Liz Ireland (3 page)

Emma crossed her arms, holding in her crushing disappointment as best she could. “Yes?”

Barton took an eager step forward. “Well, Miss Emma, how
is
Rose Ellen?”

“Fine.” Emma bit out the word.

His eyes lit up. “Is she coming for a visit any time soon?”

Emma almost wailed aloud at the very idea. The last thing she felt like contemplating right this moment was Rose Ellen and her aches and pains and domestic troubles. “Not that I know of.”

“I got to thinking about it last night,” Barton continued, scratching his wealth of blond hair, oblivious to Emma’s letdown. “I thought maybe, since she’s been writin’ you all the time, Rose Ellen was having a bad spell at home. You know, I never did trust that fella she got herself hitched to….”

Emma pursed her lips. Actually, she herself had been stunned that Rose Ellen had had the sense to marry a man like Edward Douglas, when she’d had the choice of practically every type of male flesh in boot leather. “Edward Douglas is a fine man.”

Barton blinked. “Well, naturally…. I didn’t mean to say anything against him.”

Just that he was untrustworthy, Emma thought with growing frustration. When it came to Rose Ellen, men just couldn’t keep their good sense nailed down. And leave it to Rose Ellen to steal her thunder! Just when she was about to have her moment of glory in handing an infamous outlaw over to the man she had secretly been sweet on for years and years, the mere memory of Rose Ellen was shadowing her triumph. In fact, all the excitement she’d anticipated when thinking of relinquishing the outlaw was disappearing, even though it
was
her big chance to finally make an impression.

Finally sensing Emma’s shift in mood, the sheriff shuffled his feet. “Of course, it wasn’t on account of Rose Ellen that I rode all the way out here.”

No, of course not. There was Rose Ellen, and there was the outlaw. Wouldn’t he be surprised to discover who’d caught him!

He cleared his throat. “At the store yesterday Joe said you’d mentioned my brother’s name in connection with that McCrae woman.”

Emma blinked, flabbergasted. Not only was he not interested in her, he apparently wasn’t too interested in that desperado on her settee, either!

Her reply was stiff. “I don’t recall ever mentioning William’s name.”

“Hang it, Emma—Joe told several people that you said plain as day that William was shirking his responsibilities by not marrying that woman.”

If he called Lorna “that woman” one more time, Emma was certain she was going to have a conniption. “And isn’t he?”

“He is not. There’s no telling what lies that McCrae woman would tell to get herself out of trouble, but she has no call mixing my brother up in her problems.”

For a moment Emma saw red. Then she took a deep breath. She wasn’t certain what upset her more—hearing Lorna slandered, or having the insults come from Barton Sealy, whom she’d always admired. For the past few weeks, she’d hoped Barton might help William do right by Lorna. “I think you’d better go, Sheriff.”

“Darn it, Emma, this shouldn’t be your concern! If you weren’t so mule headed, you’d see she’s taking advantage of you.”

“Mule headed!” Did everyone in Midday think they
could give her marching orders? “It’s the good folks at the Midday Mercantile who are being mules—petty, backbiting mules! If they had one-tenth the Christian spirit they all claim to have, they would see that Lorna is the victim here and do something to help her, not just talk about her.”

As her words sank in, the sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and he looked away, staring off at her pastureland. Good. Maybe he would go.

Except…

The outlaw! Emma shuffled her feet and forced herself not to send a nervous glance toward the parlor. Here she was expelling the sheriff from her home, when reason told her she needed him there. But despite her trepidation about being left alone again with the outlaw, stubbornness welled in her. She couldn’t turn the outlaw over to the sheriff. Absolutely not…yet. A man who couldn’t see the truth in his own domestic matters couldn’t be allowed to handle a fragile life-and-death situation. Her patient was weak, and there was no doctor in town. Why should she have gone to all the trouble to save a man’s life, only to have him hauled off to the filthy jail where he would most likely die within a day?

And after all, as Lorna had said, they weren’t absolutely certain that the man
was
the outlaw. But the minute Barton got a look at the scruffy, wild-looking person, the lawman was certain to act on the assumption that the criminal had been caught. She’d be signing her patient’s death warrant—in which case she might as well have let him bleed to death on her porch steps last night.

She wished the sheriff would leave. Of course, once he was gone, she would have sealed her fate. Aiding and abetting a criminal. She might claim that she didn’t know for absolute certain he was a criminal, but would anyone believe
her? After all, they hanged Mary Surratt just for renting a room to John Wilkes Booth!

She realized suddenly she had another problem. Even if her patient awoke and told her his name, she couldn’t be certain he was the man the sheriff was looking for unless she knew the outlaw’s name, too. And how was she going to get that information without tipping her hand?

