Once an Outlaw (7 page)

Rufus Doily came back in and stalked behind the counter. “Anything else, Nettie?”

“Just a bolt of that nice gray silk in the window, Rufus.” She turned and winked at Emily. “I’m going to make myself a pretty new shawl to wear to the dance.”

Emily had much to think about as she waited for Rufus to cut the bolt of silk and tally up Nettie Phillips’s bill. The woman nodded to her as she left, and Emily watched her go out into the street, feeling hopeful for the first time since she’d discovered that Clint Barclay was the sheriff in Lonesome.

Maybe things would work out yet.

Despite what Clint Barclay had to say about it.

By the time the storekeeper finally got around to waiting on her and filling her order, Emily was pondering the idea of attending the town dance. It
would
be a perfect time to begin meeting people, showing them that the Spoons were just ordinary citizens looking to become part of the town, not hiding out, not plotting bank robberies or stage holdups or murders.

And it would also be the perfect time to show off her new dress: her very first creation. If people noticed, someone might even ask her to make a dress for them for that box lunch social in two weeks, she thought excitedly.

Especially one of those silly girls setting their cap for Clint Barclay.

How ironic, Emily thought, as she paid for her purchases, that the sheriff himself might play a part in boosting her plans for a dressmaking business.

“Guess I’d best carry these out to your wagon for you,” Rufus Doily grumbled as he surveyed the sacks of flour, coffee, sugar, the parcels of canned goods, cheese, dried figs, eggs, and beans.

But when she went outside with the storekeeper, clutching an armload of canned goods and a bag of penny candy, she saw that though the wagon and horses had been hitched to a post in front of the mercantile, Pete and Uncle Jake were nowhere to be seen.

“Thank you, Mr. Doily,” she murmured as the storekeeper dumped the heavy sacks in the back of the wagon.

“You’re welcome, Miss Spoon—I reckon,” the storekeeper spat the words out reluctantly, frowning as he stamped back inside.

Emily was too preoccupied by the fact that Pete and Uncle Jake were missing to even notice the cowboy who had stepped onto the boardwalk behind her and stopped short when the storekeeper spoke her name.

She deposited her bundles and shaded her eyes, peering up and down the street.

There was no sign of them.

Emily eyed Coyote Jack’s Saloon, with its boarded-up windows. Would they dare go there, after all the damage done in the fight?

Then she saw the smaller, plainer sign for the Wagon Wheel Saloon next door to the hotel and immediately headed that way.

But as she neared it, she heard quick footsteps behind her and suddenly felt someone grasp her arm. Taking her by surprise, the man pulled her clear away from the street and around the corner of the saloon before Emily could even cry out.

“How dare you!” she gasped as she faced him in the garbage-strewn alley. But the scruffy-looking cowboy with the dirty, wheat-blond hair and pale green eyes didn’t look the least bit apologetic. His lip curled as he eyed her with distaste.

“Shut up. You’re one of them Spoons, aren’t you?”

“What business is it of yours?” Emily shook free of his hold, trying to contain the fear pumping through her. “Keep your hands off me. And get out of my way!”

But as she tried to step around him and return to the boardwalk, the cowboy gave a jeering laugh and blocked her path.

“You’re prettier than your kinfolk, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t know who you think you are, mister, but you’d better let me pass!”

“Not yet, missy. Not till I’m ready.”

Emily went white with anger as he looked her over with cool insolence, his gaze lingering on her breasts.

“I’m warning you. If you don’t step aside right now, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Again, that hateful, jeering laugh, full of malice. He grabbed her again, one arm snaking around her waist, pulling her close. “You going to shoot me?
Ha-ha-ha
. It sure don’t look like you’re packing a gun. What’s your name, honey? I bet a pretty gal like you has a real pretty name.”

Emily struggled against him as the heavy odor of hair pomade and sweat invaded her nostrils. But squirm as she might, she couldn’t break free. “Help!” she shouted, as loudly as she could. “Hel—” But the word was cut off as he clamped a hand over her mouth and, with an oath, pushed her against the saloon wall.

“This is between you and me, Miss Spoon. I got a score to settle with one of your kinfolk. Pete Spoon interfered in my business the other night in Coyote Jack’s saloon. He stepped in between me and a certain little gal who works there and I figure I owe him.”

Terrified, Emily fought against his restraining hands, but he held her fast, his hand covering her mouth. “He even tried to steal a kiss from her. So I need to teach him
a lesson. How about I steal one from you? And you tell him all about it.”

