Rachel Donnelly (3 page)

It made her lonely just to think of it. Murdock only claimed seventy-five inhabitants, ten of which were the postmaster’s children.

The violence of the robbery reinforced the town’s pitiful lack of resources. How could one sheriff, a half-witted deputy, and an untrained posse apprehend three desperate outlaws in the vast emptiness beyond? Isolation put them at a disadvantage.

The money was good as gone.

Christie shivered, quickening her pace down the empty wooden sidewalk. Well, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She might as well put it right out of her head. She’d told the deputy all she knew. Right now, Uncle Will needed that chicken broth.

As she passed the dressmaker’s, she spied the figure of a man in a fringed buckskin coat veering toward her from the direction of the saloon.

Her boots tapped louder on the planks as she hastened toward the hotel.

His strides seemed to lengthen.

Her heart thumped as loud as her feet.

When he halted directly in front of her, it raced like a thoroughbred out of the gate.

“Evening, Miss Wallace.”

“Good evening,” she answered politely, moving to brush past him.

But to her consternation he stepped directly into her path, leaving her no choice but to stop. “I suspect you don’t recognize me, since I’ve shed several pounds of dust and had a close shave. The name’s Nat Randall. We met this morning at the mercantile.” Christie blinked in the gathering darkness through the tunnel of her bonnet, attempting to focus on his face. His hair, from what she could see of it under his grey felt hat, was ink black and curled at the nape of his neck. His fine features and high cheekbones above his straight nose appeared as hard and uncompromising as his tone. The only flaw was a faint half-moon scar from the curve of his bottom lip to the apple of his chin. He was handsome, she supposed, in a rugged sort of way.

“You’re the bounty hunter,” she said breathlessly. “The one chasing the outlaw.”

His icy blue gaze sent shivers prickling up her back. “That’s right.”

Without thinking she blurted out the question she most wanted to know. “Did you catch him?”

A half smile curved his lips. “Not this time.”

Her heart sank. Hopefully, her disappointment didn’t show on her face. Then she remembered. “I don’t know if this will help, but I did get a glimpse of his face. If you like, I could describe him.”

His gaze narrowed. “That won’t be necessary.” His tone hardened. “I know the faces of the Everett brothers like the back of my hand.”

Her spine stiffened at this harsh tone.

“I’m much obliged,” he said, not sounding in the least so. “But I wouldn’t go sharing that information.”

She bristled at his insolent tone. “Whyever not? I’m sure the sheriff will be pleased to know I can identify him if he’s caught.”

Randall flashed her a mocking smile. “That’s conscientious of you, but not very wise. The only witness at the Everetts’ last trial in Carson City was found dead in a stock-pen the morning he was supposed to testify.”

Her pulse quickened. “They killed him?”

“That’s what a bullet through the head does, ma’am.”

She swallowed hard. “But surely they wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

“They’d hurt just about anybody who got in their way, whether they were wearing a fancy blue bonnet or carrying a gun.”

Her knees went weak.

It felt as though all of the blood was slowly leaving her body. He was right. They were outlaws — cold-blooded killers. They’d do whatever they had to, to save themselves from prosecution, and apparently already had. Still, she had to stand up for what was right.

At any rate, it was too late. She’d already told the deputy. He would have told the sheriff by now. She couldn’t deny it. That would make her a liar, or at the very least, a hare-brained fool.

Good gracious!

What had she done?

Her knees began to tremble so violently, she feared Randall might hear them knocking beneath her skirt.

But she refused to let him see her terror.

She straightened her shoulders, managing a half-watered smile. “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Randall. But I’m not a coward. If I have to choose between myself and doing what’s best for the people of Murdock, I shall choose the latter. My conscience could never allow me to do otherwise.”

He gave her a long hard look. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but that would make you a damn fool.”

A spark flashed through her. Just who did he think he was? At least she had the courage to stand up for her convictions. She lifted her chin. “Maybe so, but someone has to bring those men to justice. They almost killed my uncle in the post office today. I would be another kind of fool if I let them get away, allowing them to do that to someone else.”