She cleared her throat and changed the subject as casually as she could. “Has there been any sign of the desperado?”

The sheriff’s head swung around, but those dazzling blue eyes looked vacant. “Huh?”

“You know…the desperado on the loose?”

“Oh! Well, now, Miss Emma, I doubt we’ll see that rascal around here.” Barton rocked cockily on his heels.

Emma might have laughed at the man’s hubris if the situation hadn’t been so fraught with peril. She needed to find out just how dangerous her desperado was. “What exactly is this man wanted for?” After all, his crime could have been something relatively harmless, in which case she shouldn’t be so worried about housing him in her parlor. “Did he steal something? A horse, maybe?”

“He stole a horse, sure,” Barton said. “A dappled gray mare.”

A smile of relief tugged at her lips. If that was all—

“Not to mention, he murdered a bank clerk during a robbery.”

She swallowed.
Murder
. “What…what is his name?”

“Lang Tupper.”

She nodded solemnly, committing the name to memory. She had a feeling it would come in handy.

The sheriff laughed. “But if you run into him, Miss
Emma, you go ahead and shoot first and worry about his name later.”

“Heaven forbid any such a thing would ever happen!” Emma cried, a quaking hand rising to her breast. She tilted her head and asked, “But if it
were
to happen…how would I know this outlaw if I saw him?”

“Oh, you’d know him. They say he’s a big man, and dark. You can always tell a killer.”

She managed a wan smile, but had to look away to steady her nerves. Big and dark summed up her patient pretty well. Heavens! What should she do?

Unfortunately, at that moment her gaze landed on the gun belt she had tossed aside last night while trying to move the man, and this set off a new flurry of hysteria inside her. The sheriff was standing five feet from the outlaw’s gun, which was barely hidden from view by her rocking chair. If he saw the gun, the whole matter would be out of her hands.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed.

Barton looked at her sharply. “Something wrong?”

“No…only I have some things I need to do,” she said, edging back toward the door. “I don’t mean to be unneighborly….”

The sheriff’s face remained a blank. “Anything I can help you with?”

“No, goodness. I’m just…just spring cleaning.”

He winked. “Well, be careful. You might be doing spring cleaning, but you’re no spring chicken anymore.”

Emma stood stunned for a moment.
No spring chicken?
Was the entire world conspiring to make her feel like an old maid? She recoiled, banging her head on the door frame behind her. Pain pierced her scalp. “Ouch!”

Barton’s hand clamped down on her arm. “Land’s sake, are you all right?”

“Yes!” She jumped away from him. Suddenly she didn’t want to spend another second in his company. And the gun…she had to get rid of that gun!

Instead of freeing her, however, Barton tightened his grip as he dragged her over to the dreaded rocking chair. If he saw the gun and put two and two together, the sheriff would know that she’d been hiding the criminal from him. Would she, too, go to jail?

“I’ve never seen a woman so jittery!” Barton exclaimed as he sat her down in the rocker.

Emma held her breath as she saw his booted foot land not more than four inches away from the gun belt. She threw the back of her hand against her forehead, sure her secret was about to be discovered. Sure her life behind bars was about to begin…

“Ever since Doc passed away…my nerves…”

Barton’s face was a mask of remorse. “Of course. You’ve probably been under a strain.”

“Yes, I have.” She was so nervous, it was a wonder she could speak at all.

“Everyone in town’s remarked on it. Maybe it’s the strain that caused you to do something crazy like take in that McCrae woman.”

Emma stiffened, but when in the next instant she heard a groan from inside, she positively froze. The sheriff turned toward the front door. Emma faked a yawn, loudly mimicking the noise from inside, hoping to divert his attention.

He did look at her—and why wouldn’t he? She’d just emitted a noise that sounded like a moose mating call as much as a yawn.

“Well, I guess I’d better be getting back,” the sheriff
said quickly. He took a few steps, then turned, raking her up and down with his gaze. Emma rocked forward and held her breath, praying the gun belt was well hidden beneath her skirts.

“Was there something else you wanted?” She was such a bundle of nerves she was ready to toss him bodily back on his horse if need be.

He sawed his jaw back and forth for a moment. “Well…just remember me to your sister, won’t you?”

She crossed her arms, holding in her distaste for that request. Some men didn’t know when they were licked! “I certainly will.”

He nodded, clapped his hat back on his head and strolled over to his gelding. To Emma, it seemed that he was taking an inordinate amount of time mounting up, but then she began to wonder if her sheriff weren’t just a tad slowwitted—not an admirable trait for a lawman. Why hadn’t she noticed this before?

