Catch Me (20 page)

Maggie heard the shouting and yelling from three blocks away, when she stepped out of Phillip Tavey’s house. The preacher followed, along with her father. She stopped dead still and cocked her head. “What is that?”

Pastor Tavey stepped off the porch, into the narrow cactus-lined walkway. He looked toward the heart of town, tipping his hat to shade his eyes from the bright sun already making its relentless way across the sky. “I’m not sure. Sounds like quite the to-do, though.”

Father rested a hand on his pistol. “I don’t like it.”

The strain of the trip back to Arizona, combined with their morning of tracking down Pastor Tavey, seemed to weigh heavy on him. His skin had taken on a gray pallor that concerned Maggie. She’d have to get him to a doctor at the soonest opportunity.

She looked at Phillip, who’d agreed to their plan with alacrity as soon as he’d seen the proof of Masterson’s shady deeds. Trying to track down the pastor had taken a full two hours before they’d found him at a needy family’s home. Andrew had spent the morning skulking around town and keeping an eye on his brother the best he could. While Maggie stayed out of sight, Father had convinced Pastor Tavey to return to his house to hear them out.

Tavey was a little on the young side to lead an entire congregation, but Fresh Springs had taken to the dark-haired, soulful-eyed preacher as soon as he’d ridden into town. This morning, he’d also insisted on praying for Father’s soul and accepting his repentance, something for which Maggie would eternally be grateful.

“Pastor?” she asked. “Was there anything planned for today?”

He shook his head and stroked his goatee. “No. I must say, I agree with Mr. Bullock. There’s something about the tone of that shouting that sets me on edge.”

Cold dread trickled down her spine even as Andrew whipped around the corner on his horse. He didn’t even stop to dismount. “We’ve got nasty trouble. They’re fixing to hang Dean.”

She bit back a curse, wishing her father and the preacher weren’t right there. Maybe cursing a blue streak could relieve the insidious feelings turning her knees to water. She scooped up her skirts, wanting to damn them to hell as well. What she wouldn’t give to be in trousers right now. “Let’s go.”

They made a dash for their horses, which they’d thankfully left saddled and tied to the wrought iron gate. Even her father kept up, though he was panting and kept a hand over his stomach. He made a graceful mounting onto his horse that sent tears prickling behind her eyes. How long had it been since she’d seen him move so easily?

She kicked Sandie into a gallop and the horse’s long legs tore up the hard-packed dirt street. She rode toward the sounds that had so alarmed them all and Sandie seemed eager and willing to go with her. Almost as if she sensed her mistress’s fright.

Three blocks felt like they’d take thirty days to pass. Her heart wanted to leap out of her ribs at every jolt of Sandie’s stride. Maggie’s hat flew from her head, trailing behind by the strings tied around her throat. Her hands convulsed around the reins as she tried her damnedest not to whip them against her horse’s side. Sandie was already going faster than she’d ever been pushed. A sick, cold apprehension threatened to take over every bit of her reason.

But nothing prepared her for what she saw when she tore around the last turn.

A mob. The townspeople she’d known and loved her entire life had devolved into a screaming, thoughtless mob of writhing anger.

Jonathon Houghton pushed his way through the crowd, a rifle in his hand. She’d sat next to him in the one-room schoolhouse at the end of this very street and cheated off his slate in arithmetic. Melody Petersen, her dearest friend, stood on the boardwalk in front of the mercantile, but at least she looked appalled at the riot. Charles Davidson, the boy she’d tormented with toads in Sunday school, was there, his face twisted as he screamed invectives. So were Tim and Billy, the clerks she’d robbed at the bank.

This was all her fault.

And now she’d have to fix it.

She pushed Sandie through the crowd, kicking when they tried to block her way. Momentum carried her through, even when they started to notice exactly who it was trying to slam through them. Shouts of “Get her!” and “She’s one of them!” went up. Sandie reared when Charles reached for Maggie’s ankle.

A shot rang out over their heads. Most men froze, looking for the source.

Andrew stood in his stirrups, a rifle pointed over the rooftops of the businesses to the east side of the street. “Let her pass,” he shouted.

“Let us all pass,” Pastor Tavey yelled from behind her.

