In a Cowboy’s Arms (18 page)

Two events cast doubt on Dade’s story. He had ridden into town on the heels of a fracas that had taken the former sheriff’s life. About the same time, the Logan Gang set up camp in Myron Zule’s mine before Zule was cold in his grave.

There’s no way in hell Dade could convince Allis Carson that he wasn’t in cahoots with the gang. The truth could be interpreted two ways, and Dade had no proof to back up his claim.

He’d be on their trail unless Dade created a false one.

“You like being sheriff?” Tavish asked.

This time Dade spoke the truth. “Not particularly. All I ever wanted to do was raise cattle. Been thinking of heading back to Maverick with Daisy. She’d like it up there.”

So would he, now that Reid had sold the ranch and was gone.

“It’s a nice town,” Tavish said. “Reckon you’re homesick.”

Sick that he’d been swindled out of his home was more like it, but he kept that to himself.

Dade hoped that was enough to send the bounty hunter in that direction. By the time he realized his mistake, Dade and Maggie would be heading east to the settlement where Daisy was adopted off the train.

“You say Allis Carson is heading back here?” Dade asked.

The marshal nodded. “Likely tomorrow. Can’t see how he could get out of Denver any sooner.”

The bounty hunter could if he took the train.

If Allis Carson arrived before Dade could leave, he’d never shake the bastard. Hell, he stood a chance of losing Maggie if he failed to convince the man she was his sister.

That meant they’d best leave town before dawn. Even then they’d risk crossing paths with the bounty hunter.

“When are you and your sister planning to leave?” Tavish asked.

“In the morning.”

They’d have to take the north road out of town to look convincing. Somehow they’d have to cut off through the hills far enough north of town that nobody would notice.

From there it’d be a rough ride across trails best fit for wild game. And the whole damned time he’d have to hope that the bounty hunter hadn’t picked up their trail and wasn’t following them.

Dade knew it’d be like the man to lie in wait until they least expected trouble. Then he’d swoop in and grab Maggie. He wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through Dade’s heart in the process.

“I take it you haven’t told Mayor Willis you’re leaving,” Tavish said.

“Nope, but when I hired on I told them all it was just temporary until I found my sister.”

Tavish’s rugged features softened. “You been separated from her long?”

“Twenty years or so.”

Dade shook his head, finding it mighty peculiar that he still felt that sting of abandonment so keenly after all this time.

“That’s a lifetime for some,” Tavish said, and Dade nodded agreement, knowing that was true.

If only they hadn’t separated him from his sister in the orphanage. If they’d just kept the family together and not sent her off on a damned orphan train.

“You planning on sticking around?” Dade asked.

“Nope. I’m being sent down to Pueblo. From what I saw, your deputy is going to do just fine.”

Dade surely hoped so. At least his fear that the Logan Gang would return to cause trouble was gone.

“Guess I’ll look up Mayor Willis and turn in my badge,” Dade said, and felt a weight lift off him at the thought.

He wasn’t an outlaw by any stretch, but he wasn’t cut out to be a lawman either. Nope, he was a sodbuster at heart.

Maybe one day he’d own a small spread. Farm a bit. Run some cattle.

Alone?

His thoughts turned to a beguiling woman with lips like honey and blue eyes a man could drown in.

Maggie Sutten was all wrong for him. She had plans for her life, and they surely didn’t include him. But that didn’t stop the wanting.

Nope, the next month was going to test his patience and the promise he had made her to keep his hands to himself.

The ride tomorrow was going to kill her.

Maggie pressed a hand to the small of her back and straightened from packing her satchel. Muscles she hadn’t known she had were aching something fierce. What she wouldn’t give to soak in the mineral waters in Manitou Springs about now.

Of course that wasn’t a possibility since they were headed east. To Kansas, of all places.

She folded another day dress as best she could and tucked it into her satchel. Thankfully she hadn’t taken much with her when she fled Harlan Nowell’s house. Escapes in the night tended to require that one pack lightly.

But she had to add one item to her wardrobe–if it could be found in town, that is. She had to buy more suitable riding attire. The dress and petticoats just wouldn’t do for a journey on horseback.