Emily kicked his shin as hard as she could and shoved against him with all her might, but he just grunted, and his grip on her tightened cruelly. “Now that wasn’t nice, missy. Don’t try to act all innocent and upset—a slut like you, trash, from a family of white-trash outlaws. Bet you’re used to kissing a lot of men. You ought to be real good at it. Let’s just see—”

He dropped his hand from her mouth, and before Emily could scream, he clamped his lips down upon hers in a wet, greasy kiss that tasted of bacon fat and onions. Revulsion pounded through her, unlike any she had ever known, even worse than when Augusta Wainscott’s weasely son, Hobart, had caught her alone in the green sitting room and tried to fondle her. She fought wildly and as he shifted his stance to keep ahold of her, Emily finally had her chance.

Her knee shot up hard between his legs, a maneuver Pete and Lester had taught her years ago, and the cowboy gave a choked scream of agony. He released her and slumped backward, rigid with a pain that made his eyes bulge and contorted his face.

Emily started to dodge past him, but his arm lunged out and snagged her wrist. “Not… so fast, you… bitch!” he panted, dragging her back.

Suddenly she sensed someone behind her—someone closing in fast. A man wrested the cowboy away from her and shoved him backward. With her heart in her throat, Emily saw it was Clint Barclay. He stepped swiftly between her and the cowboy whose face was now white with pain.

“What the hell are you doing, Jenks?” the lawman demanded in a coldly furious tone.

Danger emanated from him. But for once the anger underlying his steely control wasn’t directed at her or someone in her family. Emily couldn’t help the stab of relief that went through her, even as she rubbed at her sore lips, trying to erase the taste and wetness of the cowboy’s filthy kiss.

“I didn’t… mean nothing, Sheriff,” the man bit out. “I was just getting to know Miss Spoon here—”

“Didn’t look like the lady cared to make your acquaintance.”

“We were just having some fun—”

“That’s your idea of fun?” Clint shoved him again and the cowboy went down, sprawling in the garbage of the alley.

Clint glanced at the woman behind him. “Are you all right?”

“You ought to clean up the riffraff in this town, Sheriff,” she whispered shakily.

Humiliation was bursting through her. Once free of the Wainscott household, she’d thought she’d never again have to put up with the kind of treatment Hobart Wainscott had meted out to his mother’s servant girls. And she’d tried her best to put it out of her mind. But this pale-haired cowboy with his insulting words and nauseating lips had brought it all back to her with repugnant clarity.

She was shaken, sick to her stomach, and wanted only to get away.

The knowledge that Clint Barclay had witnessed her humiliation only made it worse. She whirled around and darted back to the planked boardwalk, her knees trembling beneath her skirt.

When she got there she saw Pete sauntering out of the Wagon Wheel, looking pleased with himself.

“Em, guess what? I just signed me and Lester up for that poker tournament on Friday. Should be a real easy way to win us some fast cash. Then we’ll celebrate at the town dance, all of us—” Pete broke off after one glance at her white face.

“Emily! What happened?”

“It’s n-nothing.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. You’re pale as a sheet. Tell me right now—did that sheriff come after you—did he give you a hard time—”

“No … no … it wasn’t anything like that.” She swallowed as she saw the cowboy—Jenks, the sheriff had called him—limp out from the alley. Clint Barclay followed close behind, his lean features hard and unreadable in the golden Colorado sunlight.

She grabbed Pete’s arm and drew him away, toward the horses and the wagon, talking rapidly to distract him. “I was worried, that’s all. I didn’t know where you were…”

If Pete knew what had happened with Jenks, he’d either break every bone in Jenks’s body or challenge him to a gunfight. And they couldn’t afford any more trouble, certainly not trouble like that.

“Didn’t Uncle Jake tell you I went over to the Wagon Wheel?” Pete shortened his long stride, matching his steps to hers. “When we finished loading the lumber in the rig, he said he’d just wait for you outside the mercantile.”

“He wasn’t there. That’s why … I came looking for you …” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the unsteadiness of her voice. Jenks had disappeared, but Clint Barclay remained on the boardwalk near the saloon. “I thought you might be at the Wagon Wheel… and I was worried that you’d get into some trouble,” she said hurriedly.

At that moment she spotted her uncle. “Thank heavens—there’s Uncle Jake now.”

But her relief turned to puzzlement as she saw that her uncle was coming out of the telegraph office. Pete turned to look, but he was too late to see Jake tuck a paper into his shirt pocket as he closed the door behind him.

Emily saw, though, and despite the turmoil churning through her, she wondered what he’d been doing. She couldn’t think of anyone he’d send a telegraph message to—or anyone who would send one to him …

Jake caught sight of them, lifted a gnarled hand in greeting, and headed at an easy amble toward the wagon.