Maggie nudged Sandie into motion again, at a much slower pace this time. She scanned the crowd looking for Dean.

When she saw him, she almost sobbed. He stood at the front of the crowd, two men holding his arms. His head was bowed with defeat, his face bruised at the jaw line. Blood trickled from his nose. Worse than all that was the rope looped around his neck and trailing down his back.

The end had already been thrown over the crossbar of a telegraph pole. It required only a few hard pulls to snuff his life.

She choked back the shakes that wanted to swamp her. She’d never been so frightened in her life, not even when the doctor had given his abysmal prediction about Father. Her stomach churned, her head nearly weightless, as if she’d spin away into the clouds. Her mouth worked on nothing. She had to stop this, but the words flew away before she could piece them together.

Dean lifted his head as the crowd started to hush. His eyes widened and flashed ice blue. His mouth flattened until his lips nearly disappeared. He shook his head, trying to convey some silent message.

She found the wherewithal to smile, though she didn’t know how when everything inside her was falling apart. But his face only pulled tighter. “Go,” he mouthed.

“Never,” she mouthed in return. But she said her next words out loud. He deserved them, even if he didn’t believe it. “I love you. I’m going to get you out of this.”

He gave a subtle shake of his head. Whether he was denying her love or her determination to get him freed, they’d work it out later.

“The only thing you’re going to get is the chance to hang beside him.” Masterson shouldered his way out of the crowd only a few paces away. Linkers and Mahouly were right behind him, along with the guard whose name Maggie still didn’t know.

She shouldn’t have been surprised to see him. He kept a close eye on goings-on to ensure the town ran smoothly. It took on a sinister cast now that she understood exactly what sort of man he was. Still, she wouldn’t have thought he’d risk being so near a lynching, not when it could tarnish his good name.

On the other hand, it was probably a good thing for her. A man ought to be present when he was accused of a crime. It would be pure amusement to hear him try to talk his way out of this one.

She flicked a glance back toward Dean. Anything to get him freed. Even though he glowered at her like a man pushed to the edge. Ungrateful wretch. She’d be sure to tell him so once they had a moment alone.

The giggle that almost trickled out of her took her aback. This was no time for lightheartedness. She worried the giddiness that threatened to take her over stemmed from hysteria rather than true amusement. Sinking her nails into her palms hard enough to draw blood brought her back to herself.

She slipped off Sandie and moved toward the front of the crowd and the men who had Dean by the arms. She knew them both. Henry Navarro was a rancher with a small spread of cattle north of town. Joseph Patekie was a miner at heart who’d turned up in Fresh Springs after his gold claim in Tombstone had gone bust. Now he did odd jobs and spent Thursday afternoon through Sunday morning drunk. His nose had gone red with his constant imbibing.

She smiled at each of them in turn, hoping a personal appeal might have more effect than random shouting. “Please, let him go.”

Henry shook his head and wrenched his grip on Dean’s arm a little tighter, if the flinching were any indication. “No. Ain’t going to happen. Mr. Masterson’s right. We can’t abide lawlessness in Fresh Springs, or them cowboys from up Tombstone way will be trying to take us over.”

Oh, Masterson was a shining star of justice and truth, was he? She smiled, but it felt bitter and twisted on her lips with the taste of knowledge she’d never wanted. She’d been happy thinking her father and Masterson were perfect men. Now she took no joy in ruining others’ illusions.

“Masterson’s not the man you think he is, Henry.” She turned to the roiling mob that swelled and ebbed as one. She wasn’t sure what was holding them back. Andrew with his rifle and Father with his pistol were nothing compared to the myriad weapons she saw glinting in the sun among them. Perhaps having Pastor Tavey watching them was enough. Whatever held them at bay, she was thankful for it. She pitched her voice to carry as far as it could.

“Masterson isn’t the man any of you think he is. And I’ve the proof of it.” She pulled Wailins’ confession from the pocket sewn into her skirt and flourished it above her head.

“You little whore,” Masterson growled. He surged forward, Mahouly and Linkers on his heels, but Father drew his pistol. He no longer had the speed to take down the fastest gunslingers, but it was enough to make Masterson stop in his tracks.

