Catch Me (16 page)

The town of Fresh Springs was pretty much exactly what Dean had expected. Small and tidy. Four rows of neat houses, all in the stuccoed, red-tiled-roof style common to the Arizona Territory, flanked a hotel, a mercantile and a handful of other businesses—including, he noted, a livery at which he could board Jameson until he found a place of his own. Prosperity was evident in the clean, well-tended dirt street free of any traffic ruts or holes. The only wooden building was the church at the south end of town with the miniature steeple that rose a short four feet off its roof. Big plate-glass windows fronted the bank, which was designated by a gilt-trimmed sign that swung past the covered sidewalk.

Dean reined Jameson to a stop in the middle of the street. Evening shadows stretched through the town, and the heat of the day tipped over into a general warmth. “Would Masterson be in the bank at this hour?”

No one answered him. He bent ’round in the saddle to look. All three regarded him with baleful stares. Linkers he wasn’t much worried about. The man was slung over his saddle, cheek pressed into the stirrup and a strip of cloth tied across his mouth. Dean had gotten tired of hearing his shit about four hours ago. Andrew lounged in his saddle, one elbow resting on the butt of the rifle strapped to his horse. To be honest, Dean could probably refer to his expression as empty rather than baleful. It was his own guilt working on him.

Maggie, however…Her hands were still bound before her, and in turn tied to her saddle, but she wasn’t gagged. She hadn’t said a word since she’d thanked Andrew for a cup of coffee he’d poured her this morning. At least that sad air of defeat had fled. Now a furious rage burned in her dark eyes and every line of her lithe body had gone rigid with an obvious anger.

He turned back in the saddle. “Yep,” he answered himself, since it didn’t seem like anyone else would. “I’ll bet Masterson’s still in the bank.”

People slipped outside to watch their small party ride into town. At the mercantile, four old men and one lady drifted onto the boardwalk. She reminded him a little of Annie, with her small stature and pale hair piled high on her head. Dean tipped his hat, and the men nodded in return. The woman graced him with a small smile before her gaze moved to Maggie and her eyes went as big as a sheriff’s shiny badge. She stepped forward and gripped the upright support of the porch.

Maggie gave the woman a tiny shake of her head and a bittersweet smile.

“Friend of yours?” Dean asked. Good thing he didn’t expect an answer, because the only one he got was a kiss-the-devil look before she resolutely turned her face forward. Dean watched her a moment more, as Jameson plodded along toward their destination, until he made himself look away.

“We’ve got a bit of a welcome party,” Andrew drawled.

At the bank, Masterson had emerged onto the covered boardwalk and stood at the top of the shallow stairs. Behind and flanking him were four men. Two looked like bank clerks, wearing natty suits, their hair neatly slicked down. The other two looked like trouble on the hoof. Both wore dusty work clothes and leather gun belts dipped low over their hips. One carried a double-barreled shotgun slung over the crook of his arm.

Masterson himself looked every bit the big man he’d presented himself as in the dirty jail Dean had first seen him at. His dark wool suit coat was unbuttoned and tossed open to show off a colorfully embroidered waistcoat with a silver watch chain. A wide grin peeked through his beard, which was liberally flecked with white.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said as Dean and his small party drew even with the bank’s front door. “I’d near about given up on you. Where the hell have you been? I believe you told me to expect you in a week and it’s been past three.”

Dean swung down off his horse and tossed Jameson’s reins loosely around the hitching post rail. How very strange that he hadn’t asked why his own man was slung over a horse. Maybe he wasn’t quite as corrupt as Dean had begun to believe, and Linkers was more of a hanger-on rather than an indication of the general state of affairs. “Had some complications,” he answered.

Andrew threw him a sardonic look as he hopped down from his own horse. He might have even rolled his eyes as he turned away to survey the street and the townspeople who were slowly drawing near, the better to observe the spectacle that had stumbled into their small town.

“I can see that.” Masterson looked to Linkers and cocked his head as if to better see his employee. “What kind of mischief did you get up to?”

Dean answered, since he’d made damn sure Linkers wasn’t capable of doing so. “Was a sight more than mischief. He attacked me.”