“All set?” The elder Spoon glanced closely at both of them as they reached the wagon. “What’s wrong?” he asked sharply. “Emily girl, you look weaker’n a squeezed-out rag.”

“That’s what I told her,” Pete chimed in.

“It’s nothing. Uncle Jake, what were you doing at the telegraph office?”

He glanced at her from beneath his eyebrows, then shook his head. “Just jawing with the fellow who works there while I waited. Come on, it’s time we headed back.”

Emily glanced over her shoulder. Barclay hadn’t followed them to the wagon.
Good
. The last thing she wanted was for Uncle Jake and Pete to learn what had happened.

Pete helped her onto the seat, then jumped into the back with the lumber and supplies. As he and Jake began discussing the upcoming poker tournament, Emily scarcely heard.

She was thinking about Uncle Jake at the telegraph office. Something in his explanation didn’t ring true—he wasn’t a man who went out of his way to chat with
strangers. And what about that paper he’d tucked into his pocket?

Something wasn’t right. But she forgot about the paper as the wagon rolled through town and she spotted Clint Barclay. Two women, who appeared to be mother and daughter, had waylaid him on the boardwalk. They wore large, elaborate hats, fancy-trimmed gowns, and gushing smiles.

The older woman was chattering nonstop. The younger one stood quietly, tall, slender, and pretty as a sunflower, with golden curls spilling from beneath her bowed, feathered, and beribboned hat. As Emily watched and the older woman jabbered, the younger woman slanted a coquettish smile up at him and laid a gloved hand upon his arm.

But the sheriff wasn’t looking at her. As the wagon rumbled past, he was looking at the dark hair and pale face of Emily Spoon.

Emily jerked herself forward, staring straight ahead. Every nerve in her body jangled.

She’d never thought she’d feel grateful to a lawman,
any
lawman. But if Clint Barclay hadn’t happened by that alley when he did …

She shuddered, and reminded herself that she was safe now and unharmed, except for that disgusting kiss. But it unnerved her to know that even worse might have happened if not for Clint Barclay.

She hated the idea of owing him anything—even so much as a single polite word of thanks.

But the inescapable truth was—she did.

WO DAYS BEFORE THE TOWN DANCE
, Emily was working feverishly toward finishing her gown when Nettie Phillips came to call, pulling up in a buck-board as the afternoon sun waned in a cobalt sky.

“Figured no one else had come by to pay you a welcome visit, so I decided to lead the way,” she announced as Emily hurried onto the porch. Spry as a monkey, she jumped down from the seat, then lifted out a basket draped with a red-and-white checkered cloth.

“Strawberry pie,” she grinned, as Emily came out onto the porch. “You’ll like it, I reckon. Used to be my husband’s favorite.”

Stunned to have a visitor, Emily gathered her wits enough to invite the woman in, then wondered what to say when Joey edged into the parlor, looking shy and scared.

“Well, well, why didn’t you say you had a young’un? I’d have brought some of my famous sugar cookies. Come here, little man, and let me have a look at you,” the woman ordered with her customary candor.

“It’s all right, Joey.” Emily smiled at the boy as he hesitated
and threw her a questioning glance. “Mrs. Phillips is a friend.”

Joey inched forward as Emily invited her guest to have a seat on the sofa.

“Joey, eh? You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you?” She studied him carefully with those eagle-sharp eyes. “He doesn’t look much like you,” she commented, fixing Emily with a shrewd glance, then she reached into her pocket and handed him a penny. “For good luck,” she said. “You put that under your pillow, leave it there all night, and you’ll have good luck all year through,” she told Joey.

The child’s eyes lit like miniature lanterns. He studied her small, wrinkled face, trying to discover if it was a trick.

“Really?” There was deep hope in the single word.

“Would I fib to a fine young man like you? You just try it, Joey boy, and see for yourself.”

“Can I, Em-ly?” Joey turned eagerly to her. When she nodded, he broke into a broad smile, one of the few she’d seen since the night John Armstrong had attacked Lissa. “Oh, boy, wait till I tell Uncle Jake!”

He raced into the back bedroom, clutching the penny in his fingers, looking so much like a normal, happy little boy that Emily could only stare after him, her heart lifting.

“He called you Em-ly, so I take it you’re not his ma,” Nettie remarked, leaning against the horsehair cushions. “Whose is he? Your brother’s?”

