Give Me A Texas Ranger (16 page)

P
HYLISS
M
IRANDA

To my beautiful daughters, Kathleen and Jennifer, who have given me the room and encouragement needed to follow my dreams.

I love you both for following your own dreams while sharing mine; and for my eight precious grandchildren.

Mama

In memory of Brandon Henriquez
July 12, 1990–July 3, 2009.

A young man who left footprints
on every heart he touched.

You are missed and loved.

Texas Panhandle
Summer 1881

Not only was he tired, hungry, and dirty, but technically, Hayden McGraw guessed, he was still on suspension from the Texas Rangers. The last thing he needed was to become involved in the quarrel that seemed to be brewing in Buffalo Springs, Texas. It wasn’t any of his concern…yet.

Only an hour earlier, the lawman had ridden into town and straight down Main Street, which was lined with scant frame buildings crowded together in order to hold one another up. He had tied his gelding, Stewball, to the hitching post outside of Chip and Hell’s, the first drinking establishment he came across.

The lawman now settled in at the bar, not sure which he wanted most: the shot of whiskey the bartender was sliding his way, or finding a place called Molly Lou’s. It’d been one hell of a day, and from the looks of the crowd milling around the saloon, much like a herd of cattle spooked by blue lightning, it wasn’t about to get better.

“Chip, fetch us some beer over here, pronto,” yelled a guy in the corner.

“We’ll all be hog-tied and saddled with a dozen young’uns, if you don’t get on the ball,” hailed a man whose forehead didn’t stop until it reached the crown of his head.

“If you don’t like my service, get your sorry butts across the creek and drink at Molly Lou’s,” the bartender fired back.

The mention of the other saloon piqued Hayden’s interest.

“But it ain’t free there,” Baldy grumbled.

Another patron clanged his mug on the table. “But it’s stronger.”

“If you like rotgut.” The slow drawl wafted through the thick air. “I’ll drink free any day.”

Hayden raised a questioning brow. Free-flowing beer was a sure sign that somebody wanted something mighty bad, attracting a big crowd, assuring a favorable outcome. But this time it seemed different.

He surveyed the patrons. An odd assortment of folks. Citizens who no doubt had never seen the inside of a den of iniquity. Others obviously hadn’t seen outdoors for a while. The lawman took a deep breath and tried to remember whatever was eatin’ on them wasn’t his concern, unless he was invited in.

The bartender placed another glass of whiskey in front of him. “On the house.”

Hayden pulled out a couple of coins. “Appreciate it, but I’ll pay. Where is this Molly Lou’s?” He laid two bits on the bar.

“Half a mile on the other side of the creek, where trouble lives.”

“Town got a name?”

“Naw, it’s just called Buffalo Wallow. Them type of renegades and gamblers aren’t welcome in Buffalo Springs. Need to keep their kind together, so Sheriff Oldham will know where to find trouble when it comes a callin’.”

“Thanks.” Hayden slid another coin to the chatty bartender.

Hayden turned his back to the bar, resting his elbows on the edge, again surveying the crowd.

“Where’s that dern Justice of the Peace anyways?” A boisterous voice boomed. “He called this meeting.”

“Probably at Molly Lou’s, showing off his new book of marriage licenses, trying to make the gamblers and dance-hall girls see the error of their ways,” Mr. Baldy answered. “He says you’ve gotta get hitched if you’re livin’ without benefit of clergy—”

“What in the heck is that supposed to mean?” A woman, not so ladylike, spouted.

“Means everybody in Newman County has gotta get legit. No marriage license, no beddin’.” Baldy’s eyes narrowed, brows knitted together. “I’m jest quotin’ the JP.”

Hayden tilted back his Stetson a tad. So much for the purpose of free beer. It guaranteed success for the JP. Hayden had heard the rumors that when the first book of marriage licenses reached Newman County, the Justice of the Peace planned to make money by forcing every man and woman living together to comply with his interpretation of the law and record their marriage. He focused mainly on the cowboys, gamblers, and dance-hall girls, but nobody was exempt.

