Callahan's Gold (Southwest Desert Series Book 3)

CALLAHAN'S GOLD

By Mary Tate Engels

Published by Mary Tate Engels at Amazon.com, all rights reserved.

Copyright 2012, Mary Tate Engels

Cover by www.digitaldonna.com

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Her most vivid memory of her father. . .

was the day he told her he was leaving. She was six years old. Over the years, his face had faded into an obscure vision, reinforced only by a few photos her mother had kept. She did remember his eyes, not just blue, but a deep, almost violet color. And when she looked into the mirror as a child, she'd remind herself she had eyes like her daddy.

Her mother said they had the same beautiful black hair, black as a starless night. It was small consolation to the child who barely remembered him. When Tory Carsen was a lonely teenager, caught between being a woman and a child, she sometimes wondered if this man who'd once been her father were still alive somewhere and if he ever loved her. Her memory of him was foggy, consisting of fleeting glimpses. But one conversation, the last one, was distinct.

"Of course I love you, Tory darlin'," he had vowed the day he left. "You'll always be my little girl."

Being a child who didn't accept answers easily, Tory followed him down the sidewalk to the rickety old Ford. "Then why are you going away, Daddy?"

He tossed two beat-up suitcases into the backseat. "I know it's hard for you to understand, Tory darlin', but I have other worlds to explore. The city life just isn't for me. I have to seek the sun. Someday I'll come back to you, and we'll be rich, and you can have anything you want."

"A pony?"

"Yep. A whole corral full of ponies! And a room full of toys! And . . . anything you want!"

"But I don't want anything, Daddy. I just want you to stay here with me and Mommy."

"I can't, Tory. Your mom and I have grown-up problems."

"Then why can't I go with you?" she persisted stubbornly.

He shook his head and looked away. "It isn't a place for little girls."

"Maybe it isn't a place for daddies, either."

Gazing down at his tenacious daughter, Sharkey Carsen heaved a sigh. "Maybe not, darlin', but I have to find out." He lifted her up in his arms and kissed each chubby cheek. Then he set her down and walked out of her life forever.

Tory perched Indian-style on the sidewalk and watched her father drive away in that dingy blue Ford.

He never returned. Never brought her that pony he promised. They were never rich. By the end of the month, she and her mother had to move out of the neat little house on Beale Street and into an incessant string of apartments on L.A.'s south side.

Her father had claimed he'd gone off to find the sun, and Tory grew to despise him for leaving them.

Twenty years later, when Tory Carsen Talbot received the certified letter informing her of Sharkey Carsen's death, she scanned the letter coldly, with no emotion. By now it didn't matter that they had the same deep blue eyes, the same blue black hair. He was like a total stranger to her, and she bore no grief for the man who had been her father.

But the second paragraph of the letter captured Tory's natural curiosity. She was named as an inheritor and was urged to attend the reading of the will. A mélange of emotions swept through her— of hate and anger, of curiosity and indifference, of concern . . . but definitely not love.

Spontaneously, she decided to go, not stopping to determine if her decision were a reasonable and logical one. An inheritance ... By God, he owed her that much.

Tory Talbot reached across a paper-cluttered desk and picked up the phone. Her ivory crepe sleeve brushed two unopened envelopes onto the floor, but she ignored them. They were only more bills.

"Megan, do you think you could handle the shop for a few days? Something's come up, and I need to go out of town. Pretty important. Could mean enough money to salvage Tall and Terrific. Incidentally, how do I fly to Tombstone, middle-of-nowhere, Arizona?"

CHAPTER ONE

Tombstone Territory

The tall cowboy's spurs jangled as he ambled up to the bar, planted his boots wide, tipped his white Stetson back with his thumb, and drawled. "Can I buy you a drink, Miss Katie?"

"Why sure, Marshal. I'd be mighty pleased. Where've you been? Haven't seen you around the Short Branch Saloon lately."