A cynical smile spread over his face. “Getting yourself killed isn’t a good way to do it.”

She sucked in a cleansing breath, then assumed what she hoped was a dignified tone, “You needn’t worry over my safety, I’m sure the sheriff will protect me.”

He sent her a look of pure condescension. “You haven’t been here long, have you?” His gaze traveled up and down her with insulting familiarity. “No, I can see by that fancy getup you’re an Easterner, and from the nonsense you’re spouting, a real green one at that. So I’ll do you a favor and let you in on a little secret. If the Everett brothers are out to get you, no small town sheriff is going to get in their way.”

Outrage swelled in her chest, but she willed her voice to calm. “I’ll take my chances,” she told him stiffly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to return to my uncle before he wakes. Good evening.” She inclined her head then marched off toward the hotel.

Arrogant devil!

She might be an Easterner, but she knew what was right!

To her complete surprise and annoyance, he fell into step beside her, reaching in front of her to open the door.

As she strode past the small round tables spread with neat, white linens, she imagined him sitting down for a meal. But while she waited at the counter for the proprietor to fetch the chicken broth, she turned to find Randall climbing the red-carpeted stairs.

She’d assumed he would have taken one of the extra rooms above the saloon. They were cheaper and came with the kind of female companionship his type usually desired. Not that she cared whose company he kept. On the contrary, she hoped she’d never have to set eyes on him again.

His arrogant self-assurance grated on her fiercely. What did he know about justice? He was a bounty hunter, for pity’s sake — a questionable occupation to say the least. He wasn’t a real lawman, simply a contorted version of the real thing. She wasn’t about to let him frighten her.

But as she hastened back to the mercantile with the jar of warm chicken broth clasped in her hands, his words echoed in her head.

Her flesh turned cold and her legs began to tremble all over again.

Not from remembering the day’s events, but from the hardness she’d spied in the cool depths of Nathan Randall’s eyes.

Nat kept one eye on the window and his back against the wall. He was dog tired and impatient to be on his way, but he needed the sheriff’s co-operation to haul the Everetts back to Carson City to stand trial. He didn’t want any loose ends, once they were apprehended.

Murdock’s jail wasn’t big enough, nor could the sheriff provide adequate protection should the townsfolk decide to take the law into their own hands. He had an obligation to protect his prisoners. But once the trial was over, he’d gladly sit back and watch them swing.

Sheriff Brimley sat silent at his desk, shuffling through wanted posters delivered that morning by the stage bound for Carson. He studied one black and white sketch after another, dark head bowed, countenance growing increasingly grim.

A big, solemn-faced man, he had a slow way of talking that might lead a stranger to forget the badge on his lapel. The card cheats in the saloon certainly had. His hands moved so fast and smooth to his gun, the men at the table didn’t have time to stand, let alone draw their six shooters. The dispute ended almost before it began.

“There aren’t enough walls in this room to pin up all the outlaws in these parts.” The sheriff’s gravelly voice seemed to rumble up from the soles of his boots. “Gold and silver shine brighter than the blistering sun in Nevada, and every man wants a piece of it.” He raised one dark bushy brow, leaning back in his chair. Then his philosophical tone changed to business. “So you’re trailing the Everetts, are you, son?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Heard you used to be a Pinkerton man.”

“I worked for the agency briefly at the end of the war.”

“Always wondered how a man got involved in work like that.”

“By accident, usually.” Nat cracked a wry smile, remembering how Senator Mackenzie recruited him. There was no bargaining. Mackenzie took a long draw on his cigar, then told Nat, if he wanted to help his friend keep his home in Charleston, Nat would have to offer something in return. Two days later, Nat was traveling south, under the name of Randall, his mother’s maiden name — a name he used to this day.

The sheriff rubbed is chin thoughtfully. “But you’re not working for them now?”

“No, sir.”

“Struck out on your own, did you?”

“I had personal business to attend to.”

“And the Everetts have something to do with that, I reckon.”