Unfortunately she had very little money, barely enough to pay for necessities once she reached St. Louis. But since she couldn’t sew a stitch, she had no choice but to buy ready wear.

“Are you still down in the back?” Mrs. Gant asked from the doorway.

“Some.” An understatement. “Do you suppose they sell riding skirts at the mercantile?”

“I’d be surprised if they did.” Mrs. Gant folded her arms over her generous bosom. “You’re still planning to leave on a horse?”

“Dade insists, and I agree it is the wisest course.” Though certainly not the most practical.

She had gone a long way toward learning how to tamp down her terror and control the horse, but she was still by no means ready to ride on her own. Yet she suspected that was exactly the picture Dade would present tomorrow when they left town.

“I may have just what you need,” Mrs. Gant said. “I’ll need your help finding it.”

The older woman turned and hurried down the hall to the far door, her limp more pronounced today than usual. Maggie wondered if the woman was beset by arthritis or if her infirmity was the result of an accident.

They mounted the stairs to the attic. Crescent windows in both gables let light in, but the years of dust coupled with an unusual assortment of trunks and the like absorbed the light.

Thankfully, Mrs. Gant made her way to a large trunk standing near the south windows. A swath of light played over the colorful stickers pasted haphazardly on the trunk.

“This has certainly journeyed far and wide,” Maggie said, fascinated by the places this trunk had been. “My, even Paris.”

Mrs. Gant’s smile was wistful as she ran a finger over that particular stamp. “That was a wondrous summer. Our troupe drew a goodly crowd every night.”

“Troupe?” Maggie asked.

“Bender’s Wild West Extravaganza. We traveled all over the world performing for ten years.”

“Did you sing?”

“Oh, yes.”

Maggie waited for her to go on, intrigued by the life this woman must have led. But Mrs. Gant fell silent as she fussed with the old clasp.

“There we go,” she said as the trunk finally creaked open.

One side of the trunk held garments on wooden hangers. The brilliant hues of the fabrics proved they were costumes.

“These were yours?” Maggie asked, fingering the rich velvets and silks.

“Most of them.”

Clearly the woman was closing the door on what had to have been an exciting past. If the costumes could talk, Maggie was sure she’d hear about a fascinating life in a world that few ladies knew anything about.

Mrs. Gant opened the middle drawer on the other side of the trunk and removed a dark blue garment. “Some years back a married couple arrived in town on horseback,” she said as she held the garment by the waistband and let it unfold.

“A riding skirt,” Maggie said, not quite believing her eyes or her luck.

“She called it a split skirt, and the quality of it told me she had come from money and from an area where such garments were necessary.”

Maggie agreed with that assessment. Whoever owned this garment had had it specially made.

“She left it here. You’re welcome to it,” Mrs. Gant said, and passed it into Maggie’s hands.

She clutched it close and resisted the urge to run to her room and try it on. It wasn’t just worry over Mrs. Gant getting to her feet and managing the stairs again.

No, there was a sadness pulsing in the attic as Mrs. Gant fingered a red lace shawl visible in the drawer.

“That’s truly beautiful,” Maggie said.

“Jack bought it for me when we were in Paris.”

Maggie smiled, hearing the affection in the older woman’s voice. She wanted to ask who Jack was. She wanted to know if Paris was the city of romance as she’d often heard it was.

But she wasn’t one to pry, for she knew the value of secrets more than anyone. So she stood patiently in the stuffy attic and waited for Mrs. Gant to say more if she wished to share a bit of her past with a stranger.

“Have I shocked you into silence?” she asked.

Maggie actually laughed at that, a bit of nerves and also appreciation for Mrs. Gant’s frankness. “I am simply waiting for the story to unfold, if you deem me a worthy audience.”

Mrs. Gant’s mouth twitched in what could only be a sly smile, and Maggie knew she’d given the correct reply.

The older woman pushed the drawer shut and stared into the opened trunk a long time, as if watching a slice of her life play out in its depths.

“Jack was my lover,” she said at last, her face wreathed in a smile so filled with love that Maggie felt a pang of jealousy for never having experienced such a deep affection. “He was married, and so was I, but neither of us lived with our spouses.”