Linkers took offense to that, muttering imprecations behind his gag and struggling to lift his head and shake it at the same time. Dean sliced through the ties binding him to the saddle and he slumped off the far side of the horse, landing in a dusty pile. His poorly trained horse shied away with a whicker, nearly stepping on its master’s feet.

Masterson shook his head, chuckling all the while. “That Ike. Sometimes I don’t think he’s got a brain in his head to combat that temper of his.”

Dean would have denied it until the trumpets of Judgment Day blared, but it took a fair amount of courage to turn to Maggie. But she wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, she watched Masterson as warily as a tufted titmouse watched a snake. He cut free her hands from the saddle horn, but left her bound wrist to wrist. When he slipped his hands around her waist to help her off Sandie, her gaze nearly singed him.

She had to be overreacting to her fear of Yuma Prison. No way an upstanding pillar of the town such as Masterson was as brutal when it came to justice as Maggie had implied. She’d have a legal trial through the normal channels and serve her prison sentence, which was no more than she deserved. She wouldn’t die—he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had been sentenced to hang. It simply didn’t happen.

And meanwhile, he’d be sheriff. Exactly as he wanted.

He pulled her off the horse and dropped her to her feet at the base of the stairs. She lost her footing and stumbled, but flinched away when he reached to grab her shoulders. A dark chunk of hair clung to her cheeks. She raised her bound hands to push it away before drawing her shoulders back and turning to face Masterson.

His grin spread even wider, showing bright and even. “Now you, I expected to see chained up. No more than you deserve.”

Dean flinched at the echo of his own thoughts. It hadn’t sounded so damn pompous in his own head. He busied himself unstrapping his saddlebags and swinging them over his shoulder.

He became slowly aware of the weight of a gaze on his shoulders. He’d half hoped it was Maggie burning a hole in his back, but it was only Andrew. He twisted his shoulders at his brother, who seemed to be trying to communicate something. Impatience drawing deep furrows in his brow, Andrew flicked his chin a bare inch, at one of Masterson’s guards.

The man did look familiar. The wide mouth under an equally broad nose rang a bell but Dean couldn’t quite place him. Then the man turned his head to the side and sent an arch of tobacco spittle flying into the dust. Dean saw a gap where his two front teeth should have been. His mug had been plastered across wanted posters from Colorado City to Pecos. George Mahouly. He’d ridden with a party of ex-Confederate raiders who’d turned to bank robbing after the war ended.

Disgust prickled down Dean’s spine. The self-same party of brigands that Maggie’s pa had the shootout with. The one who’d ostensibly killed her brother Robert.

What kind of snake pit had Dean stumbled into?

Masterson spoke, yanking him out of his thoughts. “Collier, I doubt I can begin to express my gratitude that you’ve cleaned up this little problem for me.” His ever-present smile should have been reassuring. It was anything but.

Dean found himself nodding absently, unable to yank his gaze away from Mahouly. The man had noticed his regard and stared back with the cold eyes of a rattler. “It’s my job,” he answered, giving the rote response he had at the end of hundreds of captures.

“Not for much longer,” Masterson said in a jovial tone. “I’m sure you’ll make a fine addition to Fresh Springs as our new sheriff. I’ll have the writ drawn up and the town council will swear you in tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve taken the liberty of securing you a room at the hotel.” He drew a key from his pocket and tossed it. Dean snatched it out of the air. “Room six. I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”

This was it, wasn’t it? Maggie watched him, a painful mixture of hope and resignation carved in her downturned mouth and wide eyes.

He wasn’t the man to live up to that hope. Much better that she should accept her resignation before she learned to hope on him too much. But he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “And Maggie? What will happen to her?”

“I’m afraid Miss Bullock will have a first-hand appreciation of how swift justice can be in our little town.”

Trepidation drew his scalp tight, but he shoved it back down in that dark place he couldn’t afford to look within. “What does that mean?”

Masterson turned his devil-blessed smile on Maggie. “The circuit court judge will be here in three days. Then, I expect…well, we’ll find out just how long it’ll be until Miss Bullock smells fresh, clean air again.”

Maggie’s eyes snapped with rage and her hands balled into tight little fists. She couldn’t fight her way out of this one though, not with so many armed men ringing her. “Go to hell,” she hissed, her first words all day.