To Hayden, it didn’t seem right to force any grown man or woman into matrimony just because they could now record their union. Glad he wasn’t here to resolve the town’s differences of opinion. On second thought, with the increasing numbers packing the sawdust floors of the saloon-turned-meeting-hall, his experience in mob control might come in handy. Where in the blue blazes was the sheriff? Nothing could be more important than keeping this crowd in check.

Baldy’s roar drew Hayden’s attention back to the discussion. “Goldarn it, the law is the law.”

The majority of the folks nodded in agreement, just before they took long draws on their beers. “Yep, gotta do what a man’s gotta do to make ’em legal,” another voiced.

A chorus of “and women too” filled the air.

“Trouble. Trouble. Trouble,” Chip muttered behind Hayden’s back, just before the lawman heard something smack the batwing doors.

Looking up, he watched a tall woman push aside the swinging doors with both hands. The doors vibrated to and fro for half a dozen swings before stilling. It didn’t take a second look to see that the woman—who was gussied up in some fandangle pink dress, all glossy and lookin’ way too hot for the dog days of summer—was prepared to fight a prairie fire with spit and guts.

A blanket of silence spread over the crowd. He didn’t know who the woman was, but obviously the town either respected her greatly or was scared as hell of her, but he figured he was about to find out.

The fiery woman made her way to the front of the crowd, accompanied by two other women. One woman stood about a head taller than their leader, and repeatedly bobbled her flaming red hair, covered with tiny curls that made Hayden think of screws dangling from a string. The other, frumpy, a tad shorter, and too old to still be a saloon girl, left no doubt by her stance why she was there.

Before any of the three women could speak, Baldy bellowed, “Patience Stevenson, you stay out of this. Ain’t your problem. Take your girls and get back down to Buffalo Wallow where you all belong.” Glasses clanked together. “Ain’t nobody from your part of town belongs up here during broad daylight, Little Woman.”

Openly aggravated, the woman outfitted in pink, now identified as Patience, leveled a stare over the crowd. “I’m not going anyplace. Ladies and”—leaving no doubt where she stood on the subject by the tone of her voice, she transferred her gaze directly at the table Baldy occupied before continuing—“and gentlemen, first off, I’m nobody’s “little woman,” and nobody can make me, my employees, or anyone in this county take out a marriage license unless they want to.”

“And we don’t wanna, either.” The redhead plopped her hands on her hips. “And nobody is gonna make us leave this saloon—”

Patience broke in. “Women have rights, and we’re nobody’s
have to!
We don’t
have to
do anything, just because a man tells us to do so.”

Infectious bravado broke out throughout the saloon. Voices melded into a thunderous concerto of cheers and jeers. One couldn’t distinguish a yea from a nay, a good natured slap on the back from a mincing chop to the jaw.

Over the roar, the incensed young woman pronounced, quite emphatically Hayden had to admit, that laws were meant to be followed, but only if they were interpreted correctly; otherwise, they were simply wrong and were meant to be challenged.

“Wanna ’nother whiskey?” the bartender asked.

Hayden nodded, never taking an eye off the crowd. He felt uncomfortable because the mob was swelling by numbers instead of dispersing. Generally in an explosive situation like this, cool reasoning would eventually prevail, and after the folks got tired of yammering the pros and cons they’d head home, usually in time for supper. But he didn’t see that happening.

Scanning the crowd, Hayden tried to make sense out of the comments. The arguments had now turned personal, beyond a spirited debate. He’d seen full-fledged riots less volatile. He might be forced into action after all.

Hayden had an uncanny way of watching everyone, yet no one. Part of his training. He was continually drawn back to the lady in pink. She seemed to have a rattler by its tail and didn’t know whether to keep holdin’ on or take a chance of letting it go and getting bitten.

No doubt Hayden’s nastiest mood wouldn’t hold a light to the best of the woman standing in front of the crowd with her arms folded across her chest, impatiently tapping her foot. And to think, somewhere her ma and pa were probably laughing their butts off at naming their daughter Patience. He’d observed her for less than ten minutes, and this woman was probably so impatient that she couldn’t understand why tomorrow couldn’t have come before yesterday.

