Catch Me (2 page)

Stephenson’s tanned face and wild eyes flashed across Dean’s vision. The other man might have drawn first, but it had been Dean who shot him down in the middle of a dusty street.

Not his first kill, by far, but the first without a bounty. Dean wasn’t so sure he needed to be anywhere other than the rank jail cell. “What would I have to do for the privilege?”

“I own a bank in Fresh Springs. It was robbed. I want the culprit brought in.”

He wouldn’t have pegged Masterson for a bank owner. It seemed entirely too respectable. Dean turned his gaze to the pointed toes of his boots. Something was rotten in Denmark. “Seems simple enough. I can give you the name of a man who can do the job for you.”

“I should tell you the sheriff’s position for Fresh Springs will be vacant soon. He who does this for me…Well, I’d be feeling a bit beholden. Likely to hand that job right over.”

Dean glanced right back to Masterson. The man grabbed hold of his satin lapels, and a smug smirk wreathed his face. He was sure he had Dean wrapped up right and tight.

He just might.

The idea of being sheriff in some tiny town appealed to Dean in a way nothing else had for a long time.

“What’s happened to the old sheriff?” he asked, trying not to seem too eager.

Masterson’s face darkened and his mouth drew down. “He’s sick. Likely to die soon. Even if he doesn’t, he won’t be well enough to keep working for long.”

“Warm-hearted bastard, aren’t you? Handing off his job before he’s even cold in his grave?”

“Relations between myself and Arthur Bullock have deteriorated of late.” The banker gripped the cell bars again. “Do you want the job or not?”

“All I have to do is track down your bank robber?”

Avarice gleamed in Masterson’s eyes. “Bring ’em back to Fresh Springs and I’ll have the city council pin the star on you the next day.”

When it was done, and he was sheriff of Fresh Springs, maybe Dean could manage to look his mother in the eyes again without feeling the weight of her pain for him.

He ranged up from the bunk and walked toward the cell door with his hand out. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

They shook through the bars. Dean ignored the way his skin crawled between his shoulder blades. Masterson waved Haley closer. “Let the man out, will you?”

The sheriff fished a large ring of keys out of his pocket. The door’s lock opened with a squeal, and Dean stepped into the hallway. It wasn’t a grand improvement. He still couldn’t stretch his arms without running into the low ceiling, and a deep breath would mean sucking in the fetid air.

But it was freedom. More than that, it was a chance at a life he’d thought long dead.

Masterson withdrew a small tintype from inside his jacket. “Here. You’ll need this.”

Only a couple inches wide by a few inches tall, it portrayed a young woman in tones of gray. She’d stood for her portrait and wore a frilly dress that hugged slim curves. Dark hair framed an oval face set with wide, dark eyes. One side of her mouth slanted up in a wicked smile. “Who’s this? The man’s wife?”

“No. That’s the bank robber.”

Dean gaped at the picture again. Her eyes gleamed with mischief more along the lines of pulling pranks on an indulgent papa than committing a violent crime. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You can talk to the witnesses yourself, if you like. Her name’s Margaret Bullock.”

Suspicion ran cold fingers down his spine. “Any relation to Arthur Bullock?”

“His daughter.”

“Ah, I see.”

Daddy’s little girl had taken rebellion against her lawman father too far. He wondered if she’d gotten swept up with some sort of bad seed.

No matter. Gently raised women were skilled in house-bound tasks, like raising children and making butter. Tracking Margaret Bullock would be no problem.

He’d be sheriff of Fresh Springs in no time.

Dean had long ago forgotten the excitement that could come with a bounty. The sense of challenge that buzzed through the haze that usually leveled him. The reason he’d taken on bounty hunting in the first place—when the raw sting of bare-knuckle fighting hadn’t been enough anymore. At first it had been something to wake him up and make him live, but after years of the job, he hadn’t gotten that rush anymore.

Chasing Margaret Bullock proved different for some reason. Probably because she’d surprised him. He’d assumed that she’d take the train, since it was by far the easiest route from the Arizona Territory back to the Willow, Texas sanitarium where Masterson said her father was recovering. But a few stops along the train’s path quickly disproved that theory.