"I've been out roundin' up that dirty, thievin', low-down Phoenix Gang. Got 'um all but the leaders, Buck and the Moondance Kid."

"Oh, Marshal," Miss Katie sighed, batting her extremely long black artificial eyelashes, "I'm sure a great big hunk-of-a-man like you will get them, sooner or later."

"Jes' hope I get 'um afore they get me and take over the whole town of Tombstone." The tall marshal gazed down longingly at the pretty woman clinging to his arm. His square-jawed profile was shadowed beneath the curve-brimmed Stetson hat, and a craggy russet mustache occasionally caught glints from the sun.

Miss Katie smiled up at the handsome cowboy and tipped her amber-filled glass against his.

Golden ringlets dangled sexily across one creamy shoulder where crimson ruffles dipped to reveal a daring amount of cleavage. One side of her skirt was tucked up to expose a shapely stretch of thigh. The marshal clearly enjoyed the view.

A voice boomed out of nowhere: "Hey, Marshal, I hear tell yer callin' me 'n my brother's names and dissin' our mother!"

All eyes swung around to the four meanest-looking characters anyone had ever seen. The intruders were dressed in black and wore wide-brimmed black hats.

"Why, if it isn't the dirty, thievin' leaders of the Phoenix Gang, Buck and the Moondance Kid, and Buck's two stupid brothers!" Miss Katie exclaimed loudly, wide-eyed with fright.

"You forgot 'low-down,' Miss Katie," the marshal growled.

"Nobody calls me 'n my brothers names, Marshal!"

The handsome marshal motioned to his shapely companion. "Clear out, Katie. This ain't no place for a lady."

"That ain't no lady, Marshal!"

"Them's fightin' words, Buck. Apologize to the lady!"

"I ain't apologizing to nobody," Buck snarled. "Prepare to die, Marshal!"

Tension mounted as the tall man with the tin star pinned to his chest squared around and faced his four enemies. His long legs spread apart, and curved hands poised near the six-guns strapped to each hip. The sun sizzled overhead, almost audible in that terrible moment.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose in a barrage of gunfire and smoke. When the air cleared, four black-hatted men sprawled as if dead in the street. The marshal coolly blew smoke from the barrels of each six-gun, holstered them, turned back to the bar, and calmly finished his drink. Miss Katie hung admiringly on his arm.

"You saved the whole town, Marshal! You're our hero."

He touched the brim of his white Stetson with a reverent caress. "Jes' doin' my duty, Miss Katie. Now Tombstone will be safe for another day."

The crowd lining Tombstone's wooden sidewalks broke into polite applause, and the four bad guys hopped to their feet and bowed grandly to their appreciative audience. Then the actors began to mingle with the crowd, signing autographs.

Tory Talbot stood with the audience, engrossed in the hokey but unique street scene. For a few minutes it was easy to imagine she had stepped back in time, to the wild and wicked days when gunslingers were a way of life in this historic town of Tombstone, middle-of-nowhere, Arizona. To a time when the marshal indeed ruled with a six-gun.

Modern tourists, braving ninety-plus temperatures in shorts and T-shirts, were conspicuously out of style as they mingled with local townsfolk dressed in 1880s attire. Here was a chance to relive another era. This time around, it was all done in fun, and the 'bad guys' weren't planted in Boot Hill at the end of the day. Instead, they posed for photographs and let kids in the audience try on their black hats.

Yes, Tory decided, this make-believe rendition was far better than the real-life version. That is, if reliving the past was of interest. She preferred not to dwell on it, herself. It was too painful. The future held her only hope for happiness.

Like any June day a hundred years ago, this one was hot and dusty. Tory felt a trickle of perspiration travel down the middle of her back. Even with her shiny black hair clipped back and wearing a casual blue silk dress, she was anything but cool. She dug into her leather purse for a tissue to dab at her temples and the back of her neck.

