The Rebel (6 page)

"Are you fixin' to buy a drink, ma’am,” he asked, “or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all night?"

Jessica glanced around the saloon at the rough and tough looking clientele, and held up a hand. “No thanks. I’ll find help elsewhere.” Struggling to keep it together, she walked out.

Squinting through the darkness, she searched for a friendly face or a shop with some lights on, but all she saw were those same two drunken cowboys flinging bottles, laughing uproariously and spitting tobacco.

Suddenly a shot rang out in the street. Panic exploded in her belly, and she ran back into the saloon. "Is there a police station nearby?” she said to the bartender. “I really need some help."

"You'd be looking for Sheriff Wade,” he casually replied. “He's just over that way in the city clerk’s office, not far from the depot and the water tank." He pointed a bottle of whisky toward the window.

"Is it far? I have to walk there by myself."

"Not far, but a young woman ain't safe roaming these streets alone during cattle season. These cowboys have been on the trail a while, and have a hankering for more than just the chuck wagon, if you understand my meaning." He leaned over the bar and glanced down at her skinny jeans and muddy red pumps. "They'll be takin' a shinin' to you, even dressed the way you are in those britches."

"I'll be fine." She turned and walked out the door.

She hopped off the boardwalk and down onto the street with a splash, groaning when she sank ankle-deep into the mud. No matter. She'd be at the sheriff's office soon enough, and this whole thing would be straightened out.

She stopped, however, when something tickled and buzzed behind her ear. She scratched and tousled her hair, then realized with a terrible surge of panic that a June bug was stuck in her hair!

Jessica shrieked. She tried to brush it away, but it was tangled in her long wet locks. She tossed her head around, flailed her arms in all directions, and jumped through the puddles to try and escape.

Boom! Another gunshot ripped through the night. Her heart exploded with fear, and she tripped backwards over a plank in the street. Down she went, splashing into a puddle on her backside. No sooner than her butt began to throb, she looked up to see a man falling out of a second story window!

He dropped onto the over-hanging roof and rolled straight toward her. Jessica scrambled to her feet and slipped through the slick muck, barely escaping the plummeting man's path. Just as she slid out of the way, he landed heavily in front of her, splashing muddy water onto her cheeks.

A second later, a metal object dropped into a puddle beside her.

"Sir!" she hollered, dropping to her hands and knees to help him. "Are you all right?"

He was face down in the mud, and Jessica was just about to roll him over when the saloon doors swung open, smacking against the outside wall. Men and women poured out and gathered on the boardwalk to stare at her in shocked silence.

"What in God's name happened?" someone asked.

“This man fell out of a window,” Jessica replied. “He needs help.”

The stranger ran toward her and together, they rolled the injured man onto his back. Jessica stared in horror at his face. A clean bullet hole gaped between his eyes, and blood trickled down his nose.

“Dear Lord,” the stranger said. He stood up and quickly backed away.

“Somebody call 911!” Jessica shouted. She pressed her ear to the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. When she heard nothing, she knew there was no hope, but she still wanted an ambulance. A cop car, too.

If there was such a thing in this backward place.

“Will somebody call an ambulance?” she shouted in frustration.

“Now...just be calm, miss,” the stranger said. “We don't want any trouble.”

“What are you talking about?” she replied. “I don't want to cause trouble. I’m trying to help him. Doesn’t anyone have a cell phone?”

That particular request was met with blank stares.

“I saw her wavin’ a gun around like some kind of lunatic!” someone offered.

“I wasn’t waving a gun,” she explained. “I was trying to kill a June bug."

There was a series of 'oohs' and 'ahs' from the crowd as everyone backed away in unison.

Realizing she was quickly becoming a primary suspect in this man’s murder, Jessica raised both hands in the air and stood. "Look, everyone needs to stay calm. It wasn't me. I was just trying to help him."

"Do you know who this is?" the stranger asked.

Jessica shook her head. “No.”

"That's Left Hand Lou!" someone called out from the crowd.

Before Jessica had a chance to comprehend what this meant, people rushed over to get a look at the corpse.

"He's wanted in three states!" someone hollered. "You just killed the fastest draw this side of the Mississippi!"

What did they think she had done? She hadn't shot him! And what did they mean—the fastest draw this side of the Mississippi? This wasn’t Gunsmoke, for pity’s sake.

"Wait a minute,” she said. “Seriously. There’s been a mistake.”

Just then, a deep voice cut through the commotion. "Can I ask what's going on in this little gathering of yours?"

Unable to discern from where the voice had come, she looked all around through the darkness.

"Ma’am? I asked you a question." The crowd parted, clearing a wide path for the inquiring man to approach. Jessica was finally able to get a glimpse at him, although the brim of his black hat shadowed his face from the dim lantern light spilling out of the saloon.

He moved slowly toward her, and she was taken aback by how handsome he was, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a fit, muscular build.

Closing the distance between them, he pushed his open black coat to the side. His purpose was clear as he rested his large hand on an ivory-handled revolver holstered to his leather gun belt.

His trousers—also black—were snug and worn at the knees, and his boots were spurred.

Jessica hadn't actually looked at his feet, but as he walked, the sound of the spurs jingling alerted her senses to everything about him.

Someone moved aside, and a gentle stream of light reflected off the shiny star pinned to the man's lapel.

It read:
Sheriff
.

Thank God.

He angled his head and spoke in low voice – sort of like Clint Eastwood, but not exactly.

"Ma’am, you look a little distressed. Can I be of some assistance?"

His observation, which couldn't have been closer to the truth, melted all her cool bravado in an instant, and she was so relieved, she could have grabbed hold of his shirt collar, pulled him toward her, and kissed him square on the lips.

"Yes, you can,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming so quickly."

He chuckled softly, but the smile in his eyes was cold and calculating.

“I wouldn’t thank me just yet,” he drawled, as he wrapped his big hand around her arm and tugged her closer. “Because by the look of things here, missy, you’re gonna be spending the night in my jailhouse.”

The crowd murmured approval, while Jessica glanced up at his ruggedly handsome features, bronzed by wind and sun, then cautiously lowered her eyes to the gun at his hip.

He shook his head at her, as if she’d been a very naughty girl, and said, “Tsk tsk tsk,” while she paused to think carefully about the best way to handle this.