When the sheriff finally trotted away and disappeared from sight, she spun on her heel and dashed inside. As she approached her patient, the jittery nerves she’d had with the sheriff fell away from her, replaced by another, more cautious feeling, mixed with a firm sense of purpose, as she touched her hand to the man’s warm forehead. Fever.

No wonder he’d groaned. He had also turned over, and now a long, thick leg dangled over the side of the settee like a fallen branch.

A big man…Dark…You can always tell a killer…
.

Pushing the troubling words aside, she turned and marched upstairs to her room to fetch some more blankets. As always, she felt most comfortable when she was busy making herself useful. Even if the man she was making herself useful to was an outlaw.

Lorna’s boots clattered behind her on the stairs as she came back down. “Is the sheriff gone?”

Emma nodded.

“Did he say anything about William?”

She decided a gentle lie was in order. “We didn’t discuss William.”

Blue eyes widened as they looked at her. “And you didn’t tell the sheriff about the outlaw?”

“No,” Emma admitted. “Our visitor won’t be able to cause any harm in the state he’s in. Right now he’s as helpless as a kitten.” She gave Lang Tupper’s muscled physique a quick inspection, remembering the forceful way he’d caught her by surprise last night and pulled her lips down to his.
Kitten?
More like a feral jungle cat…

She added quickly, “But just in case he awakes, I’m going to hide his gun…and Doc’s old rifle…and anything else that seems even remotely related to weaponry.”

“M
r. Tupper?”

Through a dense fog of fatigue Lang could hear the sweet voice calling to him again. The sound had an almost musical quality to it, reminding him of the gentle coo of the mourning dove, or lullabies women sang to their children.

“Mr. Tupper, can you hear me?”

His eyelids flickered against a blinding light. Then a shadow appeared, and he was able to keep his eyes open. The shadow looming over him was the angel with the voice—a pretty woman, real respectable, too, if he wasn’t mistaken. His whole body hurt, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet, which felt as though they had walked six hundred miles. And maybe they had. He didn’t know where in tarnation he’d landed himself.

“I’m Emma Colby.” And as if this Emma Colby had the uncanny ability to read his thoughts she added, “You’re in my home.”

Tilting his head, he glanced away from Emma Colby’s wide, luminous green eyes to the room around him. A carved wood clock ticked on a mantel, and his head seemed to pound in time with it. Confusion blurred his
thoughts. All around were the trappings of the good life—fancy curtains, finely carved furniture, a rug with deep pile. How the hell had he ended up here?

“I found you on my doorstep.” He turned his head back to Emma Colby, amazed.
Could
she read his mind? “You were hurt.”

That was pretty damned obvious! His consciousness honed in on the burning pain in his side and his right leg.

“You were shot just below your ribs, Mr. Tupper. I removed the bullet. I also tended to the wound on your leg.”

“You patched me up?” Lang had never met a lady doctor before.

She nodded. “This morning you developed a severe fever, but you seem to have pulled through nicely.”

Shot. In a blast almost as strong as a gunshot, he remembered the tumbling sequence of events that had led to Amos’s betrayal. And now, after all his effort to get away, it appeared he’d reached the end of the line. He couldn’t move, much less work up the spunk to run.

His gun. His hand moved defensively to his hip, where it grasped nothing but pink woolen blanket. He glanced around, looking for his weapon and trying to see who besides Emma Colby he had to contend with. Banged up as he was, he wouldn’t be much good without a gun.

“I’m sorry if the settee is uncomfortable. I wasn’t able to move you upstairs.” The woman smiled. “We had enough trouble just getting you into the parlor.”

Having such a radiant smile focused on him was unbelievable. Before he’d passed out, his best guess had been that he’d awaken in a jail cell, or, more preferably, at the pearly gates. Never would he have expected to be lying in front of a woman in what was probably the nicest house he’d ever stepped foot in.

Then that word sank in. She’d said
we
. “You’ve got somebody else here?”

Her smile remained frozen. “Yes—there’s Lorna.”

Drawn to an almost undetectable sound, Lang looked at the door leading out of the room in time to fasten upon a pair of round blue eyes, which rounded even more when they discovered he was staring into them. In a flash, the blond head disappeared. Apparently Lorna was shy. And no one to be afraid of.

He frowned. “You two women dragged me in here all by yourselves?”

“Yes, we did.”

Emma Colby didn’t appear big enough to haul a grown man’s deadweight very far, and he doubted the blonde was much bigger. He looked her over from the crown of her head to her slim shoulders and frame to her little feet encased in small, sturdy black boots. “I’ve put you to too much trouble.”