Emily shook her head, uncertain how to reply in the face of such blunt questioning. Nettie Phillips was nothing if not forthright. She seemed to speak whatever sprang into her mind. But Emily couldn’t help liking her, despite
her startling candor. The woman had been the only person in Lonesome to make a friendly overture toward her, and she’d brought a smile to Joey’s face. Emily sensed her questions were well meaning. She suddenly found herself answering honestly.

“Joey isn’t related to any of us, Mrs. Phillips. He’s the son of a friend of mine. She … had some troubles, and I offered to care for him a while—until it’s safe—I mean, until she can take care of him again.”

“Troubles? What kind of troubles?”

“It’s private, I’m afraid. I can’t go into it any further. May I offer you some refreshment? A cup of coffee … or some lemonade …”

“Pshaw, girl, no. If I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, just say so. Everyone else does.” Nettie turned her head this way and that, birdlike, surveying the cabin, and then gave a satisfied nod. “Very tidy. I like those curtains. This place has been vacant too long—as I told Bessie Smith and her husband today. Folks are talking abut you Spoons, that’s for sure, but I put in my two cents and said as we should give you a chance. People hereabouts tend to listen to me—because they know I’ve got good sense, and besides, they had a lot of respect for my husband, may be rest in peace.”

“Did you lose him recently?” Emily asked, now that she could get a word in edgewise.

“’Bout five years ago.” Nettie’s eyes shone. “Oh, my dear, what a man he was. He was a hero in the War between the States, I’ll have you know. Up and volunteered, he did, even at his age. Saved an entire regiment, before he got himself wounded. He recovered though—that he did, and came home to me … well, listen to me rattle on. I didn’t come here to talk about Lucas or about me. I came to tell you that you’ll be making a big mistake if
you don’t come to our town dance on Saturday. Folks are curious and they want to get a look at you—and the dance is a good place to present yourself in the right light. But I can see that you’ve already decided to go. Very wise of you.”

She was looking at the rose silk gown draped upon the chair, where Emily had been sewing black lace on the bodice when she heard the buckboard coming.

“Yes, I’ve been sewing a dress for the dance—”

Emily got no further before Nettie barreled off the sofa and over to the chair, bending over the gown. “I reckon you have, missy! Some dress this is too, if you don’t mind my saying. Why, this’ll take the wind out of their sails. I mean, Agnes Mangley’s and Carla’s sails, that is. They got themselves mail-order gowns from New York for this dance, but my, my, this pretty dress of yours has them beat.”

She dragged her gaze from the soft folds of silk, the exquisite lace trim and sleeves, the graceful pouf of train, and stared with intentness into Emily’s eyes.

“You’re going to look like a damned princess!”

Flushing with pleasure, Emily spread her hands. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m happy you like it.”

“Like it! Where’d you find the pattern for it, girl? Fetching, that’s what it is. As fetching a gown as any I’ve seen in my day!” Nettie raved.

Through her amusement, and her pleasure that someone besides herself saw the beauty of her creation, Emily recognized her first opportunity as a dressmaker. “Truth be told, there isn’t a pattern. I did see many lovely gowns when I lived in Jefferson City, before coming here, and I’ve always had an eye for fashion. Fortunately, I’m more than a fair seamstress—my Aunt Ida taught me to sew when I was a girl, and—”

“You’ll be the belle of the ball!” Nettie declared. “All those gals who’ve set their sights on Clint Barclay—well! Let me tell you, they’re going to turn green with jealousy when they see you in that gown!”

“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Phillips, there’s no need for jealousy,” Emily said swiftly. “I could sew any number of beautiful gowns for any lady who’d like one. There are countless ideas in my head, and all of them revolve around the very latest eastern fashions,” she added.

Nettie Phillips’s grin was wide as a canyon. “Clever girl. Enterprising too. I like that. And it’s not a bad way to endear yourself to folks in Lonesome, missy. Women here are hungry for new eastern fashions. Especially right now, when we have a passel of young ladies looking for a husband—one particular husband, I might add,” she cackled.

“You mean Sheriff Barclay.” Emily’s tone sounded more grim than she’d intended, but Nettie was so engrossed in her own train of thought that she didn’t notice.

“Yes, indeed. Why, Miss Berty Miller, who lives in my boardinghouse by the way, has some right fine gowns, several of ’em bought just to impress Clint, but nothing that compares with this.”

“Perhaps she’d like to call on me.” Emily smiled and held the gown against her, knowing its cleverly gathered sleeves and gleaming jet buttons would be noticed at once by Mrs. Phillips. “It’s too late to sew anything before the town dance—it’s all I can do to finish this one for myself—but there is the box lunch social in a few weeks—”

“That there is—we’re raising money to build a bigger schoolhouse and get some more books, desks, tablets, and other supplies.” Nettie Phillips jabbed a finger at her. “Once folks see you at the dance, you’re going to have more orders for dresses than you can handle.”

