Wildfire in His Arms (37 page)

“You didn't tell me why,” she reminded him.

“Because Charles Bixford kills just for the heck of it, and he's already killed one marshal who tried to apprehend him. And because John has a family. He'll be going after Bixford if I don't.”

And Degan didn't have a family? No, of course not. She didn't count, and the family he'd left behind didn't either. A family man such as John Hayes counted. A friend. She got it, she just didn't like it.

She said, “Grady used to be a real sheriff before he became Carl's ‘do anything' man. Maybe he can help.”

Degan leaned his head back and closed his eyes. She recognized that as his answer. He was done discussing it. If she thought they were going to stay together any longer than it took to get to Texas, she would make an effort to break him of that irritating habit. Yet, she had to admit that Degan had changed since she'd met him. The time they'd spent alone in Dakota had opened him up some. They didn't converse only over a meal. And he didn't often clam up like this anymore, at least not with her—only when she said something dumb such as implying that he could use some help.

“R
EALLY? NO BATH FIRST?
”

Degan was leaving the hotel room they'd just entered so he could do some questioning in town. His forgoing a bath first gave her the impression that he was hoping to finish his business here today so they could go on to Texas tomorrow.

“Ogden is a big town,” he added, “but I should know before dinner if Red Charley is here. And lock the door.”

She would have snuck out and done some questioning herself to help him if his remark about locking the door didn't remind her that Grady and Saul had checked into the same hotel right after them. Although Grady had witnessed the marriage ceremony, she wouldn't put it past him to snatch her away if he caught her alone. Carl had ordered Grady to bring her back. Letting her waltz into Bingham Hills with Degan would indicate that Grady hadn't done his job. This was the first time she and Degan had been apart since he'd rescued her in Butte.

She took a bath and then stood by the window, hoping to see Degan on his way back to the hotel. But seeing no sign of him up or down the street, she considered sneaking out to help him. She had her gun back and had been wearing it since they'd left Butte. She could handle Grady as long as he didn't surprise her. But she didn't leave the room because she didn't want Degan to return and find her gone.

Then she spotted a big mountain of a man who could actually be Red Charley. He had red hair, a rat-nested bush of it sticking out all over his head and a full red beard to go with it. His teeth gripped a short, fat cigar, and he was wearing a tattered jacket over farmer's overalls that looked so well worn they might have been the same ones he'd been wearing when he left Nebraska. He was just walking down the middle of the street, laughing when people scurried out of his way.

A man of that size wouldn't be easy to apprehend. Shooting him might not stop him, either. With all that excess flesh, he probably wouldn't even feel a bullet. And Degan was too straightforward. He'd expect a man to go down if he had to shoot him, not come charging at him in rage, which is how Max imagined the big redhead would react.

She hoped the man wasn't Red Charley. She hoped Degan wouldn't think he was if he spotted him. But he did. She saw Degan step out from under the porch of a building down the street from the hotel. He called Bixford's name. Max gripped the windowsill when the big man in overalls stopped and slowly turned.

Degan already had his gun drawn. Charley didn't appear to be wearing one, with no belt of any sort needed for his overalls. He didn't look the least bit concerned about Degan. Everyone else was wary around Degan, but not this man. He just casually took a fresh cigar out of his pocket and replaced the short one with it, lighting it with the stub—and tossed it at Degan. It landed at Degan's feet. That's when Max realized the cigar had a short fuse attached to it.

It was a stick of dynamite! Degan dived toward a water trough across the street. But the explosion occurred too quickly. She blanched, not knowing if Degan had gotten behind the trough in time or if it even mattered since the trough blew up. The porch posts behind it were also blown away, causing the roof to collapse. The windows of the shop had shattered, too. And that mass-murdering bastard just continued down the street with his barrel laugh floating behind him.

Frantically searching the debris with wide eyes, Max didn't breathe until she saw Degan slowly getting to his feet. Water had flown everywhere, dousing him, but incredibly, the back of the trough was still standing, though the other three sides weren't. And Degan's gun was still in his hand.

His first shot hit the fleshy part of Charley's leg. All that did was turn him around again. The second shot hit the hand reaching for another stick of dynamite. That only kept the hand out of his pocket. But the big redhead reacted the way Max had imagined he would. Red Charley charged toward Degan. The third shot hit his other leg at the knee. That had to hurt. It still took another long moment for him to topple over when that leg buckled.

Degan should have just shot him in the head. Max would have. Who would miss a killer like that? But Degan had effectively disarmed Bixford with the shot to his hand, keeping him from setting off any more explosions. And Degan wouldn't kill an unarmed man even if no one would thank him for letting this one live.

Max raced downstairs and out into the street. She didn't hesitate to throw her arms around Degan when she reached him, despite the crowd of people that had gathered there, including the local sheriff and the Texas lawmen.

She arrived in time to hear Grady grumble, “It would have been nice if you'd mentioned you're a marshal.” He'd obviously just noticed the badge Degan was wearing today.