She’d ridden the back roads and trails, sticking to the fringes of society. And she’d apparently taken care of herself just fine, since she’d made the journey in right around two weeks. Not a speck of her had been seen in any town and he was pretty sure someone would remember a woman with such a fetching mouth.

That mouth had been formed for dirty deeds in the dark of night. He’d spent plenty of time picturing them while wrapped up in his bedroll on the trail, his hand fisted around his cock as he’d imagined pushing the woman to her knees.

A couple days outside Willow, Dean decided it was time for a face-to-face meeting. He needed to know what he was up against.

He gave his Colt a last-minute cleaning. Wouldn’t do to have his equipment malfunction at an inopportune moment. He’d staked out a rest in a small clearing, ringed with deep woods—far off the normal track but less than a half mile from where his prey had spent the night. His horse, Jameson, roamed the far side of the clearing, near a tiny creek.

He’d spread out a cloth to keep all the small pieces of his gun corralled, but they all shone now. Just in time.

The fine hairs across his neck shivered.

He snapped the cylinder into the frame with a flick of his wrist, then let it spin. Loaded, locked and cocked.

In one move he pointed the pistol at a shadowy figure in the trees, perched on a branch. “Come down.”

“No, I don’t think so.” The voice was another surprise. Low and husky, she betrayed no fear. He could almost hear that voice begging sweetly in his ear while he stroked into her. “Who are you?”

The absurd thought of fucking Margaret was easily shaken off. The sharp-edged anger that often filled him swept through and eased the sting of denial. “I’m Dean Collier.”

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t give you my name. I don’t tend to introduce myself to strange men.” She shifted along the thick branch, crouching lower. A stray beam of sunlight worked down to caress her face.

Perched on her high ground, she seemed wild. Half feral. She wore men’s clothing, for one. Snug breeches clung to her narrow hips and curved thighs. Her hair was a tumbled mess, barely pulled back in a horse’s tail. Dark hanks fell around her face. The hair was a weakness. He could wrap the tangled length around his fist and lead her around.

If he could get past the revolver she had pointed dead at his stomach.

Gut shot wounds were decidedly unpleasant. He ought to know, he’d had to carry in three separate prisoners suffering from ones he’d doled out. They’d screamed and cried from the pain enough to give him a bellyache of his own.

“Can’t say as I blame you.” He shifted slowly from his seated position, but it wasn’t going to gain him much. One of the first rules of tactical advantage was to keep the element of surprise and the higher ground. He needed to know what type of woman he was up against, so he’d let her have them. Death didn’t scare him. Hadn’t for years. “But it doesn’t much matter. Your name’s Margaret Bullock.”

She leaned a shoulder around the rough bark. “I generally go by Maggie, but that’s certainly near enough. Should I know you? Beyond the fact that you’ve been following me for three days, that is.”

He kept his joints loose and his knees barely bent. High ground or no, he could shoot her dead before she even thought about firing. “I’ve come to take you in. You’ve got to go back to Fresh Springs.”

She considered a moment, her head tipping to the side. “You think so?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

An exasperated breath fluffed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, would you please stop calling me ma’am? I’m only two and twenty. Not exactly a spinster yet.”

A shock of surprise perilously close to amusement lifted his shoulders. She didn’t appear to comprehend her situation. “You’re going to trial, Maggie.”

“I didn’t give you permission to call me that, either.”

“It’s either ma’am or Maggie. Your choice.” This had to be the strangest showdown he’d ever participated in.

“Miss Bullock is still available.”

He stepped toward her tree. If he got near enough, he could at least block off her easy escape route. Hell, he’d like to shoot the twit out of the tree. Taking her feet out would be unwise, since he didn’t feel like carrying her all the way back to Fresh Springs. But maybe her hand…He eyed the fingers splayed over the tree bark. Masterson had insisted he bring the woman back unharmed, though. Said he wanted to dirty her up himself. “Miss is for sweet young ladies. You, however, robbed a bank.”

