Once an Outlaw (18 page)

Maybe this job was just getting to be too old, too tame, too civilized. Maybe it was time to move on …

Mayor Donahue, a stout balding man in an elegant black coat and an equally elegant mustache, stepped up to the long table that had been set up with all the boxes, twenty feet from the old run-down schoolhouse.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to begin. Now remember, all of the money raised today is to be used to rebuild and expand the schoolhouse so that our Miss Crayden will have a proper place to teach the children—as well as proper materials. So be generous, fair citizens. The lovely ladies of our town have worked hard on their boxes, as you all can see, and we want to show our appreciation. Don’t we, gentlemen?”

The mayor beamed as everyone applauded.

“To start the bidding,” he continued, holding up a box decorated with pink-and-blue lace, sequins, feathers, and a cluster of lilies, “here is a splendid box from one of our fine ladies in town. Who would like to share a mouthwatering lunch with the creator of this lovely box?” the mayor intoned.

Seated on one of the chairs between Margaret Smith and Nettie Phillips, Emily watched as one after another of the boxes was auctioned off. She could see Uncle Jake through the willows—he was down by the creek keeping an eye on Joey, who was playing tag with Bobby and Sally Smith. She knew he was probably glad to steer clear of the large public gathering, and no doubt relieved not to have to watch everyone bidding on boxes and being paired off—husbands with their wives, young men with the young women they had an interest in.

She knew he still missed Aunt Ida something fierce. Once or twice at night she’d heard quiet sobs coming from the main room of the cabin, and had crept out to find Uncle Jake slumped in his chair, an old photograph of Aunt Ida clutched to his chest. She always crept back as quietly as she’d come, not wishing to disturb his very private mourning.

Perhaps if he’d had a chance to say good-bye, he
would by now be getting over the loss. But he hadn’t had that chance, thanks to Clint Barclay, she reminded herself painfully.

Her attention was recalled to the bidding when she suddenly heard her brother’s voice call out a bid of three dollars.

Everyone looked at Pete Spoon, standing nonchalantly beneath an aspen, his thumbs hooked in his pants pockets. A slight murmur ran through the crowd.

Intrigued, Emily shifted her attention to the box being auctioned. Mayor Donahue held up a round hatbox decorated with a pink feather boa, displaying it for all to see. Several more bids from different men quickly followed, and she saw several eager glances directed toward a petite, pretty girl with light brown hair done up in ringlets. She wore a tight blue dress and a hat with sequined feathers pinned to it.

“Who is that girl?” Emily whispered to Nettie.

“That’s Florry Brown,” Nettie whispered back, a shade too loudly. “She works at Coyote Jack’s Saloon.”

“Four dollars,” she heard another voice call out—a rough voice she immediately recognized.

It belonged to Slim Jenks.

For once the wrangler didn’t have a smirk on his face—he looked deadly serious as he bid on Florry Brown’s box. She, on the other hand, Emily noted curiously, seemed to pale and shrink into her chair every time he raised his bid.

“Six dollars—and fifty cents,” Pete yelled, topping Jenks’s latest bid. The other men all seemed to have dropped out.

“Eight dollars.” Anger mottled Jenks’s face as he threw a glance toward Pete, clearly warning him to back off.

Florry Brown sat perfectly still, not looking at either Pete or Slim Jenks.

“Twenty dollars,” Pete called out coolly.

Emily nearly gasped.
Twenty dollars
. Either her brother was wildly smitten with this girl, or his dislike of Jenks was driving him to spend money he could ill afford. But it was typical of Pete, she thought, suppressing a sigh. Despite her dismay at the extravagant bid, she couldn’t help hoping that at least it would win Florry’s box lunch for her impulsive brother.

“I have a bid of twenty dollars,” the mayor intoned. “Do I hear twenty-one?” He paused infinitesimally, glancing around the gathering. “Ladies and gentlemen, this fine box lunch is sold—to, er, Mr. Pete Spoon.”

A smile wreathed Florry Brown’s face as Pete sauntered up to claim first the box and then her hand. As they started off together, Emily watched Slim Jenks scowling after them. For a moment she feared he’d follow, but just as he took a step, another cowboy clapped a hand on his arm and said something under his breath that made Jenks laugh.

Then he suddenly swung his gaze around the meadow and fixed his glance on Emily. There was no mistaking the malicious gleam in his eyes.

Uneasiness knotted in the pit of her stomach. What if Slim Jenks bid on her box—and she was forced to have lunch with him?

No, Emily calmed herself as a breeze tickled the back of her neck. That would never happen. First, Jenks most likely had no idea which box was hers, and second, Lester was here.