“Why?” Degan replied indifferently. “It makes no difference to your task, or to mine.”

The local sheriff said, “Bixford blew up a mine down in Coalville to the south that killed five men, but I wasn't sure it was him. I confronted him, but he denied it, so I couldn't lock him up. Had him watched, though, to make sure he didn't leave town. A witness was coming to identify him, but I've been waiting three weeks now for him to get up here. Guess I can let the sheriff in Coalville know we don't need him now. We had no idea he was wanted for so many killings elsewhere. Appreciate the help, Marshal.”

There was more talk. Max stopped listening and just kept her ear to Degan's chest. His heartbeat was so soothing to her right then. She was surprised he didn't set her away from him, that he was even keeping one arm around her back. She had to be embarrassing him, hugging him in public with half the town showing up to talk about the explosion. But no one seemed nervous around him right now.

Everyone was thanking him, which he probably wasn't used to. She had a feeling no one around there knew who he was and maybe it wouldn't matter if they did, not after what he'd just done for this town. Max felt Degan could probably fit in anywhere once people found out how nice it was to have him around, but also felt he'd never stick around anywhere long enough to learn that.

“I've gotten you wet,” Degan said as he led her back to their hotel, his arm still around her.

“Is that all you've got to say? You were nearly blown up! You should've shot first and asked if he was Red Charley later, not given him time to throw dynamite at you.”

“You were watching?”

“Yeah, I saw it happen. And that is
not
how you're getting rid of me, by dying. So don't do it again.”

She knew how silly she sounded, but she wasn't taking it back. And she wasn't mollified when he said, “I'll keep that in mind.”

T
HREE DAYS LATER WHEN
they got off the train for a one-night layover in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and entered a hotel for the night, Degan pointed out in one of his quieter tones of voice, “If you want your own room, then we need to let your friends think that we're having a fight.” Then even more softly, he added, “So slap me.”

“Like hell I will.”

“Just do it, and before we leave the lobby. We can make up in front of them after the last layover before we get to Texas.”

Max couldn't bring herself to hit him when she didn't want to. She was getting annoyed by his willingness to humor her and concede to her wishes. In fact, Degan had pretty much been acting like a husband since they got married, in all ways but one, whether they had an audience or not. She could even detect his humor now. She was getting good at recognizing the signs of his amusement. No turning up of the lips, but a softening of his tone and the expression in his usually cold gray eyes. She'd bet he was laughing inside. She sure wasn't.

But she clamped her mouth shut and glared at that hound dog Grady, who was standing at the entrance to the hotel, watching them check in. Grady had his doubts that their marriage was real, and he was going out of his way to prove it. It hadn't just been a far-fetched possibility that their room—and what they did in it—might be watched. In Ogden, she'd spotted Saul asleep on the roof of the building across the street from their hotel, a spyglass in his hand. She'd pointed him out to Degan. He'd just shrugged. He'd probably been amused by that, too. But then he hadn't seemed to have just spent a hellish night sharing the bed, as she had.

She'd thought sleeping together without touching each other would bother him as much as it bothered her. But he'd gotten through that night in Ogden just fine, and he wasn't the least bit out of sorts about their having to share a bed again tonight. No, he was amused that she'd even suggested getting her own room.

If the nights weren't so warm that they needed to leave the windows open, and the curtains weren't so thin that any breeze could blow them out of the way, they wouldn't still have to sleep in the same bed. But she supposed she was jumping the gun this time. This hotel might have thick curtains, unlike the last one.

They didn't go straight up to their room so she could find out; Degan just had their things sent up to it. The plan was to take the horses out for a ride before getting cleaned up for dinner, and she'd been looking forward to that.

The animals were getting shortchanged on exercise. They'd taken them out for a long ride while they were in Ogden, and he wanted to do that again today before they caught the southbound train tomorrow. They'd had to come so far east to connect with the trains that would take them all the way to Texas, but riding the Transcontinental Railroad, it had only taken a few days. Max was glad to have a chance to see Council Bluffs, the town that had made history because it was where the cross-country line began, extending the eastern lines that had reached Iowa all the way to the West Coast. She didn't mention to Degan that they were once again only about a day's train ride away from Chicago. She was sure Degan realized that. If he ever did plan to go home again, he wasn't saying. But it wouldn't be before he finished her business. Of that she was sure.

Riding the horses was fun and had a bonus. It worried the heck out of Grady since he couldn't follow them because he didn't have a horse. They stuck to the roads. Too many farms were in the area to do otherwise.

When they slowed down to turn back, she mentioned, “We could get off the train at one of the watering stops in Texas before it reaches Fort Worth. It might only take one extra day to ride the rest of the way instead of catching the stage for the last leg of the journey home.”

“Your friends will, too.”

“I wish you'd stop calling them
my
friends. But they don't have horses so they can't follow us.”

“Pike is a Texas sheriff. He'll borrow mounts or confiscate the stage horses.”

“You really think he'd do that?”

“Yes. And I'd prefer not to camp out with them within yelling distance.”