Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) (10 page)

Bosco snorted and smacked his lips, then rolled over and continued his rhythmic snoring. Few people made as much noise when they slept as Bosco, but it didn’t seem to bother the prisoner, who also finally snoozed.

Cole wished he’d never seen the innocent little city of
Oreana
, or its most alluring resident, Miss Daisy Gardner. The very thought of disappointing her brought waves of guilt and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

But what galled him most was Gib Rankin. He’d spent the night gambling and drinking instead of trying to bust his own brother out of jail. What kind of brother was he? So Cole’s plan to arrest Gib for aiding an escaping prisoner had fallen through, at least for that night, and now he and Bosco had to stay in Oreana yet another dangerous day.

And that might be one day too long, considering Miss Daisy would certainly poke her cute little nose into discovering his true identity now that another man claimed to be Sidney Adler. If she did, and she would, he and Bosco would hang for sure. The Sinker Creek ranch would go to rack and ruin, and his brother and family would be destitute, all because of his own fit of temper two years before.

He threw off the covers and sat on the side of the bed, noting that the pull in his groin didn’t hurt nearly as much. Always a fast healer, the two weeks since he’d been shot had been the longest he’d ever been laid up in his life, and that was damned well long enough. He pulled his boots on, stood, and put on his shirt. He’d gone to bed mostly dressed in case Gib has shown up.

The town would wake up soon. Already he heard clanging at the smithy’s and someone chopping wood. A quick glance at his pocket watch showed the time was five-thirty. He poured water in the coffee pot and stoked up the potbelly stove. Hot, black coffee and a shave would make him feel better and a whole lot more lively.

Meantime, he sat on the bed and pulled the covers around him while the stove warded off the morning chill. The day brought a whole new set of problems. He’d have to find some food for Porker. Mr. Gardner had never mentioned how the town provided meals for prisoners.

Of course there were Miss Daisy’s biscuits. He chuckled. Porker deserved those biscuits. He could sop them in coffee. Might take him an hour or two to soften them up, but patience was a virtue Porker could use some work on.

He heard something scratch on the door, then a noisy “Shhhhh!” He rolled off the bed onto all fours, drawing his Colt. Maybe Gib Rankin had some honor, after all, and had come to spring his brother. If so, he wasn’t very damned quiet about it all.

Cole crept over to the door on his hands and knees, heart pounding and pistol cocked. Another brushing sound convinced him to hurry, despite the stiffness in his leg. Carefully, he raised himself to full height between the door and the window, flattening himself against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement outside.

Barely breathing and ready to pounce, he flung open the door. “Hold it right there, Rankin!”

Daisy’s little brother stared wide-eyed while the scruffy yellow mutt wagged his tail and nuzzled Cole’s pocket.

He uncocked and holstered his pistol. “Shit-crimeny, boy! You ought not sneak up on a fellow like that.”

The boy’s lower lip trembled and his freckles faded, but he didn’t move a muscle. “Junior Deputy Forrest Gardner and partner reporting for duty, sir.” The drooling dog wagged his tail happily, and looked at Cole with the same expression as Forrest’s.

Cole blew out his pent-up air and tried to relax, but every muscle was still at the ready. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for school or something?” His voice sounded more like a bark than he intended.

“Nope. The schoolmarm ran off with some sleezy gambler man, Dad said. Third teacher we lost this year. Dad says Daisy ought to be a schoolmarm, then someone might marry her. She’s an old maid, you know.”

Cole couldn’t think of one damned coherent thing to say, so he grabbed the broom and shoved it in Forrest’s hands. “Sweep the boardwalk.” He reached back inside and grabbed his hat, jamming it on his head as he stepped into the street. “I’ll be at the livery if someone needs me.”

He hadn’t seen his horse in over two weeks, long enough for the old boy to forget who was boss. Long enough for a woman to worm her way under Cole’s hide. He needed to think. He needed to be alone. He had to take a good, long ride, even though Doc had warned him not to ride for six weeks. What hogwash. He’d turn into petrified wood if he waited that long.