She couldn't help noticing that the town marshal, too, was showing the effects of the heat. He stood with his broad back to her, signing auto
graphs, and she paused to admire the width of those masculine shoulders and the trim thrust of his hips. A large, dark oval of perspiration marked his western shirt between his shoulder blades and angled downward to the leather belted waistband and tight-fitting jeans. His legs were long, and on his feet were the scruffiest, most well-worn cowboy boots Tory had ever seen.

She wondered how he could have abused those boots so badly. Was he a real cowboy? He certainly looked lean and fit, just the way a cowboy should be.

Reminding herself of her reason for being in this remote "town too tough to die," Tory turned away from assessing the marshal and pushed through the swinging doors of the Crystal Palace Saloon. She approached the bartender. He wore a black string tie and white apron over his ample belly and looked right out of 1880. He gave her a ready smile.

"Help you, ma'am? How about a sarsaparilla?"

"Something cold with ice. Perrier with lemon?"

"We've got water, but it don't come from France. Coming right up."

She waited until he slid the drink across the bar. "I'm looking for a Mr. Cliff Snyder. I was supposed to meet him here."

The bartender's eyes swept appreciatively over Tory's tall but impressive form. "Why does Cliff get all the pretty ones? Sorry, but he ain't here right now. Maybe I can help you."

"I doubt it," Tory answered honestly, letting her gaze travel behind him to the massive mahogany arches with mirrors that formed the antique bar. "We have some business to discuss. I understand Mr. Snyder's in charge of reading my father's will. I received a notarized letter from him requesting my presence at the Crystal Palace Saloon this afternoon."

"Reading of a will? Oh, you must mean the reading of ole' Sharkey Carsen's will." He wiped his hands on a white towel and tucked it into the string at his ample waist.

"Yes." Tory nodded, wishing fervently that the old saloon were air-conditioned or that she were somewhere—anywhere—else at this very minute. She took a grateful sip of water.

"You aren't Sharkey's little girl, are you?"

She nodded. "Sharkey Carsen's daughter."

He leaned forward, his elbows on the bar, and scrutinized every bit of her slender five feet nine inches. His smiling eyes settled curiously on her face as if she'd announced she were Annie Oakley reincarnated. "Honest? You're her?"

Tory paused and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "It's been a long time since anyone's called me a 'little girl,' but yes, Sharkey Careen was my father."

The bartender's chubby hand shot across the bar. "Heck Tate, here. Your pa was a friend of mine. Fine man, ole' Sharkey. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Tory took his hand. "Tory Talbot, Mr. Tate."

"Call me Heck. Everybody around here does."

"Heck, then. Now, if you'd kindly direct me to this Cliff Snyder's law office, I'd appreciate it."

Heck straightened up with a proud smile. He motioned to the rear with his thumb. "Right back there. Last table in the corner. Cliff said to direct Sharkey's heirs to his spot, and he'll be here shortly. The last show'll be over soon. I think he had to break up a lynch mob."

She stiffened. "Did you say 'lynch mob'?"

"Yep. Most all the business folks around here play some part in the shows. Entertaining the tourists keeps this town alive. Take that last show, for instance. Miss Katie runs the Lucky Cuss Cafe, and the marshal is a college professor. One of the bad guys is the Presbyterian preacher. He jes' loves to play that part."

"I see." Tory wondered how to speed up this will-reading process. She could only think that she wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. Either she, or they, were slightly crazy. She couldn't resist asking, "You mean a lawyer does his business in here? A bar?"

"Yep. It isn't exactly a bar. It's an Old West saloon." Heck spoke with a certain pride. "There's a difference, you know. It isn't unusual for all kinds of business to be conducted here—everything from horse trading to assaying a bag of gold nuggets. We here in Tombstone have a tradition to uphold, you know."

"Yes, well, it may be usual for Tombstone, but it seems highly unorthodox to me. I'll be waiting for Mr. Snyder in his, er, office."

