The Gunman's Bride (7 page)

“I worked up a powerful thirst fighting that fire.” Now she recognized Cheyenne Bill at Bart’s elbow. With a broad grin, he eyed the other men. “I reckon I organized the whole affair from start to finish.”

“Chances are you lit that fire in the first place,” the sheriff said with a laugh as Rosie filled his coffee cup.

“Would I do a thing like that, now, Sheriff Bowman?” He feigned a hurt expression. “You just ask my cousin Buck. We was over at the Mountain Monarch play
ing billiards right up until we heard the switch engine whistle.”

Buck?
Rosie’s eyes darted to Bart, who had just set his coffee cup in its saucer.

“Worst of it is, I was winning,” Bart…or Buck said.

“Naw!” Cheyenne Bill clapped him on the back. “You boys think I should call a glove contest to settle this matter between me and my cuz?”

“You wouldn’t want to spar with the Terror of the Wicked West, Buck,” the sheriff said. “Ol’ Cheyenne Bill would drive you into the ground like a stake.”

As if a signal had been given, all the men at the table chorused, “Cheyenne Bill is a hard, hard man.”

Amid the ensuing hoots of laughter, Rosie fled to the kitchen. Bart was back! But why? Oh, why now? She leaned against a cupboard and clutched at her churning stomach.

How long had he been in Raton? How had he managed to become the
cousin
of Cheyenne Bill? And how on earth had he eluded Sheriff Bowman?

She pushed her heavy, loose hair behind her back.
Bart.
He was a liar, a trickster, an outlaw. And he was the handsomest man in the entire world! Oh, those green eyes. With his short hair and white shirt, he might have passed for a white man except that his high cheekbones and copper skin gave him away. But he certainly was not a full-blooded Cheyenne. He certainly wasn’t named Buck.

And he most certainly
was
back in town.

“Miss Laura!” Mr. Gable bellowed. “Three more cinnamon rolls just walked in the door!”

Rosie squared her shoulders and hurried back into
the dining room. But the big table had emptied, and Bart Kingsley had disappeared just as certainly as he had returned.

I
f any day in Raton could be given over to a little extra sleep, a fishing trip or a train ride to Springer for supplies, it was Saturday. With all the excitement over the Friday-night fire at O’Reilly’s Saloon, Rosie wasn’t sure how many men would haul themselves out of bed to cast a school election vote. Only a scant number of townsmen had appeared at Harvey House for breakfast, and she feared the inactivity didn’t bode well for extending Mr. Kilgore’s free public school for an extra three-month term.

Tired and on edge after the busy night, she scrubbed her dining-room station after the last morning train had chugged away from the depot. The exhilaration of the previous evening had faded during the long sleepless hours in which she had turned the reappearance of Bart Kingsley over in her mind.

When she asked permission to visit the voting boxes, Rosie acknowledged inwardly that she was driven out into the brisk morning by more than a desire to watch men cast ballots.

As she walked, she scanned the front of every
building, peeking into windows and glancing through open front doors. She scrutinized every carriage that rattled past her down the street. She carefully inspected every rider, tradesman and merchant.

Several men were surveying the blackened ruins across the street from the Bank Exchange Saloon. Wisps of gray smoke curled into the blue sky to be wafted toward the distant snowy mesas. The local doctor’s dog, an enormous brindle mastiff named Griff, was sniffing around the broken kegs and bottles. Griff had a well-known fondness for hard spirits and had been known to knock a man flat to get at his whiskey. Griff was accompanied by Tom, a mutt that was a favorite of the schoolchildren.

Among the charred beams, a group of boys played hide-and-seek. Rosie recognized one of them as the young redhead who had hailed her the night before.

“G’morning, Miss Kingsley,” he called as he leaped over a charred piano. “Them sure was good cinnamon rolls!”

“Why, thank you, sir,” Rosie answered, lifting a hand to wave. “And how are you today?”

Before the lad could answer, another began to jeer, “Manford Wade is sweet on Miss Kingsley! Mannie has a sweetheart!”

At that moment Griff took it into his massive head to chase the taunter and his pal down the street. Rosie watched the boys’ scrawny legs churn as they ran around a corner, followed paces behind by Tom and Griff.

Mannie had ducked behind a blackened porch post, and now the redhead grinned at Rosie. “Where ya goin’, Miss Kingsley?”

“I thought I’d take a look at the voting booths.” She paused. “I’m hoping Raton will decide to keep you in school another three months, Manford.”

“Three months is a long time. It’ll be hot in the classroom, and most of us boys will be workin’ on the farms or in the mines.”

“Mr. Kilgore believes that if you want to keep up your studies, you’ll need those extra months of school.”

Mannie stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m a good reader, Miss Kingsley. I wouldn’t mind keeping a book handy this summer. But I don’t cotton to figures. When it comes to numbers, I’m as chuckleheaded as an old prairie dog.”