Her towheaded cousin was so shy around women, he wouldn’t bid on any box but hers—and she was certain he’d outbid Jenks for the box, no matter what the cost.

So she relaxed and folded her hands in her lap, trying
to glance about her without appearing obvious. There was no sign of Clint Barclay, none at all.

Strange. He hadn’t appeared at all during the bidding and certainly hadn’t bid on any boxes. Berty Miller had looked quite disappointed when hers had been auctioned off, and the sheriff had been nowhere in sight. Everyone had known it belonged to her because one of the ecru lace handkerchiefs she favored had been pinned on as part of the decoration. And so Berty—as well as everyone else in town—could only conclude that Sheriff Barclay hadn’t made himself present for the bidding because he didn’t care to eat lunch alone with her.

The bidding continued, and a ripple of expectation filled the clearing when a white satin-covered box decorated with red silk hearts and clusters of wild roses was lifted up by the mayor.

“That’s Carla Mangley’s box,” Margaret told Emily.

“How do you know?”

“She always uses red hearts and roses. Besides, see that double rope of pearls that’s wound around everything? Her father gave those pearls to Carla on her eighteenth birthday. That’s Carla’s box, no doubt about it,” she finished.

“Now where the devil is Clint?” Nettie mused. She turned and twisted in her seat. “Isn’t that just like a man? All these women go to all this trouble to impress him and he’s nowhere to be seen! Where can he have gone to?”

Emily was wondering the same thing herself. But she almost forgot about Clint Barclay when the bidding started and she had her next surprise of the day. Lester stood up, a faint pink color tinging his face, glowing all the way up to the roots of his hair as he bid two dollars on Carla Mangley’s box.

If a murmur had gone up from the crowd when Pete
Spoon bid on Florry’s box, that was nothing compared to what happened when Lester bid on Carla Mangley’s. The crowd buzzed, people sat up straighter in their chairs, and Carla—well, she turned bright red and her pretty mouth opened and closed for a moment like a banked fish gulping for air.

Her mother spun about in her chair, scanning the meadow, the schoolhouse, the creek, and the sloping hillsides shaded by trees.

“Where
is
that sheriff?” she hissed in dismay, as the young outlaw Lester Spoon continued to top each bid offered for the box with the red hearts.

But the sheriff seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Six dollars,” Fred Baker called out.

“Seven dollars.” Lester caught Emily staring at him. His color deepened.

Why in the world was her shy, awkward cousin, always so flustered around women, so determined to have lunch with Carla Mangley? she wondered in astonishment.

Again Agnes twisted around this way and that, no doubt searching for Clint. Her daughter, desperate, did the same.

“I have a bid of seven dollars,” announced the mayor. “Do I hear any other bids?”

“Doc!” Agnes Mangley elbowed Doc Calvin. “Bid on Carla’s box. She can’t share her lunch with that… that criminal!”

“Seven dollars and fifty cents,” the elderly doctor called out reluctantly.

“I have seven dollars and fifty—”

“Ten dollars,” Lester shouted.

A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone was staring at Lester, and at Carla Mangley. Emily held her breath.

“Sold.” The mayor choked out the words. “To … to Mr. Lester, uh … Spoon.”

Carla and her mother sat as still as if they’d been frozen into blocks of ice. Lester, his jaw clenched, strode up to retrieve the box, tucked it under his arm, and walked toward Carla’s chair.

“M-Miz M-Mangley?”

“Mama,” she gulped, and threw her mother a helpless glance.

“Eat fast, honey,” Emily heard Mrs. Mangley moan.

Lester’s flush deepened, but he stood stolidly, offering his arm.

As Emily watched, torn between concern for her cousin’s sensibilities and amazement at his seeking out this most unlikely of young women, Carla rose, trembling, and took the offered arm. She marched off with Lester toward a sloping hillside beyond the creek bank as if he were escorting her to a guillotine.

The auction continued, the mayor going quickly through the remaining boxes. Margaret’s box was bought by Parnell, and she slipped out of her seat with a smile. Rufus Doily bought Nettie’s box, and they too departed.

Emily barely noticed, for she was lost in thought, pondering the strangeness of Lester’s actions.
Poor Lester
, she thought in dismay,
if he’s developed a fondness for Carla Mangley, he’s doomed for disappointment
.

But at least he’ll have today
, she told herself, and then inexplicably her mind flashed back for a moment to the night of the storm, to Clint Barclay’s kisses.

Suddenly she realized that the mayor was auctioning off the very last box—and it was hers.