“Because you were both performers?” Maggie guessed.

“No, that had nothing to do with it,” she said. “Jack’s wife lost her mind when their child was born dead. He placed her in an insane asylum and saw that she was well cared for, but he couldn’t divorce her.”

Her respect for the man grew.

“My husband was brutal.” She looked Maggie dead in the eyes. “I ran away from him after the last beating. Jack found me and took me in. When he asked me to leave with him on a European tour, I agreed and never looked back.”

“Did you ever regret it?”

“Never.” She sighed and shook her head. “It just ended far too soon.”

This time Maggie couldn’t contain her curiosity. “What happened?”

“He came down with pneumonia. We were on our way to San Francisco, but he was so ill we got off the train so he could see a doctor.” She lowered her head, and her fingers tightened on the trunk lid again. “Two days later he was dead.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Without Jack, I didn’t want to perform anymore. I just wanted to find a place to hide from the world and grow old.”

Maggie looked around the attic, guessing this was the ideal place for that. It seemed such a waste.

Mrs. Gant laid a hand over Maggie’s. “You’re wise to get out of town with Dade, but don’t lock yourself away from life. Don’t turn away from a good man just because of what one bad one has done to you.”

Sage words of advice, no doubt. But for Maggie, it wasn’t that simple. Mrs. Gant didn’t know just how much was at stake between Harlan Nowell and Whit Ramsey.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said.

“Good. Now go try on that skirt.” She stood before the trunk, seeming in no hurry to return to the living quarters.

Maggie hesitated a moment, then left Mrs. Gant standing in front of the trunk that held a lifetime of beautiful memories. What would it be like to experience such love just once?

She had the chance to find out, she reasoned, as she slipped into her room. One month of traveling with Dade.

It was wrong. It was risky. But she wanted him to take her in his arms again. She wanted his kisses and more.

The longing only grew as she exchanged her day skirt for the split one. It fit perfectly. It felt wickedly freeing.

She’d not be encumbered with petticoats and the like with this skirt. Perhaps she should rid herself of the mores that weighed her down as well.

She went to the window and gazed out on the town where she’d found refuge. She’d had a taste of an innocent affection with Lester Emery.

There was nothing innocent about the emotions she felt for the present man behind the badge.

A reflection from below caught her eye. She looked down at Dade Logan.

He shifted his stance and light bounced off the star pinned on his vest. He stood on the walk, looking up at her room. Looking up at her.

Though she couldn’t see his eyes, a bolt of awareness went through her. There was no denying they were drawn to one another.

She rested her hands on the windowsill, unable–or was it unwilling–to break eye contact. Surely she was being bold staring at him so. But hearing Mrs. Gant’s story made her realize how short life could be.

Maggie had pushed Dade away earlier out of fear–not because of what he’d do, but of what she ached to have him do.

The next time Dade Logan reached for her, she’d not pull away from him. She’d welcome him into her life and her bed.

Dade strode into the house and up the stairs, taking each one slowly and deliberately. In the six months he’d lived here he’d never veered from taking a direct path from the door to the dining room to his own room.

Not today.

He paused at the landing and splayed his fingers on the smooth banister. Besides the grandfather clock ticking away the seconds in the foyer, there wasn’t another sound to be heard.

Good. He’d just as soon nobody was around when he spoke with Maggie.

He climbed the stairs with the same unhurried gait, the worn carpet runner muffling his steps. At the top, he turned left toward the front of the house. Toward Maggie’s room.

Her door, and the one to the empty room beside it, were closed. But he knew she was in there.

Dade rapped his knuckles on her door once, then reached for the knob. To his surprise it opened.

Maggie stood by the window bathed in afternoon light that shot gold through her honey-colored hair. She returned his perusal with the same openness as she had before.

His throat felt suddenly dry. He swallowed anyway and proceeded to inform her of the news.

“The U.S. Marshal arrived this afternoon by way of Colorado Springs,” he said. “Claims Lionel Payne sent a telegram to him for help, seeing as an outlaw’s son was the sheriff here.”