“If the proposal passes and your father lets you stay in school, you’ll have time to concentrate on mathematics.”

“I don’t have a pappy, and my mother don’t care a lick about arithmetic. She needs me to bring in a good wage come summer.” He kicked his heel against a charred window frame. “So you’re gonna have a look at the voting. One of these days, I’ll get to vote. Mind if I come along?”

“I was hoping you’d join me.” Rosie suppressed a grin as the youngster swaggered along beside her. Clearly Manford Wade regarded himself as a gentleman—not easily swayed by the teasing of his mates. Unlike the ragged boys he had been playing with, Mannie wore his shirtsleeves buttoned at the wrists and his tails tucked into his pants.

“You made them cinnamon rolls, Miss Kingsley?” he asked as they neared the line of men standing outside the assembly hall. The large building served as a gathering
place for dances, socials, school plays, meetings, even church services.

“Our baker is in charge of the breads,” Rosie answered before making an announcement that would have curdled her father’s blood. “I’m a waitress.”

Rosie stepped onto the wooden walkway and scanned the faces of the men in the line. Bart was not among them.

Had she dreamed he had been sitting at the table with Cheyenne Bill and Sheriff Bowman? If not, where was he now?

“You reckon women ought to get the chance to vote, Miss Kingsley?” Manford asked.

“The right to vote is a highly debated issue,” she told the boy. “My father believes women aren’t meant to take an interest in public affairs. His views led me to consider suffragettes as nothing but a hen party bent on making trouble. But, you know, Mannie, if women could vote, this school resolution would have a good chance of passing.”

“Not if my mama could vote. She’d hold out against it. She wants me in the fields come summer.”

Rosie was formulating a response when someone brushed past her elbow.

“Morning, Miss Kingsley.”

She swung around to find Bart Kingsley already halfway past her. He and Cheyenne Bill were headed for the end of the voting line. He greeted several of the men, hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his britches and took up his position to vote in the school election of Raton.

Bart—a wanted outlaw! Rosie clamped her mouth
shut and tried to make herself listen to Manford, who was lamenting the possible results of women attaining the right to vote.

“We might even have a lady sheriff,” he was saying. “A lady sheriff? Now that would be bad.”

While Cheyenne Bill bragged about how he had organized the hose company to fight the fire, Rosie studied Bart. As he had the night before, Bart wore the white shirt she had bought him, a pair of new denim trousers and the old boots she had once pulled off his feet.

“What about a lady governor?” Manford piped up. “Ain’t no way a woman could manage all them governor jobs and be cookin’, warshin’, ironin’ and such as that. My mama says if women got to vote, they’d turn into men and start smokin’ cigars, drinkin’ whiskey, wearin’ britches, cussin’.”

“Not every woman hankers to cook and clean, young fellow,” Bart put in, his deep voice sending Rosie’s nerves skittering.

Manford stared at the tall, green-eyed stranger. “You’re Cheyenne Bill’s cousin. What’s your name?”

“They call me Buck. I work at the livery stable over by the depot.” Though the words were spoken to the boy, Rosie knew the message was meant for her. “I claimed a homestead near the mesa, and I’ve started building my dugout.”

For the first time since he’d joined the line of voters, Bart looked directly at Rosie. He tipped his battered black felt hat. “Howdy do, ma’am.”

Before she could answer, Bart addressed Manford again. “I’ve got one hundred sixty acres of prime land, and I’m aiming to grow sugar beets for cash, run a few
cattle and build myself a snug soddy to live in. I could use a man with a shovel on afternoons and weekends. What do you say to that, young man?”

“I say yahoo! I’d better run tell my mama!” Manford hightailed it across the street before sliding to a stop. “I’ll be right back, Injun Buck. Don’t leave town without me, hear?”

Before Rosie could fall under the spell of those green eyes, she stepped away from the line of men and hurried down the wooden sidewalk.

The dinner crowd brought news that the proposal to extend the school term by three months had passed, and Mr. Kilgore’s free school would hold classes through the end of June.

“And he’s looking for a teacher,” Sheriff Bowman said around a bite of hot apple pie. “Tom declares he’s going to bring our children up to par with every child back east. He says he’ll go to Kansas City to fetch a new teacher if need be, but he’d rather hire a lady right here in Raton.”

“What about Miss Hutchinson?” someone asked.

Rosie was serving at a station near the sheriff’s table. As she poured cups of dark brown Harvey coffee, she leaned toward him to hear.

“Tom wants a married lady,” the sheriff said. “He needs a teacher who’s got roots, a gal who ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“I reckon Mrs. Poole might do a dandy job. Mrs. Poole or Mrs. Bell. Both of them’s got education.”

Rosie had knotted her fingers together behind her back and she wasn’t even trying to wear the Harvey
smile. The men were right. Any number of married women in town could take that teaching position.