She nodded, and the hank of hair that had been sneaking into her eyes slipped along her cheek and wound against her jaw. “That I did.”

“You admit it?”

She dropped her gaze for a moment, but the muzzle of her pistol never wavered. “There’s not much point in denying it, is there? I imagine Tim and Billy would willingly point me out in no time, now wouldn’t they? It’s not like I was particularly kind to them.”

Dean relaxed and slid his feet apart into a shootist’s stance. She certainly talked like the most repentant criminal he’d ever picked up, but the gun pointed at his guts said she was harder than her words suggested. “Didn’t think tree climbing was considered a ladylike activity.”

The smile she flashed was as fake as fool’s gold. “My brother Robert looked out for me. Our father taught him everything he knew, then Robert passed it on to me.”

“Doesn’t sound like a deputy’s skill, either.”

“Robert never was a deputy. He managed father’s ranch.” The left side of her lips quirked into the one-sided grin she’d displayed for her portrait. “And you’re what? A bounty hunter? I didn’t think talking your targets to death was a common skill for you types.”

“I’ve plenty of skills you’ll never know. Like consideration. I was thinking we’d take the train back to Arizona.” It was a damned lie, but she wouldn’t know any better. And he had to get her nerves soothed, see if he could get her down from the tree.

“That’s certainly gentlemanly of you.”

His skills as a gentleman were surely rusted straight through. The last time he’d sat through a meal that was more than a single course, he’d ended up drunk under the table. He inclined his head anyway. “Glad you appreciate it. We can catch the train in Willow this afternoon.”

She shook her head, but that smile never left her mouth. A hooker in Amarillo had given him that same smile right before she beckoned him up to her room. She’d only been out to fleece him of his bankroll. Miss Bullock’s smile looked exactly as fake.

“Mr. Collier, you seem a very nice man.”

“Must say it’s been a long time since I’ve heard that.”

“I’m confident it must be true. That’s why it’s such a shame I can’t be leaving with you. I’m afraid I have something I’ve got to do first.”

The solid weight of his pistol in his hand was a comfort. Once before, he’d shot a woman, but he didn’t relish the experience. His parents had done their level best to teach him that a real man treated women with respect. Somehow he didn’t figure shooting one met their standards. Pa would turn over in his grave, then dig his way out and beat Dean’s ass. Good thing he’d spent the last years fighting his way through the world. No one won bouts with him lately.

“I can’t let you do that.”

Her smile tweaked and for a second took on a real tilt. “You don’t really have a choice.”

The muzzle of her barrel shifted bare inches. She pulled the trigger. A sharp
crack-bang
echoed through the small clearing.

Dean held his fire.

A grass clump exploded right before his horse’s hooves. Jameson reared, nickering wildly. A man in the southwest without a horse was a dead man walking. Dean ducked flailing hooves to grab the animal’s bridle.

The horse was well trained enough that it took only a single whoa to calm him. But by the time Dean turned back to Maggie’s perch, she was gone. The shift and rustle of branches hinted at her direction.

But he was quite content to let her go. He didn’t particularly feel like chasing her through the woods. And he had no doubt where she was heading—to her father’s bedside. Catching her on his own terms would be no problem.

He patted Jameson’s heaving neck as he watched the trees where the girl had disappeared.

Over four years, he’d brought nearly two hundred men to justice, and not once had he hesitated to do whatever was needed. His skills were about all he had left and the only way he’d earn his chance at redemption.

Any doubt she’d been coerced into robbing the bank fled. Margaret Bullock was a menace. There was no way he’d let a slip of a woman get the better of him.

Next time they met, she would pay.

Maggie arrived on the grounds of the Willow Sanitarium much more quickly than expected, driven by anxious fear.

Masterson had sent a bounty hunter for her all the many miles away to Texas.

She should have surmised some kind of immediate response. Mr. Masterson wasn’t one for sitting idly by. Like her father, he was a man of action, one of the many reasons they’d been such great friends for so long.