Out of nowhere came a pathetic-looking man just a little over five feet tall, but he’d have to stop slouching to even reach that height. His face was pasty, with an odd-shaped mustache that didn’t stop until it reached each of his ears. His deep-set, sullen black eyes told Hayden the middle-aged man was cantankerous as hell.

All heads turned toward the man as he fought his way through the crowd toward the three women, who were firmly planted facing the gathering.

Mr. Baldy bailed to his feet so fast that a mug of beer tipped over and crashed onto the floor. But he didn’t seem to notice, as he engaged his mouth. “And Muley Mulinex, what in the hell are you doing here? You don’t have a dog in this fight.” Baldy sneered. “Oh yeah, you do.” He furrowed his brow at Patience. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself for associating with such women.”

“Her name’s Ella,” said Muley. “You know that nobody calls her Patience, and I gotta keep my job. She pays the bills since her pa headed for the hills, leaving us high and dry.” He touched the Colt hung low on his hip. “Got any particular reason for wantin’ to butt into my business?”

Baldy picked up another beer mug from the table, hurled it against the wall, and stumbled for the door.

Muley meandered toward the end of the bar. “Chip, I need a sarsaparilla, you hear!”

Hayden was too damn tired to deal with what was coming down. From the moment he hit town, all he wanted was a stiff drink or three and to find a bath house to clean up and get a shave. But first, he needed to find Molly Lou’s. He’d hoped to pick up an envelope there containing his new Warrant of Authority, the only proof he had he was a Texas Ranger, and be out of town by break of day.

He tried not to think about the old, illegible warrant in his pocket. As much as Hayden disliked having to make a side trip to Buffalo Springs, he’d caused it himself. Some things weren’t meant to swim—paper being one. But stopping here saved him a dreary hundred-mile round-trip to company headquarters and back to pick up a new warrant. Plus, the more space he put between him and his captain the better.

Before he could bed down for the night he had to take care of Stewball, about the ugliest horse in the world, but his name fit—patches of white over red, reminding Hayden of a bowl of chili topped with cornbread. He hoped the sorry-lookin’ critter was still tied up outside the saloon. The sucker had a tendency to become impatient, work his reins loose, and make a beeline for the first place he found food.

Hayden ran his hand over his scraggly beard and realized that his gelding was better groomed than his grungy owner. Even a honyock of the worst sort would be ashamed of the lawman’s shaggy appearance.

Once he got the warrant, he could get back to the only job he’d ever known: being a Texas Ranger. Until then, Hayden McGraw was a lawman with no authority. One thing for dern sure, he intended to steer clear of the pretty woman inaptly named Patience.

Ella Stevenson tried unsuccessfully to put a stop to her foot tapping. It was a detestably bad habit that took over when she felt annoyed, which was most of the time. “Muley, you don’t have to defend me.”

“Not meant to offend, Miss Ella. Just taking my stand.” His piercing stare punctuated his statement. Again he touched his Colt.

She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten here, but intended to make certain someone spoke up for those who couldn’t do so themselves. Ella turned and addressed the crowd. “Nobody at my place, Molly Lou’s, is living in sin, and I do not hire people of questionable character.” She shifted her weight, hoping to slow down her foot tapping. “I’d sure as hell make more money if I allowed soiled doves to operate in my establishment.” She didn’t even flinch at either her usage of the swear word or her reference to the oldest profession known to man.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” a woman lashed out, as she grabbed her umbrella and darted toward the door, as if breathing the same air would harm her. “I’m tired of waiting for the JP. He’ll just have to call another meeting.” She opened her umbrella at the same time as half a dozen cowhands tried to enter. Confused, they ducked and scattered.

A handful of patrons wandered out.

Ella moved to the table cleared by the exiting citizens, followed by her two friends, but never sat down. She watched as first one resident then another skedaddled. Those left behind were more interested in free beer and a spirited verbal exchange than the reason they had gathered in the first place. Had she gotten her point across?

