The Lady and the Lawman (3 page)

Tobacco
Chewer wheezed above her as he tried to recuperate from her blow.
When he could catch his breath, he let out a litany of profanity so
severe it made Margaret blush. When some of his strength returned, he
slapped her across the cheek so hard, she tasted blood.

“
Fuckin’
whore!”

Really?
That was definitely one thing she was not. She may have given herself
to William, but the alternative had been grim.

“
Please,”
she begged. “Don’t rape me.”

“
How
the hell do you expect me to do that now?” he hissed. “Damn
woman, my balls won’t come out of hidin’ for at least a day.”

She
had no idea what he was talking about or what kind of ball he was
referring to. But she didn’t care. It sounded to her that these
“balls” were needed to rape a woman and she’d taken care of
that. Thank the good Lord.

“
What...what
are you going to do with me, then?”

His
face was just above hers, she could see the pain still etched in his
features. He spit his tobacco wad to the right of her head, saliva
trailing down his chin.

“
You’re
no fuckin’ good to me now. I’m going to sell you, that’s what
I’m gonna do.”

Sell
her? Did it mean what she thought it meant?

Kneeling,
then standing, although somewhat hunched over, he pointed his gun at
her.

“
I’ll
kill you dead if you so much as think of escaping.” The evil look
he gave her backed up the deadly weapon.

Nodding,
she remained quiet. She had a choice, she could submit to this man
now and save herself when she had the chance, or die. As she pulled
her ripped dress together and settled her skirts about her, he
stumbled to his horse and pulled a rope from his saddlebag. Returning
to her, he tied her wrists together a bit too tightly for comfort.
She was reminded of the Christmas goose the cook prepared every year.
After being hoisted up onto his dead cohort’s horse, she took a bit
of time to adjust herself in the saddle to get comfortable, bruised
backside smarting while Tobacco Chewer held her horse's lead and led
her to a fate unknown.

They
rode for several hours before approaching a small town, watching it
grow in the distance. It appeared small, a few buildings and houses
dotting the flat, green landscape.

Her
whole body ached as she shifted from side to side with the animal’s
gait. Hot and tired from riding under the intense sun, her emotions
were worn to the quick. Tears came quick to her eyes but she blinked
them away, knowing it wouldn’t do her any good.
She
was going to be sold, unless God gave her a miracle. Crying wouldn’t
change that.

The
ropes that bound her had begun to dig into her wrists long hours ago,
but she continued to try to wriggle free. Her skin, rubbed raw in
places, had become painfully sore. Sweat trickled onto the raw flesh,
making it sting all the more. Her fingers had fallen asleep despite
her effort to keep flexing them open and closed. But with the town
looming closer, and her fate about to change, her numb hands were the
least of her problems.

CHAPTER
TWO

Grant
Masterson studied his fellow card players as he downed a shot of
whiskey in one gulp. It burned a quick path to his belly but it
didn’t quiet the pain, the anger that churned there. It was late,
he was tired, and he was stuck in a low-life saloon, gambling with
men who were th
e
lowest of the low. His night couldn't get any worse.

Croft
didn't spend much of his profits on sprucing up the place. Sawdust
coated the floors, blotting up the backwash of tobacco spit and
whiskey. The saloon girls had been around one too many times and it
showed.

The
room was full. Men from ranches all over the area were drinking their
sorrows, or whatever else ailed them, away. And the ladies of the
night Croft provided were there to help. The combination was raucous,
the sounds of hard drinking, and in one corner that he could see, a
little slap and tickle between a randy ranch hand and a lusty
barmaid, threatened to make the headache at the base of his neck even
worse.

“
I
don’t have enough to cover the bet,” Croft said hastily. The
saloon owner rifled through the scant dollars left in front of him.

“
Too
bad.” Robert Dalton pulled his gun out from beneath the table.
“Bet!” He cocked the weapon and pointed it at Croft.

Several
men watching the game stepped back and
found amusement elsewhere.
Grant didn’t blame them. Most of these men needed more trouble like
a hole in the head. Wishing he could just step away too, enjoy
himself, maybe in the arms of a woman who hadn't been more than
friendly with every man in a twenty mile radius. There wasn't a soft,
desirable woman like that in town. Hadn't been one in years.

Croft
raised his hands. “Now hold on there. I don’t think—”

Dalton
cut him off before he could say more. “You’re right Croft, you
don’t think. You listen to me,” he shouted. “I’ve already put
more than cash on the line here, damn it. Now ante up!”

The
saloon owner jumped in his seat, startled by the tone.

“
Sheriff,
aren’t you gonna do something about this? I’m being threatened in
my own saloon!” Croft looked to Grant for help. He shrugged. It
might be his job as the keeper of the peace to solve this problem,
but Grant had no sympathy, no motivation to help the bastard.

If
Dalton wanted to shoot the mean old coot, it wouldn’t bother him in
the least. One less cantankerous lout to deal with in a town full of
them. In fact, he might even sleep better if Dalton did. Croft would
be dead and Dalton would hang for the crime. Seemed like an easy way
to kill two birds with one stone. Grant smiled inwardly at the
appealing thought.

Unfortunately,
he had a star pinned to his chest and he had an oath to live up to.
No matter how much he didn’t want to abide by it at this particular
moment. “Now Croft, I’m sure if you just anted up, Dalton will
put his gun away.” It was hard keeping the hatred out of his voice.
“Isn’t that right, Dalton?”