It didn’t make sense. Once upon a time they’d been thick as thieves, the sheriff and the mayor. Since Robert’s death her father had withdrawn into himself and their friendship had cooled, but that was nothing to hold against a dying man.

The sanitarium in Willow was a miracle of modern medical treatment. Its founder, Dr. Vallest, dedicated the institution to the pursuit of science and healthy living. But it was expensive. Amazingly, incredibly expensive, though worth every penny as her father’s stomach seemed to heal itself. But if he wasn’t able to stay, the cure wouldn’t last. His stomach would continue to eat itself inside out. And Maggie would lose the last remaining member of her family.

She refused to think about it. She hadn’t thought of anything at all beyond the money needed to let Father remain at the San as long as necessary. They sold the family’s hundred acres outside Fresh Springs to pay for the first month of treatments. Maggie had done it without an instant of compunction. With glowing letters of improvement in hand from both the doctors and Father himself, she’d approached Mr. Masterson for a loan.

He’d been unmoved. In fact, she’d had a suspicion he’d seemed almost
pleased
.

So Maggie had done what she had to.

After she handed off her horse to a boy that would take care of her trustworthy animal, Maggie mounted the stairs of the impressive Willow Sanitarium. Columns soared five stories into the air, the bottom two wrapped in deep, shady porches. Arizona didn’t have anything that approached it in either impressiveness or medical advancements. Dr. Vallest’s regimen of balanced nutrition, standard exercises and cold-water baths were based on the most up-to-date science.

The foyer was a wide expanse of marble and polished wood. Conversational groupings of overstuffed chairs provided resting spots for patients. Maggie felt rather conspicuous in her trail-dusted dress, leather saddlebags thrown over one shoulder.

Tucked in a far corner was the reception desk where a fresh-faced attendant smiled at her. The girl wore a serviceable brown dress nearly swallowed by a white apron sporting one small row of ruffles. “How can I help you this afternoon?”

The other woman’s cheer was infectious. Maggie smiled for the first time since she’d left that bounty hunter gaping up at her. “I’d like to meet with Director Vallest, please.”

“Certainly. Is he expecting you?”

“Nope.” Maggie patted the sun-warmed leather over her shoulder. “But if you tell him it’s about Arthur Bullock and his account, I’m sure he’d be willing to see me.” Money had a way of opening doors.

“Of course.” She disappeared through a six-paneled door and left Maggie peering around the grand foyer, feeling like a country bumpkin.

It wasn’t long before the door popped open again and the clerk reappeared. “The director will see you now.”

“Of course,” Maggie said with a wry laugh.

She was escorted into a spacious combination office and library. Shelves filled two walls, stretching up to the soaring ceilings. A roaring fire burned in a black-tiled fireplace, and a huge ebony desk dominated the fourth wall. Behind it, Dr. Vallest stood in front of his throne-like chair.

He bobbed in a perfunctory bow. “Miss Bullock. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise, sir.” Keeping the bag in her lap, she sat in the chair before the desk. After more than three weeks on the move, practically living in her saddle, she was a bit achy. She shifted forward off her sore tailbone. “Dr. Vallest, I’d like to inquire as to my father’s progress, if I may.”

A genial smile spread over his lean cheeks, framed by deep furrows. He seated himself with a fussy tug of his coat. “Mr. Bullock is doing quite well. I think you’ll be pleased by his improvement.”

The heavy weight that choked her breathing for the past two months eased. Relief flowed through her like water from a cool spring. When she and Father had arrived here by train, he’d been so weak he’d hardly been able to walk. “I’m so happy to hear that.”

“I rather imagined you might be.” Director Vallest slid a leather-bound folder from a stack and flipped through it. “Mr. Bullock’s appetite has much improved, and he has been able to consume and retain sufficient nutrients. Naturally we believe this is in great part due to the wholesome fare we provide. He’s even begun taking part in calisthenics. He should be in the gymnasium right now, as a matter of fact.”

“I don’t think I can express how wonderful that is to hear.” Her ears buzzed with relief. Such news made everything worth it.

