Once an Outlaw (21 page)

Love
.

He couldn’t be in love with Emily Spoon. No way. But… the hell of it was, he didn’t know
what
he felt. He only knew he didn’t want her to leave.

But it would be better if she did. Before he got himself—both of them—into something that they couldn’t get out of.

Clint felt sweat bead on his brow. The one woman in town who always seemed ready to walk away from him
was the one woman he wanted to stay. In this loft, in his arms. In his life.

He started yanking on his clothes. She slipped down the ladder without waiting for him.

“Emily …”

She turned as he descended the ladder, clad only in his pants, his shirt open, revealing the powerful muscles of his chest.

“When can I see you again?” Hell, he sounded like some idiotic schoolboy.

Emily looked as closed as a flower that has given up on water and sunshine.

“What would be the point?” she whispered. She held herself together with every ounce of her will.
Don’t let him see, don’t let him know, she told herself wearily. At least you can salvage your pride, if not your heart
.

The truth was, she had come to love him. To love this man to whom honor was a duty. A man who was as gentle as he was strong, who believed in upholding the law, who dedicated his life to it. A man who had made it clear he was not looking for love or for a wife, or ties of any kind.

A man who went his own way and answered only to himself.

She had to do the same. She had a duty to follow too.

That meant talking to Uncle Jake, demanding to know what was going on. She intended to stop him—whatever he was doing—before Clint Barclay had another chance to throw him in jail.

“Good-bye, Clint.” Her voice was soft. Cool. Final.

Part of her prayed he would run to her, grab her, tell her … what? That he loved her? That he would try to accept her family, get along with them, that he wouldn’t arrest them if given half a chance?

Absurd. His sense of honor and duty would never let him look the other way. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. And she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to protect Uncle Jake.

She went out into the pale shadows of dawn and closed the barn door behind her.

H, IT’S YOU,
M
ISS SPOON.”

Agnes Mangley’s voice was colder than a Rocky Mountain stream as she stood in the doorway of her splendid white frame house at the edge of town, frowning at Emily. “I see you have our gowns—at last. Another day would have been too late!”

Emily handed over the box and spoke levelly “I won’t keep you, Mrs. Mangley. I know you and Carla leave for Denver tomorrow and you both must be very busy.”

“Indeed we are.” The woman sniffed. “Kindly wait a moment and I’ll fetch your money.”

Well, what did you expect—to be invited inside, asked to join the Mangleys in a cup of tea?
Emily thought to herself as she waited on the large spacious porch for Agnes Mangley’s return.

It had been four days since the box lunch social, and obviously Mrs. Mangley had not forgotten that Clint Barclay had bid on Emily Spoon’s box and her own Carla had been forced to dine with none other than Emily’s notorious cousin.

She wasn’t taking it well at all, Emily reflected. If only the woman knew how much Emily wished she’d never
met Clint Barclay, that he’d never bought her box lunch, never caught her outside in the moonlight the next night, never made wild sweet love to her in the hayloft.

If only Rufus Doily had bought my box lunch instead
, Emily reflected glumly.

But it was too late now. She and Clint Barclay
had
made love to each other in the hayloft two nights ago—and she hadn’t heard a word from him since.

Don’t think about it
. Emily had been trying to push the memories of that night away ever since she’d returned to the cabin. But she couldn’t, because the memory of all that had happened between her and Clint was written upon her heart. Engraved upon her soul.

And she wanted to see him—heaven help her, to kiss him, to touch him, to make love to him—all over again.

But she wouldn’t see him. She wouldn’t set foot near that awful jail and his little cramped office that seemed too tiny for the towering lawman who worked there. If he wanted to see her, he would have to come to the ranch. She wasn’t about to go chasing after him like… like Carla Mangley and Berty Miller and the rest of the women he kept dodging like blazes.

“Here. Thank you kindly and good day.”

Agnes thrust the money at her and slammed the door before Emily could even reply.

She turned away and walked up the tree-shaded path leading from the house, then started up the street toward the center of town, but she paused as someone called her name.

“Miss Spoon! I mean … Emily! H-hello!”

Carla Mangley jumped from the seat of a swing slung between two trees at the rear of her house and ran toward her. “H-how are you? You came to call? I didn’t know …”

Emily stared at her. Carla Mangley had never made
much of an effort to speak to her before—except to discuss what kind of trim or sleeves she wanted in her dress. Now the girl was staring at her as if she were her long-lost friend.