“You weren’t so difficult to manage.” She blushed under his visual assessment.

Lang shook his head in amazement. He was still free—and living to see a pretty woman blush! He looked toward the door, and listened for any more sounds coming from the house. There was nothing but the unholy loud ticking of a clock. He truly was alone in a house with two ladies, at least one of whom seemed to know quite a bit about doctoring. Things could definitely be worse. Much worse. He screwed his lips into a grin.

The woman named Emma averted her eyes. “Are you thirsty, Mr. Tupper?”

Deep inside, he froze.
Mr. Tupper…
She’d said his name before, he remembered now. She knew who he was. Did she also know he was wanted by the law?

How else
would
she know his name?

Lorna’s frightened blue eyes peeking at him made more sense now. That wasn’t just shyness making a complete stranger regard him as if he were a dangerous character. To think—he’d gone from law-abiding farmer to desperado in the space of a month! If it had been anybody else, the absurdity of the situation might have had him in stitches. As it was, the only stitches he could produce were the ones over his mangled body parts.

He studied Emma Colby’s profile. “Mr. Tupper” she called him, and she’d said his name with relative calm. There was no accusation in her tone. And yet he wore nothing that would reveal his identity, carried no letters that might have familiarized her with the name Lang Tupper. So the only way Miss Emma Colby could know him was through reputation…as an outlaw.

He knit his brows together and scrutinized her intently. Now that he got a better look at her, he could tell she was a little on the mousy side. Not nearly so pretty as Lucy—not that being unlike that other woman was necessarily a bad thing, he thought a little bitterly. Emma’s hair was a light brown color, like fallen leaves, and her cheeks had a fine dusting of freckles. Her mouth, when it wasn’t smiling, was nothing extraordinary. But her eyes, wide set and green, shone like precious gemstones with a rare intelligence. And beneath that calm of hers, he detected tension.

She was testing him. But what did she expect him to say? More interestingly, what did she
want
him to say?

Lang knew one thing—he hadn’t come this far only to be handed over to the law by an earnest female. “Maybe you’re confused…or I am. What name did you call me?”

“Tupper,” she said, cocking her head a little as she watched him. “You said that name in your sleep. Lang Tupper, I believe you said.”

“But my name’s…Johann,” he said. “Johann Archibald.”

Johann had been one of the hands on the Wilkerson farm where Lang was foreman—though just how he’d sprung to mind at this juncture Lang couldn’t say. But perhaps the thought of being saddled with the crazy name made his next wince more than a little convincing.

Emma gasped and leapt forward, kneeling next to him, close enough that he could smell a trace of perfume in the air. The sweetness of it—of her—made him squirm guiltily.

“Try not to move,” Emma commanded gently, and her touch was just as gentle as her voice. He looked her up and down, admiring her concentration as she checked the dressing on his wound. Surprisingly, he felt a quick pang of desire as her fingers brushed his skin. That had to be a sign of health!

“You
must
be an angel.” Though it came from his own lips, the comment surprised him.

Emma practically shot six feet into the air. “An angel!” she exclaimed, her cheeks pink. “How silly! I’m merely looking after you.”

“And I appreciate it,” he said truthfully, covering her shaking hand with his own.

She lifted the blanket back over him and pulled away. “And what do you do, Mr. Archibald, that makes a man want to shoot at you?”

He laughed. “What makes you think it was a man?”

Her lips twisted wryly. “Just a guess. Am I wrong?”

“No….” He thought for a moment. Having a man shoot him did sound more plausible than some altercation with a woman. Also a little more dignified. “I must confess, Miss Colby…it is Miss, isn’t it?”

Her cheeks flamed crimson, and for a moment he wondered if he’d insulted her in some way. “Yes.”

“I’m not the most sterling character. I’m a…gambler.”

“Ah!”

“Yes—you see, I got in a little over my head in a blackjack game back in San Antone….” He shrugged, deciding that providing more detail was just liable to trip him up later on. “I suppose you can guess the rest.”

“Mmm.” He wished she were a little more readable—he couldn’t tell whether or not she was actually buying the load of nonsense he was selling her. “You’re still a little feverish.” The observation brought her to her feet. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Much obliged,” he said with relief as he watched her walk quickly away. “But Miss Colby?”

She turned at the doorway, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Since you saved my life, I’d take it kindly if you just called me Johann.”

“All right…Johann.” She smiled, turned, then disappeared.