“Good, good. We here at Willow Sanitarium thrive on providing life-changing assistance.” The director’s smile dripped off his face like butter melting off toast. He folded his hands across the papers. “However, Miss Bullock, I’m afraid I must address an indelicate issue.”

She nodded and slid the strap of her bag through the buckle. “Of course, I understand. Father’s accounts.”

“Yes. We’ve even let him stay on a half week past the point we’d turn out most, based on his and your assurances and our enjoyment in seeing his marked improvement. But if you cannot—”

Maggie gently hefted one of the bags of gold onto his desk. It landed with a clinking thunk and she tossed the second in close order. “Will this be sufficient?”

Dr. Vallest’s eyes widened and his pale mouth went slack. His hand rose, then hovered over the nearest bag. “May I?”

She nodded. “Certainly.”

He drew the bag near and slipped loose the rawhide tie with the ceremony a jeweler would inspect Britain’s Crown Jewels. When he folded back the opening to reveal a shining pile of gold coins and smaller cloth bags containing gold dust, he gave a rather feminine gasp. “Oh my.”

“I think you’ll find that sufficient to keep my father for however long is deemed necessary for his continued good health.”

His head bobbed in a rapid nod. “While we will have to officially assay the contents, I am convinced of it.” After a moment, he managed to blink away his fascination with the pile and focused a narrow-eyed gaze on her. “I must say, Miss Bullock, this method of payment is quite unusual.”

She’d practiced the entire trip to the sanitarium, so the lie tripped easily off her tongue. “I understand, and I truly appreciate your flexibility in this matter. But it seemed swiftest to convey the profits of my recent mining strike directly, especially considering the unfortunate delay in payment I had already subjected your fine establishment to.”

He seemed to take in her dress and posture. “You operated a mine?”

She kept her eyes wide and guileless as she nodded. Father taught her that trick himself, though he’d meant it as a lark as she played poker with him and Robert. A melancholic wistfulness fluttered through her as she remembered those long winter nights they’d spent gathered around the kitchen table. Mother had passed on trying to birth the little sister Maggie never had, but at least they’d still had each other. Maggie kept house and Robert served as foreman, taking care of their ranch while Father fulfilled the important duties of a lawman. They’d been a tight unit. When Robert had been shot, those happier times had flown away.

“I had workers, of course, but I was quite blessed to have a considerable profit even after paying them. I’m sure you can guess how relieved I was to strike such a rich vein of ore.”

His eyebrow lifted in a sardonic tweak. “I’m sure.” With quick movements, he tied the bags back up and lined them up neatly side-by-side. “I am assuming you would like to remain and observe the accounting?”

She shook her head and stood. “That’s quite all right. If I can trust the sanitarium and its staff with my father’s life, I’m confident I can trust you with our finances as well.” In truth, it hardly mattered since she’d stolen the whole thing. “I’d much rather see Father now.”

“I understand.” Vallest stood and gave another bow, this time much more deep and respectful. “Let me get Philomena to escort you.”

“I’d be much obliged, sir.”

The girl was fetched in short order and Maggie followed her up three flights of stairs. Relief was a sweet taste in her mouth. The Willow Sanitarium was a huge institution, with a phalanx of lawyers at their beck and call. They’d prevent Masterson from reclaiming the money, even if Maggie were to be arrested and stand trial for the robbery. Father’s health would be as recovered as possible.

“Here we are, ma’am.” The girl stood before one of many doors in the long hallway. “Mr. Bullock is still at calisthenics, but he should be along shortly.”

The hallway bordered on narrow. A thick, richly colored carpet stretched the full length and gaslight sconces clung to the walls in regular intervals.

Maggie thanked the girl and slipped into her father’s room. They hadn’t had the money to pay for a suite, but the room was clean and nicely appointed. A well-made oak bed dominated most of the space, along with a matching dresser. Father had a good-sized window, which he’d left open. The fresh air did nothing to abate the scent of leather and hair pomade, the same fragrance she’d associated with warmth and safety all her life. She took a deep whiff as tears threatened behind her eyes.