“I delivered the dresses,” Emily explained, hoping she didn’t look as puzzled as she felt. “I know you and your mother wanted them for your trip to Denver. You’ll be pleased with them, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. The dresses.” The girl nodded. “I forgot. It doesn’t matter, really,” she shrugged, “there won’t really be anyone at the Governor’s Dinner—anyone that matters,” she added, flushing. “Just my Uncle Frank and Mr. Sleech, his mine foreman, and some congressmen, and the governor.”

“Do you mean it doesn’t matter because Clint Barclay won’t be there?” Emily asked directly, but to her surprise, Carla’s eyes widened and she shook her head, sending her blonde curls dancing.

“Sheriff Barclay? Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all. I was thinking of…”

Her voice trailed off.

Confused, Emily wasn’t sure what to say. She nearly tripped over a stone in the road when Carla said casually, “Did… did your cousin drive to town with you … by any chance?”

“Lester?” Astonishment filled her. “Why … no, my brother Pete drove into town with me. Lester is working on our barn today.”

“He is? How … how splendid of him,” the girl breathed.

Splendid? Lester? Emily drew in a deep breath, more bewildered than ever.

“You and … Lester … enjoyed the box lunch social last week?” she offered tentatively.

Stealing a glance at Carla, she saw a deep orchid blush steal into the girl’s cheeks. “Yes. Yes, we did. I mean, I did. I hope Lester felt the same. Did he … mention anything to you about it?”

“None of the men in my family has mentioned much of anything to me lately.” Emily spoke grimly. It was the truth.

She’d questioned Uncle Jake about where he’d gone the night she’d seen him ride off and he’d refused to give her a satisfactory answer.

“Took a ride, Emily girl. No law against it.”
Those had been his exact words. And when Emily had demanded to know if he was going back to his old ways, he had looked her right in the eye.
“I made you a promise on your Aunt Ida’s grave, girl. Did you forget that?”

“No, but there are things I don’t understand… like the night of the storm, when you said you spent the night in a cave …”

“You think too much, Emily. You’re fretting yourself to death over nothing.”
There had been an unexpected harshness in his voice.
“You just tend to your business and stay out of mine.”

“But, Uncle Jake—”

He’d stalked away from her without another word.

Pete had been just as closemouthed about his apparent interest in Florry Brown. And when she’d tried to tell him her concerns about their uncle, he’d echoed Jake’s words.

“You just mind your own business, Emily. Leave Uncle Jake be.”

And Lester hadn’t discussed the box lunch social with her at all—he hadn’t even mentioned a word to her about Clint Barclay bidding on her box. So she had no idea if he’d enjoyed the time he’d spent with Carla. But obviously
Carla had not disliked his company nearly as much as she—and her mother—had expected.

“I’m glad you’re not upset that Sheriff Barclay missed out on bidding on your box,” she ventured, fascinated by the discussion as Carla fell into step with her as she headed back to town.

“No, not at all. At first I was disappointed, because Mama so wants…” She stopped and took a deep breath. “To tell you the truth, Emily,” she said in a rush, “Sheriff Barclay terrifies me.”

“Terrifies you? Why in the world should he terrify you?” Emily gaped at her.

“He just does.” Carla turned to face her and lifted her hands helplessly. “He’s so … so imposing, I guess I’d have to say. I get all tongue-tied around him, and can’t think of a thing to say. I always feel that he thinks I’m stupid… and foolish.” Her voice quavered. “I’ve let Mama down something awful by not getting Sheriff Barclay to like me. To fall in love with me, really,” she finished miserably. “Mama just has her heart set on me marrying him, but I never wanted … that is …” She broke off.

“Mama gets
notions,”
Carla said at last, sighing, as if that explained everything.

Amazed, Emily could only gaze at her in wonder. “Do you mean … you really
don’t
want to marry Sheriff Barclay?”

“I usually try to want what Mama wants,” the girl replied softly. “It’s easier that way. But… to tell you the truth, I want to marry a man who loves me, and I don’t think Clint Barclay ever would.”

They reached the edge of town, and both women stepped up onto the boardwalk, out of the path of a wagon rumbling down the street.

