Dawn Comes Early (25 page)

“Good idea. Have you thought about giving her a geegaw?” Luke didn't know a lot about women, but he knew they liked flowers and trinkets and such.

“A present? You mean like it's her birthday or somethin'?”

“I don't know of any law that says gift giving is only for special occasions.”

His uncle thought for a moment. “Maybe you're right. Maybe a gift would get her mind off Parker. I bet she'd like a saucepan to go along with that frying pan I bought her.” He set his coffee mug down. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate our little talk.”

“Glad to help,” Luke said. He rested an arm around his uncle's shoulder and walked him outside. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

Uncle Sam nodded. “See you Sunday?”

“You know you will.”

“I'm sure Aunt Bessie will whip up something good in that new saucepan I plan to give her.”

“Can't wait,” Luke said.

The sound of a galloping horse made both men turn.

Michael thundered up on a heaving pinto waving his hat and yelling, “Miss Tenney has been kidnapped!”

Luke's blood turned cold. “What are you talking about?”

Michael battled his horse in a circle. “Cactus Joe has Miss Tenney.” He jammed his heels into his horse's sides and took off hollering for volunteers to search for her.

No sooner had Michael taken off than Luke was on the run. Whistling to Homer, he raced to the livery for his horse.

Chapter 22

“Stay away from her, you scoundrel!”

“Curses!” The bandit's hand flew to his side to grab his weapon but Brandon was quicker. With a single bullet to the chest the outlaw met his doom.

K
ate battled her way through the fog. What happened? Where was she? Her head ached and nothing made sense. Was she dreaming? Maybe this was her imagination. Or simply a scene from one of her books?

Her eyelids heavy as lead, she blinked against the glowing light. She tried to move but her arms and legs felt as if they were shackled.

She opened her eyes again, but it took several tries before she could keep them open long enough to take in her surroundings. Hands and feet bound, she occupied a cot in a corner of a small, windowless adobe brick cabin. An apple-bellied stove stood in the center of the room. A plain wood table and two ladder-back chairs took up what little space was left.

She realized suddenly that she wasn't alone. The man she recognized as Cactus Joe sat watching her with his one good eye.

Fear knotted inside, but she refused to look away or let him know how scared she was. She pressed an elbow against the narrow cot and forced herself into a sitting position.

He sat between her and the only door in the place, his chair balancing on the back two legs.

“What . . . ?” Her mouth was so dry she could barely form the words. Moistening her lips she tried again. “What do you want?”

A slow grin inched across his face. “At last she awakes.” Lowering the front legs of his chair to the floor he rose to his feet, his bulky form seeming to fill the room.

Nerves tensed, she flattened her back against the rough surface of the adobe brick wall.

“Let me go,” she pleaded. “I have to help put out a fire.”

His grin widened. “There is no fire. I just created some smoke to get everyone out of the way.” He made a face. “I took a chance they'd leave you behind. Now don't go looking at me like that.” He sounded offended. “You and me, we're friends.”

She glared at him. “You kidnapped me and tied me up!”

“I only do that to people I like.” He waved his hand. “Sorry I can't offer you better accommodations. Crime doesn't pay much but at least you get to work your own hours.”

She frowned. “What do you want with me?”

“I've been tryin' for years to get people around here to take me seriously. But no, they think I'm a joke. The marshal chases me a mile out of town and gives up. He doesn't even bother forming a posse. The way this town treats its criminals, it don't deserve none.”

His one good eye watered and Kate stared at him, not sure what to think. Was the man crying?

“When you think of outlaws, what name comes to mind?” He sniffed. “Not Cactus Joe. Oh no. It's Jesse James.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “The man is dead but he still gets all the respect. That's where you come in. You're gonna help me get some of what he has. I want respect too.”

Brushing away a single tear that rolled down his cheek he stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. He picked up a book from the table and she immediately recognized it as her own. She groaned inwardly. Did everyone in Cactus Patch own her book?

“
Miss Hattie's Dilemma
,” he read aloud. He studied the cover of a man and woman in an embrace. The man was supposed to be Brandon, though the cartoon rendition bore no resemblance to the man she envisioned.

“Not bad. But I need a title that's a bit more catchy. I read your story from beginning to end. Every page. And you know what? You ain't half bad. None of them other books have heart. Not like yours. You're even better than that fellow Dickens.”

She gaped at him.
Dickens?
The man obviously didn't know anything about literature. Critics had torn her stories apart and called her last book a “hapless piece of flapdoodle.” The highest praise her editor ever paid her was to say that her stories were “interesting.”

Such criticism was especially painful since the only reason she became a writer was to earn respect. Unfortunately, writing earned her no such esteem. In Boston, people were judged by their circumstances and hers were found wanting. Those who knew her never saw her as anything more than the daughter of a deserting father and an alcoholic mother. Her classmates still referred to her as “the girl who cleaned latrines to pay her way.” It was as if her diploma had less value, somehow, because of what she had to do to get it.