Her gaze settled on the rugged man standing near Muley at the bar. Rugged was a nice word for him; unkempt and flat-out scraggly was more like it. She shuddered thinking about how he must smell, but then she’d always loved rawhide and puredee ol’ cowboy. Rode hard and fast, maybe? His presence seemed to fill the room, exhibiting a classic, fearless lawman persona. She frowned and thought back to her childhood.

By the time she was ten, she could pick out a lawman, gambler, or a con man from the customers in her father’s saloon. Maybe a game she played, but mostly because one or more of them usually wanted to have a heart-to-heart with her gambling–con artist father or arrest him.

“He’s one fine-lookin’ cowpoke, isn’t he?” Audrey Jo’s bobbing red curls emphasized her statement.

“I’ve seen plenty of men just as easy on the eyes.” Dixie pushed back her graying black hair. “Had my share.”

“What man?” Ella pulled her gaze away from the man at the bar. “Who are you referring to?”

“The cowboy at the bar. And, I don’t mean Muley,” Dixie added.

“Didn’t notice.” Ella nodded a thank-you to the bartender, who set glasses of tea in front of them.

Yeah, she didn’t notice how tall the devilishly handsome stranger was beneath his grubby appearance. No way was she aware of his bulk, even betting he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. And she sure didn’t want to recognize a smile trying not to form, or the dimples barely peeking over his heavy beard.

His eyes intrigued her. Eyes that seemed to capture everyone in the crowd, yet he stared directly at her, making her feel like he could see all the way to her soul. His eyes showed no age, but experience and lots of it.

A chill ran through her veins. Tarnation and damnation, she could bet a double eagle that he was a Texas Ranger…a despicable Texas Ranger.

As if cued, the piano player clanked out some tinny notes. With free beer at Chip’s place, Molly Lou’s would have few if any customers, so she saw no reason to leave a cool glass of tea behind. Besides, she could deal with the lawman later. She eased into a chair, and tried to focus on the musician’s struggle to play. It might help to block out Dixie’s and Audrey Jo’s opinion of every woman in attendance, from the color of her dress to how much weight she had put on since having her last child.

Ella took a sip of tea. That’s when she noticed the smudge of blood on her thumb. Dern it! She should have taken time to wash her hands more thoroughly. But when she found out about the meeting, the horse she was tending to had to wait…she needed to protect her employees, and ultimately her business. When she finished her beverage, she’d go back, check on the animal, and hopefully find his owner. Dang his hide, he’d been pretty select in what he chose to eat. If only she’d taken the freshly dug carrots inside, instead of leaving them on the porch behind the saloon. Guess there’d be no carrots this evening. One of her hard-and-fast rules: all of her workers had to eat supper. She knew a full stomach led to contentment. Good, honest employees were hard to come by in the rugged new frontier.

“Ladies, I don’t like having to close up the saloon even for an hour. It’s hard to make ends meet without having the JP give away beer.” She found herself keeping time to the music. “I gotta get back down there.”

“I know,” Dixie agreed. “I reckon I’ll stick around and watch out for Muley. I’ve never seen him so riled. Seen schoolboys with a crush-on more self-assured then he normally is.”

Audrey Jo piped up. “I saw a woman reach over and touch his mustache one time. He turned red, ducked his head, and went to the back room. I swear, I don’t think I saw him for two hours.”

“Do you think he’s got a snootful today?” Dixie asked.

“Nope. Never seen him touch a drop, but that don’t mean he isn’t partakin’ when he’s not around us. You know it gets hot out there in that little cornfield he fools around in when he’s not bartending. Maybe he’s hiding a bottle out there.”

Both chuckled.

As long as Ella had known them, the women had debated Muley’s attributes—sometimes favorably, sometimes not. Although she didn’t totally agree with their assessment, she had seen nothing to contradict them. After all, Dixie and Audrey Jo had worked together, running a saloon of some sort, ever since she could remember.

Ella thought back to earlier in the day when Muley had shuffled into Molly Lou’s and announced, in his bland, factual way, that a Texas Ranger had been sent to enforce the JP’s plans. Since she wasn’t living with anyone, except her two bar maids and the bartender, who all had rooms over the saloon, she figured it best not to trouble trouble until it troubled her. But after being approached by Dixie and Audrey Jo about their concerns, she knew what was right was right, and the JP’s demands were flat-ass wrong. She had to speak on behalf of those unwilling or not brave enough to protect themselves. Seems she’d always been bold enough for two people.