“I see,” Emily murmured, wondering frantically where all this was leading.

And then she found out.

“I thought I might run into Lester before leaving for Denver tomorrow … but I guess I won’t…” She bit her lip. “Would you … give him a message for me?”

“Of course.” Emily murmured the words automatically, stunned as she noticed the shy blush staining Carla Mangley’s cheeks.

“He … he asked me at the box lunch social when I might be returning from Denver. I wasn’t sure … but I do believe we’ll be taking the stage home next Tuesday. Perhaps …” She took another deep breath. “Perhaps he’d like to call sometime after that? I’d… I’d welcome a visit,” she finished quickly, her eyes flashing defiantly. “And I don’t care what Mama says! You’ll tell him?”

“Yes.” Emily felt dazed. “I’ll tell him.”

Carla squeezed her hand, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you. Oh, thank you. Good day, Emily.”

In amazement, Emily watched her hurry off.

The notion of Carla Mangley actually inviting Lester to come courting her filled her with such astonishment that Emily forgot about her own problems for the moment and even forgot where she was headed. Lost in thought, she bumped into Doc Calvin, murmured an apology, and continued walking, distracted, until she suddenly found herself directly in front of the last place she wanted to be.

The jailhouse.

The door was closed, the windows shuttered.

There was no sign of Clint Barclay.

She put a hand to the doorknob, then quickly dropped it as if it had burned her flesh.
Walk away before he opens this door and finds you standing here like a pathetic
fool
, she ordered herself—and spun around so quickly toward Doily’s Mercantile that she collided with Nettie Phillips.

“Goodness, dear, be careful!” the woman chided.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily gasped.

“Looking for Clint Barclay, are you?” Nettie grinned knowingly at her. “How very interesting. I don’t mean to be nosy, Emily, but frankly, everyone in town is talking.”

“They are?” Emily’s heart sank.

“Yes, indeedy. There was quite a stir when he bid on your box lunch. Some mighty pretty noses were out of joint—but as I told Margaret that very afternoon, may the best gal win.”

“Nettie! I assure you, I’m not trying to
win
anything, least of all Clint Barclay—”

“No?” Nettie peered at her even more intently. “Are you certain about that?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.” The words came out even more vehemently than Emily had intended. But they only caused Nettie to tilt her head to one side and smile.

“Hmmm.”

It was the shortest sentence she’d ever heard from Nettie Phillips. Suddenly Emily couldn’t bear Nettie’s piercing gaze one moment longer.

“Excuse me, Nettie, I’m on my way to Doily’s Mercantile—”

“He’s gone, in case you’re wondering,” Nettie called out as Emily began to hurry off.

She swung back. “Rufus Doily is gone?”

“No. Clint Barclay,” the woman replied, her grin widening. She jerked a thumb toward the jaihouse door. “Denver, I think. Been gone these past few days.”

Emily struggled to hide her disappointment.

“Don’t have any notion when he’ll be back, in case you’re wondering,” the woman added.

“It’s no concern of mine, Nettie.” Emily spoke airily.

“Course it isn’t,” the woman agreed, and then gave a cackle of laughter. “Come along, honey, I’m on my way to Doily’s as well. Thought I’d bake a rhubarb pie tonight—and I’m fresh out of rhubarb. Nothing quite so fine on a warm spring night as a rhubarb pie, that’s what my Lucas always used to say.”

Emily was relieved when Nettie began going on about which of her various boarders fancied her cooking the most, and how Mr. Taylor had spilled gravy all over the dining room carpet and she’d been at her wit’s end to scour the stains out.

Emily didn’t want to talk about Clint Barclay anymore—not with Carla Mangley, not with Nettie Phillips, not with anyone. She wanted to forget she’d ever met him. Unfortunately, her own mind kept whirling with thoughts of him. She was wondering why he’d gone to Denver, what he was doing there, and when he would be back.

But even these thoughts were at last driven from her mind when Rufus Doily, after filling her order for dried apples, coffee, and beans, told her he had a letter for her.

“From San Francisco, California,” he announced, and scurried down the counter to the neat piles of mail he’d sorted earlier that day.

Emily’s spirits lifted when she saw the thin, graceful script on the envelope. The letter was from Lissa!