Just This Once (6 page)

Behind her, Spooner and Noah had burst into
guffaws. “No need to come to that,” Noah had told her, twirling the
reddish brown ends of his mustache. “Soon as Deck stuck his gun in
that old geezer’s ribs and threatened to shoot, that gal couldn’t
hand the ring over fast enough.”

Deck, Snake’s cousin, tall and wiry with
hair nearly as fair as Snake’s, had snickered. “I wished you’d’a
let me bring her along, too. Hell, you got yourself a fine-lookin’
woman, Snake. The rest of us ain’t got nothin.”

“You’d have brung her along, and that old
geezer grandpop of hers would’ve had the law hunt us down like
dogs.” Snake had snatched up the gold pieces on the table and begun
fingering them greedily, then had tossed one to Deck, Noah, and
Spooner in turn. “With these, boys, you can buy yourselves a fancy
woman when we go to town. Have a little fun.”

“What... did she look like?” Josie had
asked, trying to sound casual, her gaze still fixed on the ring
Snake had set down among the coins.

“Who?” Sifting through the rest of the loot,
Snake pursed his mouth in concentration as he judged each item’s
value.

“The English girl.”

He’d shrugged, already ripping bills out of
a handsome leather wallet. “Like she’d break if ya squeezed her.
Hair yellow as a daffodil. Pale and skinny. Hey, why so many
questions?”

He’d reached out one lanky, corded arm and
smacked her on the bottom. “Go fix supper. I’ve got a hankerin’ for
fried chicken and peach pie. Hurry it up, me and the boys are near
starved.”

Now, in her room above the Golden Pistol,
Josie reached for the folded scrap of paper and reread the letter
that had been in Alicia Denby’s handbag, the letter Josie had read
in secret later that night.

Dear Miss Denby

We regret to inform you that our records
regarding the matter you inquired about are sadly incomplete. We
are unable to discover any information about the individual you are
interested in, but you may wish to make further inquiries at the
Margaret Mapleson Foundling Home in Charlotte, North Carolina. Due
to severe overcrowding, many of the orphaned children left in our
care were sent there in the months following the close of the
War.

The rest of the letter had been torn away.
But reading it, Josie had felt a chill. Miss Denby had been looking
for an orphan, an orphan born during the war. And Miss Denby
possessed a ring that appeared remarkably similar to Josie’s own
precious brooch. The brooch that no one knew about, not Snake, not
Pop Watson, not Rose or Penny from the saloon, no one.

What if she discovered she was related in
some way to this Miss Denby? Of course, Miss Denby was blond, and
she had brown hair, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be some sort
of relation, a cousin, perhaps, or possibly...

Possibly even a sister.

A sister.

No. Josie shook her head, blocking this line
of thought. It was silly to get her hopes up. When she was a child
and had been taken into her first series of homes, she’d always
gotten her hopes up, always thought optimistically that she would
find a home and a family, not just a farm to work on, and supper to
serve, and other people’s socks and hems to darn and animals to
feed. But a
home
. Hugs and warm words, a pat on the
shoulder, shared sorrows and joys. It hadn’t happened.

Pop Watson was the closest she’d come—and
he’d been a former snake oil salesman, carnival barker, and
pickpocket who’d married the hard-faced Montana widow who’d written
to the Children’s Society Orphanage seeking a boy to help her run
her small ranch at the foot of the Beartooth Mountains.

Emmie Lou Dunner had been none too pleased
when she’d had to settle for fourteen-year-old, small-for-her-age
Josie when all the boys were taken. But things had gotten better
for Josie at the Scarred Tree Ranch after Pop had come to live
there two years later. Unlike long-nosed Emmie Lou, Pop treated her
as if she were a member of the family. He told her jokes,
complimented her cooking, even helped her with the endless chores
Miz Dunner demanded of her each day in exchange for room and board.
When Miz Dunner went out alone on occasion to visit a neighbor or
buy supplies in town, Pop taught Josie how to pick pockets and how
to cheat at cards. Pop Watson had loved her in his rough,
rapscallion way, Josie was sure of it.