I’m the best teacher for the job,
she wanted to shout. Oh, how could Bart Kingsley just swagger into town and wangle himself a good job? Nobody expected him to be married before hiring him. Well, Rosie was married! Legally married for six years, as a matter of fact.

And her husband was right here in Raton. If Bart could lie his way into town, convince everyone he was someone he wasn’t, get a job and claim land, why couldn’t she get what she wanted the same way? And if Bart—conniver that he was—could toy with her, why couldn’t she use him, too?

Her father had brought her up to be a moral Christian lady, but did that mean she couldn’t have what she deserved? Why shouldn’t she use a man who owed her for all the trouble he’d caused, a man who couldn’t risk anyone tattling to the sheriff about who he really was…a man who belonged to her in the first place?

“Buck!” the stable boss hollered. “A pretty lady wants to see you. Better step to it before she gets away.”

Surprised at the sight of Rosie standing in the doorway, Bart started across the hay-littered barn. He liked his work at the livery. The air was fragrant with well-oiled leather, sweet straw, fresh oats and dusty horses. Sunlight filtered through holes in the roof. It was a good place to be when so much was at stake.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said in greeting. He regretted his appearance—the sleeves of his blue chambray shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he knew his collar
was damp. Wondering if he smelled like a horse, Bart brushed bits of straw from his hair.

“Buck, is it?” she asked.

He nodded as his boss headed toward the back storage area. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She fixed her big brown eyes on him and took a deep breath. “You can do exactly what you promised six years ago before you ran off like a yellow-bellied coward. You can convince Thomas Kilgore that I’m your wife. I want to take a teaching position, and you’re going to help me. After that, I don’t care what you do with yourself.”

Bart rubbed the back of his neck, concerned that Rosie might have gone a little off kilter. “You say you want to be my wife? You want people to know I’m your husband?”

Her eyelashes fluttered a moment. “Just until I’ve earned enough money to buy a house. Meanwhile, you’ll take me out to that homestead you somehow got hold of and set me up comfortably. You’ll earn a lawful, decent living for once in your life. You will do as I ask, or I’ll march right over to Sheriff Bowman and tell him that you’re not Cheyenne Bill’s cousin and your name is not Buck. It’s Bart Kingsley.”

“Now hold on a minute—”

“I’ll tell the sheriff you’re the outlaw he shot that night when the Pinkerton detective was searching Raton. I’ll tell him you used to ride with Jesse James and you robbed three trains. All he has to do to get his fifty-dollar reward is stroll over here to the livery stable and put you under arrest. So you’d better do as I say and take me for your wife without a word of argument.”

Bart worked to hold back a bemused grin. “All right,”
he said finally. “Since you put it that way, I reckon I could do what you ask.”

Her eyes widened as if she had expected a protest. Bart leaned one shoulder against the side of a stall and chewed on the end of a piece of hay. How could his little Rosie know that she’d just made his dream come true? He had risked his life by hiding out in the New Mexico wilds while his bullet wound healed. Then he put his neck on the line by confiding in Cheyenne Bill, returning to Raton, taking a job in as public a place as the depot livery stable and staking a homestead claim in Springer.

He’d done it all in the hope that he could someday take Rosie back into his arms forever. He had supposed it would take months, maybe years, to earn her trust. Yet here she was, commanding him to marry her.

But at what cost?

“You might get the fifty-dollar reward yourself,” he said. “Ever thought of that, Rosie?”

“I don’t want fifty dollars. I want that teaching job.” Her brown eyes sparked with determination. “I don’t have much time, so here’s what you’re to do. Come to the House tonight and ask Mrs. Jensen if you can take me to church.”

“Church?” Bart hadn’t been to church in years. As a boy, he’d spent many a Sunday sitting on the church porch listening to the preacher. His pals didn’t cotton to religion—never had seen much good in it. But Bart liked to hear the Bible read out loud. He liked what the preacher said, too.

Although he’d never had the chance to walk the aisle and proclaim himself a Christian, he figured he was
one—in his heart anyhow. Of course, riding with the James gang prevented any churchgoing. The way he was living didn’t make Bart any too eager to listen to sermons.

“Reverend Cullen is a good man,” Rosie was saying, “and you need to try to prove you’re moral. You’ll court me every night next week. On Saturday we’ll take the train to Springer. When we come back, we’ll say we’re married.”

“We
are
married, Rosie.”

She shot him a look of fury. Before she could argue, he continued. “So, when you get that teacher job, you’ll up and walk out on your new husband? What will Mr. Kilgore and the school board say to that?”

“They’ll think I’m such a fine teacher that they won’t care a lick. Anyhow, I’m sure it won’t take you long to go back to your wicked ways, Bart. All you know how to do is rob trains and banks. You’ll get tired of sweating for your pay. A tiny dugout soddy, a field of sugar beets and a job shoveling horse manure won’t hold your interest. Everyone will understand why I left you.”

“What you really want to know is how long it’ll be before I get tired of you, isn’t it, Rosie?”