“Last but not least, we have this pretty box here—and let me tell you, what’s inside looks every bit as good as
what’s outside,” he promised. “What am I offered for this box, gentlemen?”

“Two dollars,” one of the cowboys she’d danced with at the hotel offered, throwing her a hopeful glance, but the words were scarcely out of his mouth before Slim Jenks’s voice rang out.

“Five dollars.”

He was smirking at her, and Emily’s stomach tightened. With an effort she sat perfectly still, her hands gripped in her lap.

The very thing she’d feared was happening, only now Pete and Lester were both off on their own private picnics—and Uncle Jake, she saw as she glanced toward the creek, was seated under a willow tree, most likely whittling, while Joey and Bobby and several other children chased each other across the hillside. His back was to her and the auction, and she realized with a chill that there would be no one to counter Jenks’s bids no matter the cost.

She’d probably made a mistake by not telling anyone about Jenks accosting her in town, but it was too late now …

“Seven dollars,” another cowboy offered, but Jenks immediately raised his bid to ten dollars and shot Emily a triumphant smile.

Her heart began to race. Whatever unpleasantness Jenks had in mind, she’d have to deal with him alone. She had her derringer—she could shoot him in the leg or the arm or the shoulder if necessary. Still, she had to fight a flutter of panic as it became clear no one was raising Jenks’s latest bid. There would be no way out.

“Do I hear seven dollars and fifty cents?” The mayor scanned the spattering of people left to witness the auction.
“Well, then, this lovely box is sold to Slim Jenks for—”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

There was a stunned gasp from the onlookers, and Emily, along with everyone else, twisted around in her seat. There was Clint Barclay standing behind the scattered chairs, his arms folded across his chest.

Another collective gasp went up. Clint’s eyes met Emily’s and held hers for a long moment as a flood of whispering broke out and the mayor gave a last chance for other bids. There were none.

“Sold! To our fine sheriff—for twenty-five dollars. Ladies and gentleman, I do believe we’ve raised a good sum for our new schoolhouse today. Thank you one and all, and please enjoy yourselves on this fine spring day…”

Emily heard no more. Clint strode forward, took her box from the mayor, then turned and walked with long steady strides back toward her.

Several townsfolk who had chosen to eat their lunches within earshot of the auction watched agog as the sheriff approached Miss Emily Spoon.

So did Slim Jenks.

Emily could see him beyond Clint’s broad shoulder, and the anger on his face sent a chill through her.

His enmity toward her—and Clint—had no doubt deepened today. But she forgot about even this as Clint halted before her.

“Miss Spoon.” There was nothing but cool politeness in his face, in his tone. They might have been two strangers.

We
are
strangers, practically
, she told herself, her heart lurching.
Except for the kissing part… and the touching part…

“Sheriff Barclay.” She offered a regal nod.

He tucked her arm in his, but not before Emily caught the steely glint in his eyes. Without another word, he escorted her away from the chairs and the staring townsfolk, across the waving spring grass, and toward a knot of trees.

NCLE
J
ED AND THE BOYS WILL BE LIVID
when they find out who bought my box lunch
, she thought fleetingly, but inexplicably, at that moment, she didn’t care. Even the realization of her family’s fury couldn’t dampen the unexpected surge of happiness that swept through her as she walked at Clint’s side.

Neither of them spoke as they passed beneath a shady canopy of trees and he led her toward a gully.

Finally she couldn’t endure the silence any more and she broke it. “The whole town seemed to be looking for you during the course of the bidding,” she burst out, as the sun poured down and twigs crunched beneath their feet. “Where were you?”

“Around,” he said in an offhand tone.

“Hiding.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “Clint Barclay, brave sheriff, running for cover from the women of Lonesome.” A laugh burst from her, and Clint chuckled too.

“Let’s just say I know how to keep my head down when there’s danger. And fighting a townful of marriage-minded women is as dangerous as it gets.”

They reached a pretty clearing far enough from the schoolhouse so that they couldn’t even hear the shouts
and laughter of the children. “This suit you all right?” Clint asked.

Emily nodded. It was an ideal spot, a clearing of thick grass, where wild yellow pea grew charmingly among clusters of columbine. There was no one else from town visible, and the silence was delightful. Only the murmur of the wind through the aspens and the cry of a prairie falcon circling overhead broke the stillness.

But there was a saddle blanket folded under the lone cottonwood tree. She stopped short. “I wonder who this belongs to …” she began doubtfully, but Clint stooped and picked it up, then shook it out and spread it over the ground.

