Dreams of Gold (11 page)

Two gunshots sounded from down the street. And Quinn tensed. “The saloon?”

“Sounds like.” Bud ran out of the office. “I’ll take the far side.”

Quinn tossed down the towel, followed him out the door onto the street, and grabbed a shirt from his saddlebag. He slipped his pistol from the holster, spun the cylinder to check all the chambers were full.

Gun drawn, Bud moved into the shadows of the building across the street. Quinn took the close side, moving with quiet steps along the boardwalk, keeping the saloon in sight as he approached. Probably a drunk letting off some steam, but he couldn’t be too sure. Underestimating the bad guy was a dangerous practice. He scanned the area around the Red-Eye. Usually the patrons exited the saloon. Why was this different?

Bud signaled he’d go around to the back door.

Stepping on the balls of his feet, Quinn moved to the side of the saloon’s swinging doors and listened. No music or laughter sounded from inside. Not good. His gut tensed, but he inched forward and angled his head around the doorway. “Gibson, you okay?”

“Yeah, shooter’s contained.”

Quinn slipped through the door and glanced around the room.

“Drifter lost his grubstake and the stupid fool took a couple potshots. A couple of fellas knocked him out.” He waved a hand toward the corner, where several men straightened chairs and gathered strewn playing cards.

Bud slipped in through the back door and walked to the body slumped in a chair.

Like a collective sigh had been exhaled, the saloon girls emerged from behind the counter, and the other customers rose from their hiding places. Within a few moments, activities shifted back to normal. Quinn relaxed his stance, slipping his pistol back into the holster. He watched Bud rouse the semi-conscious man and march him past. “Full jail tonight.”

“Looks like. Hope this is the total of the night’s excitement.”

Another problem averted. Quinn stepped out and breathed in the cool night air. As many times as he’d drawn his weapon in the line of duty, he still needed a couple minutes to let his heart rate return to normal. The drone of crickets and the warble of a meadowlark lulled him.

From down the alley came the sound of footsteps on the outside stairs to the hotel. Because the cadence of the steps was slow and hesitant, Quinn’s curiosity kicked up. A hotel guest would be moving with more confidence. With two long strides, he reached the side of the saloon and looked across the alley.

Just in time to see a familiar, auburn-haired female slip in through the second-floor doorway.

Concern for Ciara’s welfare revved his body back to full alert. Why was she sneaking around? He moved through the alley and climbed the stairs. When he leaned his head into the hallway, he spotted her at the far end, a hand on the doorknob to the last room. The moment he opened his mouth to call out, the door opened and a man yelled, “Hey, get in here.”

“Don’t grab me.” Her body fought against the man’s hold, and her feet kicked wrinkles into the carpet runner, and then she disappeared inside.

Quinn’s heart clamped.
Damn.
In an instant, his pistol rested loose in his hand, and he eased along the wall. Who was in that room and why would—

With a rattle, the door opened. Ciara jerked into the hallway, her body arched and an arm twisted behind her back.

Instinct pushed him into a crouch, a shoulder wedged against a door jamb. What was she doing? “Ciara?”

Her head whipped to the side. “Go back, Quinn.”

In a blur, a brown-haired man stepped into sight, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her backward, a gun pressed against her chest. “Stay back, or I’ll shoot the sneak.”

A hostage
? What had she walked into? He scanned the hall for a more advantageous spot. A low table topped with a vase of flowers about ten feet away offered the most cover. Who was he dealing with? “I’m Sheriff Riley. Let the woman go and we’ll talk.”

“Wrong. Go back down those stairs, and she’ll be released at the edge of town.”

No way was he allowing Ciara out of this hotel. By now, Bud was at the other end of town with the drunk from the saloon. He’d have to figure this out on his own. Best to keep the stranger talking. “Ciara, are you all right? Who is this man?”

“He claims he’s Shamus Mulcahy, but I know bet—” Her words ended with a yelp of pain.