But after Miz Dunner died that winter, Pop
had let the ranch go. He’d started spending nights in town drinking
and gambling, not stumbling home until dawn.

When he’d met up with Snake Barker while
playing poker at a hole-in-the-wall saloon on the edge of town, it
hadn’t taken much persuasion for him to join the younger man’s
outlaw gang. Then everything had changed. Over the next two or
three years, he’d go off for months at a time, leaving Josie to
fend for herself at the lonely, failing ranch.

She managed as best she could, and when Pop
came home, he always had money. Josie didn’t like knowing how he’d
come by it, but she couldn’t change Pop. He’d take the wagon to
town and fill it to the brim with groceries that would last her for
months. He’d bring her home licorice sticks and hair ribbons, just
as he had when she was fourteen. And he told her stories about how
he was saving his money and one day he’d buy Josie the most
beautiful pink dress she ever did see.

He never bought her that dress. But he
brought Snake Barker home for supper one night, let him and the
boys lay low at the ranch, and it was then that Snake took one look
at her and decided he wanted Josie Cooper to be his wife.

And when she balked at the advances of the
swaggering young outlaw leader, despite his scruffy blond good
looks and the crude compliments he paid her, Snake made it clear
that Pop Watson was older now and expendable, that he couldn’t ride
as hard or shoot as straight as he had only a year or two ago, and
if Jo refused to marry Snake, Pop was going to die.

But, Josie thought with a shudder, that was
all behind her now. Snake was behind her now. She had escaped him,
fleeing with the stolen loot and Miss Denby’s ring, and the letter,
and now, as she stared down at the pouch and ran a finger over the
folded scrap of paper, she closed her eyes and turned her thoughts
to the future.

England,
she whispered to herself.
I’ve searched so long, so hard. But now, at last, maybe I’ll
find out who I am. Maybe I’ll find the answers—once I get to
England.

E
than sprawled on
the jail cot with closed eyes and a pounding head. Blinding red
lights pierced the darkness beneath his eyelids, and his throat
felt as if he’d swallowed a bucket of sand. He doubted he could
move if called upon to do so—he doubted he could even open his
eyes.

He wanted to dive down into the depths of
unconsciousness and stay there, dark and hidden and quiet. But the
pain hammered between his temples, his stomach fought the urge to
heave, and he gave a low moan of disgust at his inability to pass
out again.

“You awake, Savage?”

He ignored the rough voice snapping at him.
Who the hell was it? Who the hell cared?

“Savage! Wake up, you damned son of a gun.
Someone here wants to talk to you—though I’m damned if I know
why.”

When he heard the next voice, memory flooded
back, unwelcome as a vulture.

“My lord, this seems an appropriate time to
continue our discussion,” Lucas Latherby said in his dry, distinct
way.

“Go to hell,” Ethan managed to rasp out,
then groaned at the effort of speaking.

“Very well. If you truly wish me to leave
you in this cell, I shall. But according to Sheriff Mills here, and
Mr. Stickley, who owns the saloon you destroyed tonight, you will
be here for a very long time. Unless, of course, you avail yourself
of my aid.”

Ethan ignored him. He was concentrating on
opening his eyes. His eyelids felt as if they’d been scratched by
shards of glass. He felt something warm and sticky on his face and
brought his hand up slowly. Blood. His own blood.

Who the hell cares?

But the next moment, he became more fully
aware of his surroundings and his stomach lurched at the sight of
the cell bars.

“Let me outta here.”

“Humph. When hell freezes over,” the sheriff
growled.

With an effort, Ethan sat up, suppressing a
groan of pain and dizziness. Sheriff Mills scowled at him from
outside the bars, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. Owlishly, Lucas
Latherby peered through his spectacles, studying Ethan with intent
absorption.