“It’s mine. I set it here a while ago to keep anyone else from taking this spot.”

“Do you always plan everything out so carefully, Sheriff?” She tried to keep her tone light.

“When I can—but I’m learning, Miss Spoon, that not everything can be planned.”

“Is that so?”

He set her box down upon the blanket and straightened, then fixed those keen blue eyes on her with an intentness that stole her breath away. “That’s so.”

In the pause that followed Emily wondered if he could hear her heart beating. Being alone with him had too strong an effect on her, and she tried to steel herself against him. She tore her gaze away and busied herself lifting the plates and forks and knives from the box, arranging everything prettily upon the blanket—desperate to do anything but gaze at this coolly handsome man, who could make every rational thought fly right out of her head.

“Joey seems to have recovered just fine,” Clint commented as she served him a thick sandwich and the corn fritters. “I noticed your uncle keeping an eye on him.”

“Joey’s fine now. Thanks in large part to Uncle Jake.”

“I don’t really see what he has to do with it, Emily. If you ask me, it has a lot more to do with you.”

“You’re wrong—it’s Uncle Jake.” Emily swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Despite what you think you know about him, he’s always been fond of children, and since coming home … from prison …” Her voice faltered a moment. “He seems to have even more patience than before. He’s taught Joey all sorts of things, he plays gin rummy with him, he even whittled him a horse.”

Clint Barclay eyed her skeptically. “Hard to imagine Jake Spoon playing grandpa.”

“You don’t really know him—or anything about him.”

I know he robbed stagecoaches and was damned good at it
, Clint thought, but there was no point in mentioning that unless he wanted to get Emily Spoon fired up, like striking a match to dynamite. And he didn’t. He was enjoying this temporary peace between them too much for that. So instead, he helped himself to another corn fritter and said, “Why don’t you tell me then?”

Surprised, Emily’s eyes flew to his face. “Do you really want to know?”

He nodded.

“He’s a good man.” Her voice was quiet. “He … he may have done … some wrong things, some bad things, but he’s still a good man. Do you remember telling me how Reese Summers took you and your brothers in? Well, Uncle Jake and Aunt Ida did that for Pete and me.”

Only the skittering of a rabbit through the brush broke the stillness that followed. Clint’s storm-blue gaze held steady on hers.

“Our parents died when we were young—Pete was nine and I was six. And Uncle Jake and Aunt Ida never hesitated. They took us in and raised us right along with
their own son, Lester.” Emily brushed a crumb from the blanket. “Their farm was small and they were barely scraping by before Uncle Jake got mixed up in holding up stages. There wasn’t nearly enough money to go around, but they managed somehow—
we
managed somehow.” Her fingers clenched around her skirt as the memories flooded back. “They raised us with love, as if we were their own children, and never once did they complain about the extra burden of supporting us.”

She met Clint’s gaze levelly. “It was Aunt Ida who taught me how to sew.” She paused, her eyes misting at the memory of the frail aunt who had taught her so painstakingly how to thread the needle, make neat stitches, how to measure and cut with pride and precision.

“I know about your handiwork,” Clint said dryly. “Just walking up the boardwalk this past week I’ve heard your name mentioned in snatches of conversation everywhere I went. Seems like everyone is talking about how Emily Spoon is a whiz with a needle. They say you sewed a bunch of dresses for women to wear today—and that you made that dress you wore to the dance last week.”

She nodded.

“Mighty nice,” he said softly. “You make this one too?”

“Yes, I—”

She broke off as he reached out, touched the muslin at her shoulder, traced his hand down her sleeve. “Beautiful.”

Her senses whirled at something in his voice, at the gentleness of his touch. Struggling to keep focused on their conversation, Emily forced herself to rush on.

“I owe whatever sewing expertise I have to Aunt Ida, but I owe Uncle Jake much more. He taught me so many things. Right along with Lester and Pete, I learned how to
ride, drive a team, shoot a gun. How to fish and the tricks of bluffing at poker. He taught me how to tell if someone was cheating.” Her eyes met his, shimmering pools of silver.

“Not exactly a typical female education,” Clint drawled.

“Oh, I went to school,” Emily assured him. “I won my share of spelling bees and geography contests. But Uncle Jake taught me something even more important. He taught me that families stick together. That they stand up for each other and take care of each other. I’m sure you and your brothers learned that from Reese Summers, didn’t you?”

Her words struck something deep in his core. Yes, he’d learned that from Reese. So had Wade and Nick. He’d never in his life felt alone, even when he was hundreds of miles from his kin—he’d known he had them, would always have them. But it seemed damn odd to be comparing Jake Spoon to a man like Reese.