"Sure I can't get you something a little stronger to drink?"

"No, thank you." With her iced glass of water in hand, Tory dutifully took a seat at the round gambling table in the rear of the room. Instinctively, she sat with her back to the wall, like the old gamblers used to do, and watched everyone who entered the saloon. Indeed, she felt very much like a gambler today. Only she was gambling on a future and daring to touch the past. Neither was her style.

The handsome marshal surrounded by several admiring fans—mostly young and female—entered the saloon and approached the bar. He moved with a certain air of dominion as he leaned one elbow casually on the bar. Perhaps this swagger of authority came with the badge and the role. A college prof? What a hoot.

Curiously, Tory watched the man. His motions seemed exaggerated and reminded her of the heroes in old western movies. Only this one was real, in an almost-real setting. He was a combination of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Gary Cooper with a hint of Audi Murphy's devilish smile. He was at least six feet four, maybe taller, and when he removed the white Stetson, she admired the way his thick shock of dark brown hair curled damply around his crown.

The man was extremely masculine and intriguing. Tory had never been attracted to such a man, one so rough around the edges. But she was certainly fascinated with this one. The bartender leaned over the bar toward him and, as he spoke, motioned to the corner table where Tory sat.

The marshal eyed her for a moment, and Tory felt an aggravating tingle down her spine as their gazes clashed. After a few minutes, he ambled toward her, a beer in each hand. Tory caught her breath when he stopped beside her table. "Can I buy you a drink, Miss—?"

Tory's gaze traveled up his lean blue-jeaned length. "That line sounds familiar, Marshal."

"It usually works." He grinned and shrugged angular shoulders. "I'm not the real marshal—just filling in today. Have a beer?"

She looked at his hands and noted long, sturdy fingers wrapped around the moist bottles. Lifting her violet gaze to meet his brown one, she nodded. "Thanks. Looks like I may need one before this day's over."

He set the bottles and a single glass on the table and whirled a chair around backward before straddling it. Giving her an all-over curious glance, he introduced himself. "Dodge Callahan."

Tory reached for his outstretched hand, oddly eager to touch him. When she pressed her palm to his, it felt every bit as strong as she'd imagined, yet vibrated with a warmth that created a sensation within her she hadn't expected. "Tory Talbot. Nice to meet you, Dodge. With a name like that, I'd say you were certainly dressed appropriately."

He gave her a sideways embarrassed grin. "My mother thought a person ought to live up to his name. I had three older brothers, and she figured I'd need a name like this to get me through."

"You mean that's your real name? Everybody around here has some crazy, descriptive name."

"Every name's got a story. Heck used to be called Hell, Tate. He changed it to Heck. Took me eighteen years to get taller than my oldest brother. I spent a lot of time praying to grow. And a lot more time dodging."

He laughed, and so did she. Tory liked the way his face crinkled warmly around his almond-shaped brown eyes. "Did you grow up around here, Dodge?"

"Nope. Wyoming."

"What are you doing way out here?"

"Teaching part-time. And mining. I understand you're Sharkey's little girl."

"Word travels fast," she replied dryly, tilting the frosty beer against her lips.

Dodge Callahan's presence was somewhat unnerving to Tory. Up close the man was even more commanding than he had been in the middle of the street firing make-believe bullets. His unruly brown hair bore amber streaks from being in the sun too much and curled low on his nape. His nose wasn't quite straight, nor was his grin. They were offset by a wonderfully bushy mustache with reddish highlights. His eyes were bold brown, the color of mahogany.

"Did you know my father?" She tried to mask her feminine response to him, tried not to look at him as his female admirers had.

"I just can't believe you're Sharkey's little girl," Dodge marveled with a nod, peering closer as if trying to discern a familiar gene or two.

"Actually, I'm nobody's 'little girl.' I'm not even little, unless you consider five nine short. Yes, Sharkey Carsen was, at one time, my father."