At her shrill cry, something deep in his chest twisted. He had to get to her, to rescue his special woman. “Hey, leave the lady be.” Quinn tensed, fingers gripping the pistol until they ached. Again, her words verified what O’Malley said. Two men using the same name. So maybe the man in the jail shouldn’t be there.

He’d worry about that later. Now he had to get Ciara safely away from this culprit. He crept closer. His boot pressed on a squeaky floorboard that gave way, tipping him off balance. At the last moment, he lunged to grab the table and drew a bead on the man’s foot at the side of Ciara’s skirts. He squeezed the trigger.

Two shots rang out, the percussion reverberating against the walls. A flash of heat stabbed his right side, flattening him with a grunt.

Ciara screamed his name and footsteps pounded.

Damn
. He levered himself up on an elbow, gritting his teeth at the fiery pain. He touched his side, and his hand came back coated with blood.
Not good
. He laid back and inched two fingers into his hip pocket until he pulled out a bandanna. With that clamped over his side, he rolled to his knees. Sweat beaded on his face, and he pulled shallow breaths through his opened mouth. He had to get to her. Ciara? He tried to form her name, but his mouth was too dry. Then he slumped to the side and blackness descended.

****

Would he ever wake? Ciara perched on a chair and dabbed a wet cloth on Quinn’s fevered face. Under her breath, she hummed an old lullaby that her mother used to sing when Ciara was a child. Anything to make up for what she’d done.

With jerky moves, she dipped the cloth in a bowl of water and wrung out the excess. She should never have gone to the hotel to confront the imposter. This time, her impetuousness had brought harm to another, to the man she held dear in her heart. The town had seemed empty in his absence, and yearning for his return filled her until she ached.

With gestures well-practiced over the past three years, she moved the cloth over his jaw and pressed it along his neck to his upper chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. His golden brown and muscled chest. Her fingers trailed along the taut plane, his crisp chest hair tickling her skin. A gasp escaped. “Oh my stars.” She jerked back her hand.

Chalk that action up for one more transgression. Forgiveness for causing his injury didn’t matter. All she wished for was to see his dark eyes open and hear him say something infuriating. Then she’d know he would live.

Doc Anderson stepped through the curtain and slipped his fingers over Quinn’s wrist. “Any change?” He pulled out his pocket watch and focused on the timepiece.

Over the past few years, Ciara had seen enough doctors perform the same action and waited until he looked up. “None in the past half-hour. He mumbled something but I couldn’t understand his words.”

“The first few hours are the worst. That’s why I gave him a good dose of laudanum.” He patted her shoulder and chuckled. “Quinn’s strong. He’ll be just fine.”

“Thanks, Doctor. I’m clinging to that.”

“His deputy’s outside and wondered if he could come in.” Doc jerked his head toward the waiting room. “Feels like he let the sheriff down.”

A sentiment she knew well. “Tell him he’s welcome here. Quinn can use any and all support.”

Doc walked to the curtain and held it aside.

Bud Forrester entered, pulled off his hat revealing reddish hair, and walked to the side of the cot. “Ma’am.”

“Deputy.” She looked up and offered a wan smile. “Doc says he’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, the sheriff’s tough. I just wanted to see for myself.” His fingers worked the hat brim in a jerky circle. “Kinda in the habit of going over the policing matters with the sheriff.”

“Oh.” Of course, others who’d known Quinn longer would want time with him. Loosening her grip on his hand, she started to rise. “Would you like a few minutes alone?”

Bud held out a staying hand. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll tell you, and you can give him the message when he wakes?”

“I can do that.” Relaying a message didn’t come near repaying Quinn. She wet the cloth again and draped it over his forehead, doing what she could to break his fever.

“Quinn, this here’s Bud and I got some news.” He stepped next to the cot. “Joe brought me a wire that said the U.S. Marshals will be here tomorrow. So, don’t be a-worrying about searching for the circuit judge or the stagecoach robbery.”