Some might see it as humiliating to march up to the sacred part of town and face the citizens in order to speak on another’s behalf, but not Ella. As long as she could remember, she’d fought for what was right. She’d come this far, and nobody or nothing would stop her…especially a Texas Ranger. The man still stood at the bar drinking whiskey. A man who hadn’t taken his eyes off her. A man who could rest assured he had a formidable opponent, if he decided to butt heads with her.

She glanced back up at the man, who seemed content drinking whiskey and watching her. Ella purposely lifted her chin and boldly met his gaze.

As much as she hated to admit it, his presence did something funny to her. She was strangely flattered by his attention, but she didn’t need a distraction. She broke the stare.

It was bad enough that the hypocritical citizens of Buffalo Springs refused to associate with the group of folks who’d been forced across the creek to a section of town detestably referred to as Buffalo Wallow, but scrutinization by a Ranger was intolerable.

“How did Buffalo Wallow get its name?” she asked.

Dixie jumped onto the question. “Because folks decided that Shantytown was too good of a name, and since they felt everyone down there acted like buffalos wallowing around instead of upstanding citizens like them, the name stuck.”

“We got the reputation for being rough, lawless, with too much six-gun justice,” Audrey Jo added.

“I’d prefer to think of our folks as being self-reliant and spiritedly independent,” Ella said. Although, in fairness, it had lived up to its name, and if there was a brawl it generally had roots in Buffalo Wallow.

Raising her gaze, she found the Ranger still watching her. For a moment she studied him intensely before lowering her head. Ella began tapping her finger against her glass, trying hard not to think about the man.

Although she’d always had respect for the notorious Texas Ranger outfits, they were the ones who had caused her the problems she was faced with. Particularly one Captain Arrington, who had been hell-bent on cleaning up Mobeetie. Her father had seen it coming. Trying to stay one step ahead of the law, he had pulled up stakes and left her and her mother to fend for themselves. He headed to lawless fresh territory.

A motley crew of con artists, gamblers, horse thieves, and fancy women followed.

Seemed Buffalo Wallow, a crossroads of renegades and cowboys, was a natural nesting place for them.

Until the urge to find her father overshadowed common sense, Ella had lived comfortably in Mobeetie, where she was happy running a highly respected millinery shop with her mother. Much different from her raising—one saloon after another.

There were advantages. Much to her mother’s chagrin, by the age of ten Ella could spot a card cheat across the room, and could handle a gun as good as any man.

Before she celebrated her seventeenth birthday, her father had disappeared.

Only months later, her mother gave up trying to defend her husband. Brought on by the disgrace of secrets she was forced to keep, she gave up her will to live, shortly passing to the life hereafter.

Ella had picked up the pieces and continued to operate the businesses, but in the back of her mind she knew she had to locate her father, so her mother could rest in peace.

One day, Ella realized she had plenty of her father’s daring blood and boldness in her veins, and struck out to find him. To her disappointment she learned he had accomplished exactly what he had set out to do—stay ahead of the law. But once she located the last place he had owned and operated before he again disappeared, she was determined, come hell or high water, she would make a go of the run-down saloon, operating out of a makeshift combination wood building and tent, in a location she later learned was disreputable Buffalo Wallow.

Thus, she blamed all of this not on her father but on the Texas Ranger captain who decided to clean up Mobeetie. That certainly justified her not takin’ kindly to the lawmen, although she had to confess not all of them were cut from the same cloth. She’d run across a few of the colorful body of fighting men who symbolized a spirit and sense of purpose when faced with some of the toughest and most desperate outlaws around. So far, that hadn’t changed her opinion of the Texas Rangers in general.

The music stopped, and quiet grasped the air. The saloon darkened noticeably, as a giant of a man suddenly filled the doorway, blocking out the light of day.

“Patience Eleanor Stevenson, you’re under arrest!”