Clint studied her lovely, passionate face. “It’s true, Reese taught us that,” he said cautiously.

“Uncle Jake taught us the same. And he taught us that if you go through a rough time, you don’t give up. You stay strong, hold onto yourself, ride it out. I suppose that’s how he got through seven years of prison,” she added tightly.

His shoulder muscles clenched. And suddenly he realized that’s how she’d gotten through those seven years too. Dark years, when her uncle was imprisoned, her brother and cousin were on the run, her aunt was sick and dying …

It had taken toughness. Strength. Courage.

Emily Spoon had come through hard times. Ridden them out. Now she was trying to live them down.

“Guess I never thought of Jake that way. The Spoon gang was just a bunch of outlaws to me.” He cleared his throat. “But they were your family.”

“They still are.” Emily met his gaze defiantly. “Don’t think of me as different from them, Clint. I’m not.”

“You ever rob a stagecoach?” He set down his plate, his gaze narrowing on her. “Ever take money that didn’t belong to you?”

“No, but I told you—there’s more to the Spoons than that—just like your family, the one you found with Reese Summers, was more than ranch work and … and trail drives and roundups. A family is more than what you
do
. It’s where you belong, it’s the people you love and count on—and who love and count on you.”

She gave her head a shake as she saw the skepticism on his face.

“Never mind.” Gathering up the plates and cups, she began setting everything back inside the box.

He didn’t understand. He never would.
And why does it matter anyway?
she asked herself bitterly.

But it did matter. For some reason, she’d wanted him to understand.

When he reached out and covered her hand with his, she jumped as though he’d shot her.

“Emily—”

She jerked away, her eyes blazing. “Forget it, Clint. I don’t even know why I tried.” She placed the lid on top of the box and scrambled to her feet.

“I want to thank you for buying my box lunch. I hope you enjoyed it,” she said formally. But before she could lift up the box he sprang up and grasped her by the shoulders.

“Don’t you even want to know why I bought your box lunch today?” he asked roughly.

“No. We should go back—”

“I didn’t plan on it—even told myself I wouldn’t. But as soon as I saw Jenks was there, I knew he was going to bid on it.”

“So you did it to stop him,” she said coldly. “I suppose I should thank you—”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Emily.” He gave her a shake. “I did it because I wanted to do it—I’d be damned if I’d let Jenks or any other man win your lunch.”

“You… would?” Dazed, Emily could only gaze at him in astonishment. “But… why?”

It was difficult to think straight when he was this close to her. Touching her.

Clint’s fingers tightened on her shoulders. He dragged her against him. A palpable heat flew between them as her eyes widened on his. They were only inches apart, and for once, Clint Barclay didn’t look cool and in control. His jaw was taut, every muscle in his powerful body seemed tensed. Heat and tension. It smoldered even from those hot blue eyes. His hand swooped to her hair, twisting in the careful curls, even as he spoke quickly, jerkily, the words seemingly forced from him.

“You know why. You damn well know why. Or do I need to show you?”

She couldn’t breathe, could only stand there in shock as Clint Barclay hauled her closer and lowered his head down to hers.

And suddenly he was kissing her. It was not a tender kiss. Not persuasive, gentle, enticing. It was powerful and hungry and raw, scorching her mouth and turning her brain to mush.

Demanding, it drew her in, made her reel, turned the world upside down.

And then he lifted his head, breaking the kiss as abruptly as he’d begun it.

“Now do you understand, Emily?” he asked hoarsely.

“No …” Dizzy, she touched shaking fingers to her mouth. It felt bruised, tender, as vulnerable as her heart. “I don’t understand anything about this … and … it’s Miss Spoon to you.”

“The hell it is.
Emily,”
he growled, his eyes determined, and then he yanked her close again, his arms clamping around her waist. “And I’m damned if I understand either, but I think it’s time we figured it out. All of it.”

His mouth covered hers before she could argue or protest and then she couldn’t do anything but kiss him back and cling to him. Her heart leapt crazily as his lips devoured hers, and as he tightened his hold on her, so that they were no longer two, but one, her breasts ached, crushed against his chest, and she felt herself melting into him, on fire with a need that left no room for thought or reason.

Then somehow they were lying upon the blanket, his body covering hers, his weight pushing her into the thick grass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Emily Spoon,” Clint groaned. Those simple words made her heart soar, and as his mouth skimmed along her cheek, explored the delicate curve of her ear, and trailed incendiary kisses down her collarbone, she shivered with pleasure and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her.