It was just her luck that one of the few people outside of a few bored cowhands to appreciate her writing talent was an outlaw.

“How . . . how did you know I was a writer?”

He grinned. “People talk and I listen.” He pulled off his eye patch and tossed it into a box with others. He then lifted off his mustache and black wig and her mouth dropped open. He was completely bald, his head as shiny as a newly laid egg. He looked like a completely different man.

“The day you and I bumped into each other at the post office was the day your book arrived in the mail.”

“Bumped into—” She thought back to how her hair had stood on end. No wonder. “The bearded old man I ran into that day. That was you.” She was willing to bet it was also him in the courtyard the other night.

He nodded and tossed her book on the table. He then reached for a stack of dime novels by several other authors, holding them up one by one. “Kit Carson. Wild Bill Hickok.” He scoffed. “What's good for Kit and Bill is good enough for Cactus Joe.”

With a sweep of his arm, he brushed the books off the table and they scattered upon the dirt floor.

“That's why you're here. You're gonna write a book about
me
.”

She shook her head. Luke said the man was short a couple of hat sizes and apparently he was right. “I've given up writing. I'm a rancher now.”

“That's plain loco. Why would anyone in their right mind trade books for beeves?”

“It's none of your business why.” She didn't owe him an explanation.

He shrugged and pointed to a Remington writing machine on the table. “I take it you know how to use one of those.”

“I do but—”

“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “You're gonna write about the life and times of Cactus Joe—the Master of Disguise.” He pulled a lethal-looking knife from his waist and moved toward the cot.

Thinking he meant to do her harm, she cried out, “I'll write your s-story!”

He grinned. “As if you got a choice.” He cut the ropes off her feet and hands. Replacing the knife at his waist, he gestured toward the table. “Have a seat and we'll get to work.”

When she didn't move, he whipped the gun out of his holster and blew in the barrel before pointing it in her direction.

Since his vision was no longer hampered by his eye patch, she figured she better do as she was told. For now. Who knew what kind of shot he was when using
both
eyes?

Swallowing hard, she slid off the tick mattress and he smiled with approval. “Good. Now set your carcass in that chair and do what I tell you.”

Her legs stiff, she felt slightly woozy. The room spun around and she reached for the table to steady herself.

“Chloroform will do that to you,” he said.

“You chloroformed me?” she gasped.

“Now don't get yourself all in a snit. You'll be good as new when it wears off. At least that's what the bottle says.” He pulled out the chair and gestured with his arm. “I'll get you some coffee.”

Holding on to the chairs she circled the table to avoid contact with him and sat in front of the typing machine. He holstered his gun and handed her a sheet of paper. He then poured coffee from the pot on the stove and set the chipped cup next to the typewriter.

Sitting opposite her, he poured himself a shot of whiskey. He lifted his glass, swallowed the contents in one gulp, and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

She took a sip of the strong, cold brew and immediately wished she hadn't. Never had she tasted anything so bitter. Hands shaking, she set the cup down with a clatter. “Do you have any water?”

He handed her a canteen of water and she wiped off the top before raising it to her lips.

After quenching her thirst, she fed a sheet of paper into the machine and rested her fingers on the keyboard.

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded.

“I . . . I don't know what to type.” She'd never written a book about an outlaw. Her stories were fantasy and held no resemblance to real life. She wrote about true love.

“Don't you normally start by writing ‘Chapter One'?”

“Yes, of course.” She could type moderately fast with a minimum of errors, but today her trembling fingers made it necessary to go slow or risk hitting the wrong keys.

He stood and walked behind her to peer over her shoulder. After she finally managed to get the two words centered on the page, he nodded and rubbed his hands together. “Excellent.”

He paced back and forth. While he considered how to start his story, her gaze darted around the cabin. The walls were bare except for a Pears year calendar hanging from a nail. A few dates were circled in black ink.

She had little hope of anyone coming to her rescue. Since she hadn't taken her clothes Miss Walker would know something was wrong, but that's all she would know. That meant Kate was on her own. Keeping her wits about her might be the only chance she had of escape.

Cactus Joe stopped pacing. “I guess the best way to start is at the beginning. How about this? Joseph Smith Landers was born in Kentucky in 1850.” He stopped and glared at her. “Why ain't you typing?”

“That's . . . boring.” A man intent upon having his story told probably had a high opinion of himself. If she was right, then perhaps she could use his overblown ego to her advantage. First she would have to earn his trust. Let him think she was on his side.

“There's nothing boring about being born,” he said, sounding peeved.

“It's just that readers want excitement. They want adventure.” She forced a smile. “I suspect you're just the one to give it to them.”

Her ploy seemed to work because he looked pleased and his chest puffed out. “You're right.” He rubbed his whiskered chin. “So where
should
I start?”

She pretended to give the matter careful consideration. “Perhaps you should start with your first holdup. Why you became an outlaw.”