right hand twitched, as though it wanted to rise to the handle of his pistol.

“I reckon the safe is sturdy enough,” Mr. Smith said, not as ruffled as his partner, but watchful.

Sarah, after closing the door to the closet containing the safe, introduced the men to Rowdy. Nods were exchanged, but no more words.

Mr. Smith and Josh left the bank.

Rowdy lingered, standing at the counter now, his head turned to watch the two men through the broad window. They mounted their horses and reined them away, rode off at a trot.

“Where's Wyatt?” Rowdy asked when he finally spoke, and his eyes were serious as they met and held Sarah's gaze.

“Out at the new place, building a roof,” Sarah said. “Why?”

Rowdy's grin was so sudden, it almost dazzled Sarah. “I guess I figured the two of you would still be honeymooning,” he said.

“We both have things to do,” Sarah said, coloring up.

Rowdy didn't comment. Not on that, at least. “Lark and Gideon and the baby will be coming in on the train today,” he said. “Pardner, too. Lark wired me last night, said she hoped you and Wyatt and the boy would join us for supper tonight. Sort of a celebration. She's been wanting a sister-in-law. Told me to tell you that, and that she's glad it turned out to be you.”

Sarah was pleased. She'd known Lark Yarbro for some time, of course, and liked her very much. But now they were family, and that made a difference. For so long, she'd had no one but her father. “We'd like that,” she said.

“Good,” Rowdy replied. “Lark will probably come by the bank before then, to give you her regards in person, if she's not too tired from riding the train all that time and wrangling a fractious baby the whole way.”

Sarah nodded.

As quickly as it had come, Rowdy's grin vanished again. “Sarah, you shouldn't be working in this bank all by yourself. I didn't like the looks of those yahoos—Mr. ‘Smith' and the other fella. Why did you show them the safe?”

“They asked to see it. It's not uncommon, Rowdy. I store deeds and other documents in that safe, as well as our cash on hand, and people like to see where their money is being kept. Make sure it's secure.”

“Where's Thomas?” Rowdy asked. “Not that he'd be much help if there was trouble.”

“He's sick today,” Sarah said, mildly affronted. First Wyatt had thought she couldn't protect her own bank, and now Rowdy was echoing his concerns. She drew herself up. “I have a shotgun, and I know how to use it.”

Rowdy's grin was wry, a mere twitch at the corner of his mouth. “If ‘Smith' and his friend come back, Sarah, call somebody in off the street and send them to fetch me. I'll be around town somewhere, and I'm working out of the house until the new jail gets built.”

Sarah nodded. “You keep putting an emphasis on the name ‘Smith,'” she said. “Why is that?”

Rowdy sighed. “Well, sister Sarah,” he said, “if ever there was a name that gets used for an alias right along, it's ‘Smith.' Followed closely by ‘Jones.'”

While she was still a little annoyed, Sarah liked being called “sister.”

“Remember,” Rowdy said, turning to head for the door. “If anybody bothers you, even just makes you feel a little nervous, send for me.”

“I will,” Sarah said, with no real intention of doing so. If she sent for the marshal every time someone disturbed her nerves, he'd be a permanent fixture in the bank.

They both went on about their normal business.

It wasn't just Lark and Maddie, Gideon and Pardner and the babies who came in on the morning train, unfortunately. Charles Langstreet came, too, wearing a black armband on one sleeve of his tailored coat and looking coldly, dangerously furious.

He strode into the bank and scared Miss Tillie Robbins—who was making a fifty-cent deposit to her Christmas fund—so badly that she fled without a receipt.

Sarah simply stood there, stunned. How could Charles have covered the distance between Philadelphia and Stone Creek in such a short time?

But, of course, she realized in the next dizzying moment, he hadn't
gone
to Philadelphia in the first place. He'd only pretended to make that journey, hoping to catch Sarah off guard perhaps. He'd probably been in Flagstaff, or Phoenix, the whole time. He could have sent the telegrams from there, or routed them through his office back East.

“How dare you flout my orders?” he demanded. His face was white with rage and exhaustion, and as he approached the counter, Sarah actually retreated a step, not entirely certain he wouldn't vault over it and throttle her.
“Owen is my son!”

“He's my son, too,” Sarah managed bravely. “And I won't send him halfway across the continent by himself!”

Charles seemed almost apoplectic, despite his pallor. Was he ill?

Sarah was too alarmed to be sympathetic.

“Where is he?” he demanded, his voice a venomous hiss.

“In school,” Sarah said. “Where he belongs.” Her gaze strayed to the armband. “Is someone—did someone—?”