At the word “stagecoach,” Ciara realized she hadn’t thought of her lost possessions in days. Her time had been occupied with finding a job—and with the man before her. Her heart pinched at the thought of how important the lawman had become in only a few days.

“They’ll transport the prisoners, so don’t you be worrying about that. I’ve written out a disturbing the peace complaint on the drunk, and Gibson will fill me in on damages.” For a moment, his fingertips lingered on the rough blanket then pulled back into a fist. “But what are you charging the second Irishman with You never did say.?”

Her hand stilled, and she studied the deputy. “Second Irishman?”

Nodding, the deputy pulled up a chair and sat. “Sheriff rode out to Crazy Woman Creek and brought back that swindler who sold shares in the gold mine last spring.”

Her father? Here in Bull City? She expected excitement to beat within her chest at the news. Her sole purpose for traveling across the country was about to be fulfilled. But her thoughts were only on the man whose fever wouldn’t break and who lay too still on this cot.

“Although the man denies the act.” Bud scratched his chin, rasping sounded from his thick beard. “Kept telling me the sheriff arrested the wrong man.”

“I did.” Two gruff words rasped from the head of the bed.

That voice. Her heart rate leapt, and she turned to look at his handsome, but pale, face. “You’re awake.”

“Barely.” He swallowed hard, and his eyelids blinked.

Grinning, Bud stood and slapped his hat on his head. “Glad to have you back with the living, Sheriff. I’ll get Doc.”

Ciara lifted a nearby glass of water and held it to Quinn’s mouth. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore, but I’ll be fine. More water, please.”

With a handkerchief held under his chin, she gave him a few more sips, her gaze taking in his dear features. The tension she’d been carrying in her shoulders eased.

“I’m better now, after hearing the marshals will arrive soon.”

“You heard that? How long have you been awake?”

“Since ‘oh my stars.’” An eyelid dropped in a slow wink, and his lips quirked up on one side. “A man would have to be dead not to react to a beautiful woman’s hands on his bare skin.”

“Oh no.” Heat infused her cheeks, and she looked away, her heart beating double time. “I am…I do not…let me—”

“Miss Ciara Morrissey without a quick reply?” His hand covered hers, and he brought their clasped hands to his chest.

The gesture touched her deep inside, probably more than she dared to admit. “Wait a minute.”

“I’ll wait forever. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Excitement fluttered in her stomach, and she sucked in a breath. “What are you saying?”

“Stay here in Bull City…with me.” His fingers cupped her jaw, and his thumb brushed her cheek. “Keep me entertained with your ideas and schemes for the next forty or fifty years.”

Epilogue

Two weeks later, Ciara tugged green-striped curtains along the wooden rod in the high window of the sheriff’s office. “There, don’t you think that looks better?”

Quinn twisted to look over his shoulder and grimaced at the twinge in his side. “Blocks out the sky.” Although he liked the homey touch the curtains brought to the room, he found a secret pleasure in arguing with his Irish beauty.

“But only an inch or so at each edge. The window looked so bare before.” She walked backward, hands held out in front of her, framing the window. “I could tie them back at the sides. Would that be better?”

He reached for her hand, tugged her into his lap, and held her close. “They’re fine.”

“Watch out for your injury.” After a moment of resistance, she laid her head on his chest. “Good, because I’m almost finished with the ones for the front windows. And I have ideas about new bedding for the cell cots.”

“Ciara, you don’t have to do this.” He brushed a kiss on the top of her head. His contentment would be complete as soon as his wound fully healed and they stood up before the preacher.

“I know but these projects are my excuse to see you during the day.” She angled her head so she could meet his gaze. “Amazing how things worked out, right? I’m getting acquainted with the father I thought had died many years ago. He is working a successful business venture—the first after many failed attempts. The townspeople are seeing a bit of return on their investment.”

“A fact that has sweetened everyone’s tempers. And relieved most of my folks’ worries.” His head dipped in a nod. “Thanks to Shamus.”