That’s what I’m counting on
, Emily thought, but she merely smiled and draped the gown back across the chair.

“But poor Sheriff Barclay,” her guest mused, returning to the sofa, her old eyes alight with laughter. “If that man thought he was in trouble before, you just wait.” She shook her head, grinning. “It’s only a matter of time, after all. One of these gals is bound to catch him, you know. Bessie Smith told me today that some of the menfolk are even taking bets as to who it will be.”

Emily thought of the way Clint Barclay had come to her defense in the alley, the way he’d shoved Jenks away from her. Then she thought of how he’d treated Pete and Lester and Uncle Jake.

“I can’t understand all this fuss over Clint Barclay.” Despite her efforts, she couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. “He’s not a bad-looking man, I’ll grant you that but—”

“Not bad-looking? Are you blind, girl?” Nettie gaped at her, thunderstruck. “Why, I daresay he’s as handsome as my own dear Lucas was. And a braver man you’ll
never
meet.”

“I don’t wish to argue with you, Mrs. Phillips, since you
are
my only friend.” Emily regarded her hopefully. “If I may call you that?”

“You may.” The woman nodded. “And it’s Nettie. I do believe I’ve taken a shine to you.”

“Thank you … Nettie.” Emily found herself smiling. “I believe I’ve taken a shine to you too. But perhaps we’d best not discuss Sheriff Barclay.”

For the first time, Nettie sobered, and leaned back against the sofa cushions. “I heard about how he arrested your brother.”

“That’s right. And … you may as well know,” Emily took a deep breath, “he was the man responsible for
arresting my uncle seven years ago and sending him to prison.”

“Well, well, you don’t say. Imagine that.” The woman pursed her lips. “I understand how you must feel, honey, but to be fair, it wasn’t exactly Clint’s fault that your uncle held up those stagecoaches, now was it?”

Emily flushed. “No. Uncle Jake did wrong—he admits it. And he’s paid for it. But Clint Barclay …” She broke off and turned away, pacing to the window. “Let’s not talk about him.”

Nettie jumped up from the sofa to pat her arm. “I can see how close to your heart all this is. You love that uncle of yours a lot, don’t you?”

“He took Pete and me in after our parents died. He and Aunt Ida raised us, gave us a home. If it hadn’t been for them…”

Her voice trailed off.

“I must say I like the way you stand up for your kin.” Nettie sighed. “And I think it’s a fine thing to be looking after your friend’s little boy. But I’ve got to tell you, Emily, you’re wrong about Sheriff Barclay. He’s a fine man. He faced down the Duggan gang all alone. Five of ’em, the meanest vultures—I won’t even call them
men
—you ever did see. And he nearly got himself killed for it. But he rousted them, and cleaned them out of our town.”

Maybe so. But he nearly destroyed my family
, Emily thought. She was spared from answering, however, when Nettie continued without missing a beat.

“I’ll say just one more thing and then I’m done. And I’ll say it quick—because I know you have your work to do, and land sakes, so do I. I have to get supper on the table for fifteen hungry people at my boardinghouse—including Clint Barclay, and goodness me, that man can eat.” She gave a short laugh. “He lives upstairs of the jail but takes
meals with me,” she explained as she moved toward the door. Emily followed her.

“So you just think on this, honey.” Nettie grasped the doorknob and fixed Emily with a penetrating gaze. “Maybe you ought to give our sheriff a chance.”

As Emily opened her mouth to protest, Nettie shook her head. “The same way you want folks to give you a chance,” she said firmly. “You might need him one day, a body never knows. And he’s the kind of man you can count on. Damn, honey, why do you think every gal in the whole valley who isn’t already hitched wants to get him to pop the question? Think on
that
a spell. I’m not saying you should marry him, heaven knows, but it wouldn’t hurt to call some kind of a truce, now would it?”

She obviously didn’t expect an answer. Giving Emily’s shoulder a quick squeeze, she hurried on out to the buck-board, rattling on about the dinner she was going to prepare and how it looked like rain. When she’d gone, Emily returned to her sewing, still convinced of one thing: she was never going to change her mind about Clint Barclay. She’d spent too many nights kneeling by Aunt Ida’s bedside, stroking her hand, feeding her spoonfuls of soup, while the aunt she loved withered away before her eyes and called feebly again and again for her husband.