A gilt frame on the small writing desk held the last tintype ever taken of her whole family. She picked it up and trailed a finger over the glass. Father and Robert stood in the back with twelve-year-old Maggie and her mother seated in front. The tiny swelling of Mother’s belly could only be seen if she peered carefully. She touched a finger to the baby sister that never was.

Sometimes she wondered how things would have turned out had Mother lived. In the tintype, Father had one hand on Robert’s shoulder and one on Maggie’s. Happiness and palpable pride eased his face, with fewer of the deep lines that now fanned out from his eyes and furrowed his forehead. Robert was on the cusp of manhood, with a breadth of shoulders that hadn’t the weight to fill them out. How often she’d teased that he looked like a scarecrow. That stage hadn’t lasted long, however, and a fully formed man died the night Father confronted the raiders who’d once haunted the Fresh Springs area.

She blinked rapidly and waved her hand before her eyes. It wouldn’t do to cry, not now. Father had been strong for her all twenty-two years of her life; it was her turn now.

When the door opened, she had thankfully composed herself. She set down the photograph and turned. “Father,” she said cheerily and spread her arms open wide.

“Maggie.” He wrapped her in his arms and squeezed. “How good it is to see you.”

She buried her face in his shirtfront and breathed him in. “And you too. You too.”

His hand swept over her hair, dislodging a few locks from the already messy knot. “I cannot express how much I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to how I’ve missed you.” She squeezed his upper arms and pushed him back. “Let me look at you. Let me see how healthy you’ve become.”

“I certainly feel much better.”

Indeed, he looked it. His face had lost the pained, pinched pallor that had overwhelmed him over the previous year and a half, and his brown eyes sparkled once again with the mirth she remembered from childhood. Even his hair looked healthy, as he’d taken to combing it back with pomade again. But his frame remained spare and he’d dropped even more weight.

She cupped his face. Freshly sprouting whiskers abraded her palm. “Are you eating well?”

“I certainly am.” A smug smile took over his mouth. “I’ve eaten everything I’ve been given and managed to retain it for two weeks now.”

“Oh, that is so wonderful.” The pain that struck him upon eating had been her biggest fear. A body couldn’t survive without taking sustenance. “But then why do you look so slender?”

He shrugged. “The fare here is quite plain. It gives one what’s necessary and no more. I’ve no fear I’ll be able to maintain such a diet once we return home.”

Maggie dropped her hand and stepped away to the window. She chewed her bottom lip. This was the part of the plan she’d dreaded all along. Her father’s disappointment would tear her soul to shreds. “We’re not returning. I’ve only come for a visit. You’ll be able to remain and continue for as long as you need.”

“Masterson came through with the loan?” Father nodded as he crossed his arms over his now-narrow chest. “Good, good. I knew Willheim wouldn’t let me down.”

She gripped the window frame and took a deep breath, gazing blindly across the rolling green lawns. She’d considered lying to her father, but knew it would never succeed. All her life, Father had only to look at her to know when she’d lied, even about something as little as sweeping out the tack room.

“He didn’t. Said it was a bad risk, as once you were gone I’d have no way to pay back any sort of loan.”

Even now, tears threatened again as she remembered the cold scorn with which Masterson had said it. Maggie had burst into embarrassing sobs at the shock of the moment. Never before had she known Mr. Masterson to be such a stonehearted bastard.

“He didn’t? Then…then how can I stay here? Did one of my investments finally pay out?”

“No.” She spun back to face him. “No investments. There’s no money left. No land, no nothing.”

Confusion drew his expression into a caricature of widened eyes and opened mouth. “Then…How?”

She pushed her chin into the air and, drawing forth every bit Mother taught her about proper posture, tightened her spine into a semblance of assurance. “I robbed the Fresh Springs bank.”

He blinked and rubbed a hand over his hair. “You’re joking.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You did what?” He was across the room in two strides. He gripped her shoulders and shook her until her teeth slammed together. “I’m a sheriff, for God’s sake. You’ve betrayed everything I’ve ever taught you. How could you?”

“How could I not?” The tears won the battle. She dashed them away with the meat of her palm. “How could I let you die? You’re all I have left.”