Dalton
nodded his agreement, although somewhat reluctantly.

One
small problem solved. After an hour of petty bets, this game had
gotten quickly out of hand. The stakes had been raised to a point
where Dalton had bet his horse. His horse! The man took better care
of horse flesh than he did a woman. His hand must be a sure thing.

Croft,
on the other hand, was stalling. The man was a miser. He probably had
more money than God, but wouldn’t part with a dime unless his life
depended on it. He lived, ate, breathed the saloon.

Grant
figured he’d have to offer up his own horse as well, to stay in the
game. Maybe he should just fold and call it a night. Walking away
with his dignity in shreds was much better than walking home without
a horse.

Besides,
it wasn’t his style to gamble with more than cold, hard cash. He
never bet more than he was willing to lose. This game was a different
kettle of fish, though. Dalton was all in, and Grant never backed
down where Dalton was concerned.

The
two had been friends once. When they were in nappies and short pants.
Not anymore. Now, Grant had made it a consistent goal to see Dalton
bested in everything. It was as good a time as any to see the man
lose. It warmed his heart thinking of Dalton walking home without his
trusted steed.

“
I
don’t have anything of value,” Croft said warily, eyes darting
between the men.

Grant
chuckled and poured another shot of whiskey from the bottle on the
table. Clearly he expected them to buy the flimsy line beneath his
cool facade.

“
You
think we’re wet behind the ears still, Croft?” Grant asked.

The
saloon owner tapped the ashes from his cigar into an empty whiskey
glass.

“
You
got the deed to this place?” Dalton placed his gun on the table,
ready for action if things didn’t go his way.

“
Now,
hold on there a minute! Just because you own every other building in
town doesn’t mean you’re gonna get your hands on mine.” Croft
pushed back away from the table, chair legs scraping against the wood
floor. “I’m not giving up this saloon to you, or anyone else over
a...a stupid card game.”

Dalton
didn’t reply, but his cold stare said volumes.

Croft
squirmed in his chair as if he had a snake in his pants. Grant
enjoyed this immensely. The man would have to think of something of
value, and quick, or his saloon could be a thing of the past.

“
All
right, now just wait,” Croft said, stalling to consider his
options.

The
man took his sweet time trying to think his way out of his quandary.
In the meantime, Grant witnessed a man get punched in the face,
knocked unconscious and left sprawled out on the wet, dirty floor. It
might be his job to step in, but the man probably deserved it, and he
wasn't in the mood. Grant could see Dalton’s patience wearing thin,
as was his. It was the first time in years that he probably shared
similar emotions with Dalton, something he’d never admit to anyone.

“
I’ve
got it! I’ve got just the thing. I was hoping to keep her longer
than a couple of hours but, hell, I’d rather lose her than the
saloon.”

“
What
‘thing’ are you talking about?” Grant asked, tired of listening
to the old man’s complaints. Thinking the ‘she’ Croft referred
to was some mare, Grant wanted to get this man, and the game, moving
so he could fold and be on his way.

If
he wasn't going to be lucky enough to find a woman agreeable to his
very lusty needs, his own bed and a good night’s sleep sounded
better by the minute. Grant didn’t want to be stuck with an old nag
of Croft’s, and he certainly didn’t need to be watching his back
for the foreseeable future after winning Dalton’s prized steed. The
less he saw of Dalton, the better.

Grant
ran his fingers over his face, wiping some of the exhaustion away.
He’d originally come into the saloon looking for leads into the
stage robbery. In years past, before he became a lawman, he came in
for a game of cards, a drink, and a woman.
A man had to
sow some oats. Grant had certainly done his share when he was
younger. Now, at thirty-two, a brothel wasn’t quite his style
anymore, nor were the women Croft provided. He only walked through
the doors these days to break up fights and to maintain the peace,
especially during the annual cattle drives when rowdiness prevailed
on a nightly basis.

Tonight,
he’d hoped some whiskey and a game of cards might loosen some
tongues, so he’d pulled a chair up to the table and anted up an
hour earlier. In that time, he’d come up dry as a creek bed in a
drought. No leads as to who’d perpetrated the robbery that left
Bill Cawley dead. It had taken most of the day to bring his friend’s
body and four worn horses into town from the overturned stage. Sadly,
he’d known Bill his whole life and the old man would be sorely
missed.

The
scene of the crime was in such a state, it appeared as if a tornado
had struck. Clothing and bags had been strewn around the tipped
stage, the horses skittish and edgy. Bill’s dead body made the
wreckage all the more grisly. Another body had laid broken on the
ground, but to Grant’s expert eye, appeared to be one of the stage
robbers. Maybe Bill had been able to get a shot off before he’d
been gunned down.

As
Grant had searched through the wreckage, in and out of broken trunks
and carpet bags, he’d come upon women’s clothing, but no
passengers were found, male or female.

It
had been easy to track horses to and from the area. From the
direction of the broken grass, one trail led directly to Cranston.
Any man, law-abiding or not, would stop in for a drink after a long
day on the trail. Especially after instigating, or surviving, the
carnage that had been in front of Grant.

“
I
got a new girl today who was with a drifter. She was gonna to be my
newest girl, but my saloon is worth much more to me than she is. She
goes to the winner of this game. A virgin. Good enough, Dalton?”
Croft turned to look at him. “Sheriff?”