Lang sank down against his pillow, so tired, but fighting the urge to fall back asleep. Maybe this thin disguise would buy him some more time, time he needed to get better…and to find his gun. And to his way of thinking, some time with Emma Colby wouldn’t be half bad, either. He allowed himself to smile as he thought about her trim figure, her soft hands, her gentle voice. And those eyes. Green like the first shoots of spring grass. She had a serene look about her that made the troubled, frantic past month of his life fly out of his mind. Miss Emma Colby had obviously lived a sheltered kind of existence.

He looked around him, doubt creeping into his thoughts. She was holed up in nice digs for a single lady. But where had she learned to deal unflinchingly with near-dead men
and how to clean up bullet wounds? He frowned. As long as he had more holes in him than a worm-eaten fence post, he couldn’t be too cocksure about anything. Maybe Emma had bought the story about his being Johann Archibald, gambler, but she’d looked relieved when he’d said it…as if she’d been glad to know he wasn’t Tupper. Which meant that she definitely knew who Lang Tupper was.

Which led to an interesting question. If Emma did know who Lang Tupper was, and if she’d assumed he was that man, why had she bothered to save the life of an outlaw?

“Oh, Emma, what are we going to do?”

Emma crossed the kitchen, steeling herself against the plaintive sound of Lorna’s trembly voice. Maybe it was best, she decided, simply to play innocent. “Do? About what?”

“About…” Lorna lowered her voice, though their visitor was well out of hearing range, and probably sound asleep.
“The outlaw…”

Emma let out a careless laugh, hoping it sounded somewhat close to genuine. “You can rest easy about that. The man’s not a desperado, just a gambler.” Lord forgive her for lying, but Lorna had enough to worry about without adding Mr. Tupper to her list of woes.

Lorna frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because he told me so. His name is Johann Archibald.”

The young woman digested this information slowly, watching absently as Emma crossed the kitchen putting together a tea tray for her patient. Her possibly criminal patient. She, for one, wasn’t buying that gambling story…but neither was she ready to turn the man in. She told herself that she simply wanted to wait for him to get
a little better. But there was something else she was waiting for, too.

A hint, maybe. How could a man seem so kind and innocent, and not
be
innocent?

“Well…” Lorna let out a sigh. “I suppose if he says he’s a gambler, he must be one.”

Emma nearly dropped her teapot. Was it any wonder the girl was in her predicament? She’d never met anyone so gullible. Probably she believed everything William Sealy said to her, too!

Lorna looked up at her, tears brimming. “I suppose I should be glad he’s not a completely reputable man. Otherwise he’d never want to be in the…same…house—” her shoulders began to shake and her words came out in tortured sobs “—as
…me!
”

Emma put her teapot down with a clatter and scurried to Lorna’s side. “You shouldn’t talk like that! I’ve told you before,
you’re
not the one who should be ashamed!”

Weeping outright, Lorna nodded her head and flapped her hands furiously to regain control.

Emma fumed at how unfair the world was. “Oh, I wish I could get my hands on that William Sealy! What I wouldn’t like to say to that cad!”

Lorna looked horrified. “Emma, you wouldn’t!”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Emma raced on heatedly, “but I swear to you, Lorna, even that outlaw in there has more honor than that boy who broke your heart!”

Lorna gaped at her in teary confusion. “But you said the visitor
wasn’t
an outlaw.”

“Oh, I meant…” Emma swallowed, reminding herself that she shouldn’t get so carried away in righteous indignation as long as she suspected she was hiding a criminal under her roof. “Well, even if he
were
an outlaw, he would have more honor than William Sealy.”

Lorna nodded. “You’re right. You’re always right.”

Always?
Emma shivered. Was she right now? Had it been right to turn away the sheriff without letting him know about the man draped across her settee? Would she live to regret the impulsive decision to become the stranger’s silent accomplice?

Would you have done so if he hadn’t kissed you?

That last tantalizing question worried her more than anything. She’d always been so wise about men, had never let herself be carried away or made a fool of. Was she allowing her reason to be swept away now because her patient had strong arms and a pair of the most gorgeous brown eyes she’d ever seen?

She shook her head, clearing it of these terrible questions, and focused her attention back on Lorna. “You need to stop moping and carry your head high, Lorna. The world won’t respect you if you don’t respect yourself.”

Dutifully, Lorna lifted her tear-streaked face. Her chin was wrinkled from the effort it took her to keep a stiff upper lip. “All right, Emma. I’ll try.”

“And don’t worry about Mr. Archibald. I’ll take care of him.”

Lorna nodded. “Well, of course I’m not worried.” She blinked as if the idea were plumb crazy. “There’s nothing to fear about having a gambler in the house, is there?”

“Just the sheriff showing up again,” Emma muttered to herself as she carried the tea tray out of the kitchen.

“I think it’s time to move you upstairs, Johann.”