At the livery, he waved down Jonas Howard, who was throwing hay to the horses.

“Morning.”

Jonas nodded and pitched another forkful of hay into a stall. “Looking for your horse?”

“Yup.”

The blacksmith cocked his head toward the far end of the barn. “Last stall on the right. I rode him a few days ago, but he needs more exercise than that. If you’re not up to riding, you probably ought to hire someone to run the piss and vinegar out of him every day or so.”

Cole thought Bosco had taken care of that. But he couldn’t say much, since Bosco had been doing most of the marshal’s duties since they’d happened on Oreana.

He slung the bridle over his shoulder, then grabbed his saddle and blanket from the tack wall as he strode by. Doctor’s orders or not, he was ready for a ride. And the way he felt, the longer and harder, the better.

Daisy dragged herself out of bed, splashed cold water on her face and dried off, then threw on her clothes. The gray calico
dress
would be serviceable, yet presentable, even though it was a few years old and a little tight up top. But the freight wagon was due in that day, and with it, her fingerprinting kit. She sure didn’t want to mess up her newer clothes with black carbon dust.

She had too much to do to prove that the stranger was not only an imposter, but the very man who’d shot the true Sidney Adler—her marshal and future husband. After tying her hair into a bun, she pinned on her oldest bonnet and worked out her strategy. Honey Beaulieu always did that. If the stranger still slept, she’d go through his things. Surely she would find some incriminating evidence. If not, she’d get some idea of his character like Honey did in
The Cromby Murders: The Case of the Wooden Eyeball
.

Downstairs, her mother stood at the stove, flipping pancakes, and her dad sat at the table working on his accounts. Daisy poured herself a cup of coffee just as Forrest ran in and plopped in his place.

“Go wash your hands, Forrest.” Her father looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Wear something else today.”

Daisy’s jaw sagged. He’d never said anything about her attire in her entire twenty-two years of existence.

“The Dugans are in town today,” her mother informed her. “Patrick Dugan is in his late twenties and looking for a wife.” She scooped a stack of pancakes on Forrest’s plate. “He’s quite handsome, hard-working, and well set up.” She stared Daisy right in the eye. “Excellent husband material.”

Daisy stiffened. She didn’t have time to flirt with some farmb
oy today of all days! “But—
”

Her father laid down his pencil and leaned back. “Daisy, you know very well that it’s high time you found yourself a man. Past time, as a matter of fact. Dugan’s a good prospect, and he owns his own spread.”

Patrick Dugan was no prospect at all. She could just see herself, twenty miles from nowhere, sprinkling grain to the chickens with sixteen squalling brats hanging from her skirts. Lord have mercy on her soul!

“The marshal’s not married,” Forrest offered.

Her dad shook his head. “Marshals don’t make enough money to support a family. Besides, they’re likely to get killed and leave a passel of young ‘uns behind.”

But marshals made very good husbands to lady detectives, Daisy protested silently.

Her mother nodded in agreement. “Daisy, I want you gussied up by eleven o’clock. Patrick and his father will be here at noon for dinner. Grace will be here to help.”

“For pity’s sake, Betsy,” her father groaned, “don’t let her cook anything. We don’t want to poison the boy before he’s had a chance to propose.”

“Cyrus!” But her protest didn’t match her smiling eyes. Aunt Grace’s cooking, or attempts at cooking, were known far and wide. She turned her attention back to Daisy. “You will be dressed and ready to receive your guest at noon.”

Daisy sighed. “Yes, Mom.” She’d be there, but she sure as squat wasn’t going to marry some dirt farmer no matter how well set up or handsome he was. He couldn’t possibly be more handsome than the marshal, anyway. Her breath caught just thinking about his broad shoulders and strong hands. She watched the butter melt on her pancake.