Mills looked vexed beyond words. Latherby
wore an expression of sympathy, and implacable patience.

“Hell, Mills, I’ll pay Stickley for the
damages. Open the damned cell door.”

“You don’t got one red cent to your name,
Savage. That’s what started all this, remember? You lost at cards
to Jake Coombs and then tried to leave without paying. You’re lucky
that cowboy didn’t shoot you down for trying to welch on your
debt.”

“Wasn’t trying to welch. Was trying to
find... her...”

“Who, my lord?” Latherby asked when his
voice trailed off.

“The girl. The one who took my wallet
earlier. I got it back, she must’ve stolen it again.” A sudden
thought made him feel gingerly at his shirt and blood-spattered
vest, his fingers skimming lightly over bruised ribs. “Damn. That
little bitch got my pocket watch, too.” Fury sent him surging to
his feet. For a moment, the world swayed perilously, and he gripped
at the bars for support. Dimly he realized he was still drunk. The
effects of all the liquor he’d imbibed would probably be with him
well into the next day.

When the dizziness ebbed, he glowered at
Latherby. “Find her! She’s got my money and my pocket watch! Go,
man, start searching for her—”

“I’m not in a position to do that, sir. I am
employed to represent the interests of the Earl of Stonecliff.
Based on our last conversation, you are not that person—nor have
you any interest in becoming him.”

“Damn your weasely face, Latherby. You,
Mills! Go find that girl. She was medium height, slenderly
built—skinny as a chicken if that helps, with brown hair, curly
hair—hell, I don’t remember the color of her eyes but—”

“Savage, you’re loco if you think I’m going
to hunt up some mystery woman in the middle of the night. Now
listen here. You’re the one who tore up Stickley’s place, and
you’re the one who’s going to rot in jail for it. Now, my missus is
waitin’ for me at home, and I’m leaving the deputy here in
charge.”

He turned to Latherby. “You’ve got to leave.
It’s after midnight, and I’m locking up.”

“Latherby! You bail me the hell out of here
right now or I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. I have
only been granted authority to be of service to the Earl of
Stonecliff. I can hardly use funds which, upon your refusal to
accept the title, will be due to your cousin.”

“Winthrop!” Ethan had a vision of his
foppish, mincing cousin with the greedy pond-blue eyes. Oliver
Winthrop was forever licking the boots of Hugh and his father,
running to them with tales of Ethan’s exploits. It had been
Winthrop who’d first told them about Molly.

Ethan’s fingers clenched around the bars and
he shook them mightily. “That worm doesn’t deserve to get his oily
hands on Stonecliff!”

“If you refuse to accept the terms of your
father’s will, then he is next in the line of succession.”

“I don’t give a damn about the line of
succession!” The bars rattled beneath his furious grip, but
remained intact. Ethan’s eyes blazed with rage and frustration such
as he hadn’t known in a long, long time. Sweat streamed down his
brow and temples, sheening his bruised face. His head ached, he
hurt like hell, he wanted out!

Ethan Savage hated being locked up. It made
him sick to his stomach. And he was sick enough as it was,
considering all the rotgut he’d consumed. As he glanced at the
small, contemptuous eyes of Sheriff Mills and the mild, apologetic
ones of the solicitor, and then at the four-foot cell in which he
found himself confined, rage and desperation surged within him.
They mounted as Latherby gave a slight shrug and turned, starting
toward the door after the hunch-shouldered sheriff.

“
Latherby
!”

“I regret, sir, that I am not empowered to
help you.”

“Mills!”

“Sleep it off, you young jackass!”

Ethan felt the pounding in his head
increase. These four walls... they were closing in. He needed
out... he needed a drink....

“Latherby—you slimy sniveling son of a
bitch—I’ll do it. I’ll meet the damned terms of the will. Get back
here or I swear when I get out of here I’ll plug you so full of
holes you’ll—”

Instantly, Latherby spun about and hurried
to the cell door. “I am delighted, sir, that you—”