Dean should have known she wouldn’t go calmly to her fate. Too bad for her. He couldn’t be anyone’s white knight. Not even his own. He slung his pack over his shoulder and fingered the cool metal of the hotel room key. “If that’s all you need from me for now, I’d like to go get cleaned up.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Masterson replied.

Dean suddenly realized where Linkers got his particular speech patterns from—imitating his master.

One of the bank clerks piped up from the back. “We’ve a barber at the end of the block, if you’d like a shave and a bath too.”

Masterson nodded. “We certainly do, Tim. I apologize if I’ve been remiss in my welcoming duties, Collier.”

Dean rubbed the back of his hand across his scruffy jaw. “No matter.” He actually could use a bath. “I’ll be seeing you around.” He spun on a heel and took a step into the dirt road before Maggie’s voice stopped him.

“That’s it?” She marched a few steps toward him. Mahouly flipped his shotgun off his arm and pointed it at her. His smile turning to a smirk, Masterson held up a palm and the man halted like a well-trained hunting dog. Maggie didn’t even notice. Her entire focus was aimed at him, burning down into what remained of his soul. “That’s it? No farewell? Not even a ‘hope you don’t rot in prison, Maggie?’”

Quite the introduction to Fresh Springs, this was. But Dean hadn’t earned anything better, had he? He moved closer to her, until he was more near than he ought to be to an unmarried woman in public. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. His feet drew him forward, until he could smell the fresh sunshine warming her hair. “I don’t know what else you want from me,” he said, pitching his voice low. “No regrets, remember?”

Her mouth dropped open on a pout of disgust and she cocked a hip. “There’s a difference between not having regrets and being a bastard.” She shoved falling hair out of her eyes again. The handcuffs had chafed her wrists. He hoped Masterson would untie her soon. “And if you can’t tell the difference, I’ve got nothing but pity for you, Elmer Dean Collier. It’s all you deserve.”

With that, she turned back to Masterson and lifted her chin. “Take me away. I’m done here.”

Masterson waved his two goons forward and they grabbed her by the arms. Their blunt, dirty fingers dug into the dingy white of her shirtsleeves. Dean’s hand flew to his gun out of base instinct. He forced the jittery, spun-tight feelings inside himself back down again. He had no right to defend her. More than that, he had no confidence in his abilities to do it.

Masterson watched him, not missing a thing. Dean flexed his fingers down low, beyond his pistol and the older man nodded once while he smirked behind his white-shot beard. A dare.

Dean wouldn’t take it. He needed that hell cursed sheriff’s position. Needed it with a burning ache in his gut.

He turned and walked away.

He left her behind, every step like slogging through swampland, the ground sucking at his feet. But he forced himself on anyway.

He was no good to anyone as broken as he was.

It took him three tries to get the key into the hotel room door. Inexplicably, his hand shook as hard as if he’d just been in a shootout and his breath rattled in his lungs. He dumped his bags on the chest at the foot of the bed, barely noticing the small, well-appointed room. His steps clomped across the wooden floor until he came to a plush woven rug. The window was covered with blue and white checked curtains with a ridiculous flounce across the top. They slid back as easy as you please despite his trembling hands.

The knot of people still stood outside the bank. Dean could see Masterson’s mouth moving, but Maggie’s back was to the hotel, and the two thugs had her by the arms. Most of the bystanders had dissipated, though Andrew still leaned against the hitching post to the side.

Something Masterson said obviously didn’t sit right with Maggie, because she lunged at him. She didn’t get far, however. The heavy man on the left jerked her shoulder back while Mahouly slammed the butt of his shotgun into the backs of her legs.

She went down to her knees like a shot deer. Dust puffed up around her hands as she kept herself from going face-first. Mahouly and the other man picked her up and hustled her away down the street, her toes dangling between them, barely touching the ground as she struggled to keep up. The trio disappeared into a building with bars over the small windows. The jail.

Dean’s fist slammed into the wooden window frame. Pain stung his knuckles, but he couldn’t give a shit. Fury flushed him with a pounding pulse and a tingling awareness.

Goddamn it, no. This wasn’t right.