Breakfast finally ended, her patience tried while her parents listed Patrick Dugan’s virtues. All the while she melted at the thought of the marshal’s beckoning brown eyes and strong shoulders. And other things that she couldn’t possibly think about while sitting at the table with her parents and little brother.

Oh, but she did. Her thoughts wandered in the marshal’s direction no matter what she wanted to think about. Like solving the identity of the imposter, for instance. That would certainly impress him, maybe enough to make him propose before the farmboy had a chance to. And if that didn’t work, proving that the stranger had shot the marshal certainly would.

An hour later, after setting the kitchen to rights, she left the house with solemn vow that she’d be back in plenty of time to dress before the virtuous dirt farmer arrived.

As every morning, the aroma of bacon wafted from Mrs. Howard’s Boarding House and greeted Daisy as she stepped through the door. The boarders, with the exception of the stranger, were all seated around the big table while Mrs. Howard served mountains of food. She scooped scrambled eggs on an old man’s plate. “You’re welcome for breakfast, Daisy,” she said without looking up.

Daisy marveled at all mothers’ uncanny ability to know who was around without ever seeing them. Her mother did that, too. She wondered if she, too, would have that gift after birthing a child. “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten. I’m just checking on the stranger.”

She dashed up the stairs before Mrs. Howard had a chance to protest. The stranger lay eerily still in exactly the same position she had left him the evening before. She crept over to him and put her hand by his nose to feel his breath. Satisfied that he wasn’t dead after feeling warm air brush her skin, she set about her search.

The night before, they had only removed his duster and his boots. She put her hand in each pocket of the jacket, but found only a few coins and a token. She held the bronze token by the edges, taking care not to get her fingerprints on it, to get a good look. “One free drink with Marthe at Big Boned Bess’s, Winnemucca,” she read aloud. She supposed that Marthe was a sporting woman, and Big Boned Bess’s was a house of ill-repute. So why hadn’t he used the token?

She slipped the token into her apron pocket—she’d dust it for fingerprints later—and tossed the duster on the bureau. Turning her attention to the corner of the room, she studied the stranger’s saddlebags. A slight twinge of guilt nagged at her for snooping in another person’s things, but sometimes indiscretions were necessary to ensure the greater good.

Still, her heart thumped a bit louder when she heard footfalls on the stairway, but she was relieved when the person walked on down the hall, and she continued her quest for evidence.

Upon careful inspection of his boots, she found a small knife, Honey Beaulieu would
’ve
call
ed
it
a pig sticker
, with “MF” carved on the handle.
Ah
h
a!
Now she was getting somewhere. If his name was Sidney Adler, “SA” would be etched. She smiled and silently congratulated herself.

She placed the evidence of his identity in her apron pocket, then looked around the room to see if she’d missed anything. No, she’d looked through all his belongings.

Except the clothes he wore.

She gulped. She’d have to touch his person to search him—an undesirable task, that. But the most logical place for incriminating evidence to hide was his pockets. She gulped. That woozy feeling that came over her when she had to clean the outhouse settled in her midsection. She saw no way around it, she’d have to touch him in all sorts of places.

Approaching the ominously still body with caution, lest he awaken, she pulled the blankets back. His powerful torso completely filled the bed and she couldn’t resist but to study him a bit. For scientific forensic reasons only, she reasoned.

From his swarthy complexion, she knew he must spend most of his time in the weather. But not physical work, because his hands bore no calluses. He could use a decent haircut, although his clothing was of the highest quality. The maroon silk vest alone had to have cost two dollars.

The waist overalls—her dad had just received some from
San Francisco
’s Levi Strauss & Company—were the latest thing, even though men refused to call them fashionable. She recognized the brand because they were the only store-bought britches that had rivets to secure the pockets. Besides, quite a stir had erupted with the old biddies in town when Nellie Stevens bought a pair. And
wore
them.