Nat never discussed his connection with the Everetts. But he knew in order to gain the sheriff’s trust he’d have to show some of his own by supplying some information. “They killed my wife. I swore on her dying breath I’d bring them in.” Heather’s face sprang to his mind as clear as if she’d been sitting there, her long black hair flowing down her back as shiny as a mink. For a moment, he could almost hear her laugh — smell the scent of lily of the valley on her skin. Guilt twisted in his gut, rising up in his throat like sour whiskey. He swallowed hard, blocking the image from his head.

Brimley leaned forward in his chair. “How long have you been on their trail?”

“Three years next month.” The day Heather died — two days before his twenty-eighth birthday.

The sheriff gave a grunt. “Then I don’t need to tell you what a pack of damn cut throat dogs they are.”

“No, sir, you don’t.”

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear this time we’ve got a witness.”

Nat ground his teeth.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the sheriff held up his hand. “I’m well acquainted with what happened in Carson last spring, but if Miss Wallace is willing to testify, I can’t rightly refuse.”

Nat’s jaw tightened. How could she be so foolhardy? Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said? Clearly he’d been wasting his time trying to warn her off. Apparently, there was nothing beneath that beautiful mop of honey curls. “Have you advised her of the risks?”

“She understands.” The Sheriff nodded. “Says she isn’t frightened — says she has a mind to make those responsible for her uncle’s injuries pay.”

Nat sucked in air between his teeth.

Damn!

Why hadn’t she listened?

Just what he needed — an avenging angel.

He’d warned her to stay out of it and keep her mouth shut.

Well, the sheriff would have to protect her now.

She was his witness.

Nat heaved a long sigh. He didn’t have time to waste worrying about it. His partner, Holt, was waiting for him. They were damn close to discovering the Everetts’ latest hideout, and he wasn’t about to let the trail go cold.

• • •

“You did what!” Leigh’s eyes looked as though they might jump right off of his face.

“I told the sheriff I could identify him,” Christie said in as firm a tone as she could muster.

“Are you loco?”

“Shhh! Lower your voice. You’ll wake up Uncle Will.” Christie closed the storeroom door. Uncle Will had taken an early supper and was resting again. With any luck he’d get some sleep and be up and about come morning, chatting and bargaining with the customers as he always did. At least Christie prayed he would.

Someone needed to keep Leigh in check. Putting up with Leigh’s nonsense got her blood up. He was getting altogether too big for his britches.

Christie sailed briskly away from the storeroom toward the counter, determined to keep busy and ignore him.

Leigh followed like a dinghy tied to a ship. He slapped his hands flat on the counter in front of her, gritting, “Look, you don’t know what you’re doing! You don’t know how things work around here. You ain’t in Boston anymore.”

Christie snatched up her red flannel dusting cloth to begin rubbing a chubby black licorice jar. “I know what I saw. Are you saying I should deny it? Lie?” She leveled a sharp look on him. “Because I’ve never lied about anything in my life.”

She thought she saw a spark of guilt in his eye before his expression turned spiteful. “Don’t go gettin’ all high and mighty. You may look as pure as the morning dew, but I know different.”

“What?” She gasped in outrage. “Whatever do you mean?”

A sly smirk spread over his lips. “You’ve been doing everything your Papa won’t allow since you got here! That’s what I mean!”

“Ha!” A tinkle of laughter escaped her. “Eating a few pickles is hardly a sin.”

“I saw you only yesterday stepping out the door without your bonnet.” He raised one golden brow. “You can’t tell me Uncle Ian would approve of that.”

Christie’s mouth flapped wide. Then she clamped it shut, renewing her polishing efforts with quick jerks. “Mr. Molson forgot his tin of tobacco. I was trying to catch him before he left. I’d hardly call that stepping out.” She sent forth a puff of exasperation. “Yesterday, I was a stick in the mud — today I’m a notorious pickle eating temptress without a hat. Make up your mind. Which is it to be?”

“And what’s his name … ” Leigh tapped one long finger against his chin. “Who’s that fellow you’ve been making eyes at every Sunday in Church?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Mathew Sutton! That’s it! He’s the one. I saw you giving him the eye across the aisle — near blinding him with one of your coy smiles. You had him so flustered last Sunday, he dropped his hymn book.”