“Hold it right there,” Father said. “Let the girl have her say.”

The other man lowered his voice and leaned toward the small knot before the rest of the crowd. “She’ll ruin you. Your perfect, gilded image. Gone. No one will remember the lawman anymore.”

Father smiled, but he didn’t lower his pistol. The long, shiny barrel shook the tiniest bit. “So she will. So be it. I’ll take my fate gladly if it means you won’t be able to threaten her any more.”

Maggie blinked back tears and looked away. She found Dean instead, who no longer was glowering at her. Instead, sympathy glowed in his eyes and she had the sudden urge to bury her face in his shirt and feel his arms about her.

That wasn’t an option. Not yet.

She cleared her throat and went on. “I hold proof that the man we all respected for so long, Willheim Masterson, colluded with the Wailins Gang. He aided and abetted them in return for a cut of their profits.” Muttering swept through the crowd. She searched their faces, her heart beating at triple time in her chest, but it was impossible to tell which way they were swaying.

“In return, James Wailins agreed that the gang would stay away from Fresh Springs. We all know that didn’t happen. One might think that would make Masterson rethink his arrangement. But it didn’t.” She pointed an accusing finger at the man. His face colored purple under the angry glares that were beginning to turn his way.

“Shut your mouth, you whore,” he snarled.

“Hey now!” Henry Navarro released Dean’s arm and stepped toward the trio, which had drawn more tightly together. “There’s no call to talk to a lady that way.”

“She’s no lady,” Masterson snapped. “Or have you all forgotten she robbed my god damned bank?”

Joseph Patekie released Dean’s other arm and stood shoulder to shoulder with Navarro. “She might have robbed your bank, but she’s brought me a decent supper more times than I can count, when I’d not have had one otherwise.”

Dean immediately took the opportunity to move behind Maggie. She leaned toward him a fraction, but she couldn’t risk throwing her arms about him as she wished, no matter how hard her heart begged. Instead, she soaked up his solid presence at her back.

“The attack at the Winslow farm didn’t stop him. In fact, even after that, he provided them with weapons meant for the Army to use against the Apaches.”

“How do you know this?” The question came from several voices at once, but she couldn’t pin any of them.

Her throat locked tight. This would be the hardest part of all to admit to. She looked to her father. He nodded at her, lowering his gun from its aim. Dean’s hand crept across her back, stroking in a subtle motion. She took the assurance he loaned her and raised her chin. “I know because my father was a part of it.”

The air exploded with shouts and yelling.

Masterson roared and pulled a pistol from under his coat. He pointed it at Andrew, the man nearest him. Turned away to guard against the crowd at large, Andrew saw nothing. But Father did.

He shouted a warning and threw himself between Masterson and Andrew. Maggie drew her father’s pistol. It slid from the holster like it had come alive and leaped into her hand. Time dragged to a molasses-thick crawl. The roar of the crowd muted to a dull hum.

She pulled the trigger. With her only parent in danger, it was easy, so easy to kill.

Her aim was slightly off, but not enough to matter. Masterson’s eyes went wide as a red hole bloomed in his cheek. He slumped to the ground in a dusty pile of death.

But it was too late. Father fell as well. Blood spread across his chest in a frightening flower.

No. No, it couldn’t be. Her hand fell to her side and the gun slipped from her numb fingers.

Dean whipped an arm around her waist and scooped the pistol out of its fall. She blinked. Air whistled between her teeth. Nothing felt real. Linkers had a gun pointed at her, but the barrel looked as wide and deep as a well.

Dean shoved her to the side and shot. Linkers fell back into Mahouly, clutching his side.

Maggie threw herself to her knees beside her father. She didn’t know what to touch, how to help him. Blood squished from the wound in thick squirts, staining his white shirt in an ever-wider circle. A high-pitched keening echoed in her ears. Her. That noise was coming from her. Her vision blurred with tears.

Father moved his head. In the dirt. He was lying in the dirt, like some kind of animal. She cradled his head into her lap and brushed hair off his forehead. When had it gone so white? He’d gotten old and she’d hardly even noticed.

“Maggie…” He voice came out thready and weak.

She dashed tears away with her palm. “Here, Father. I’m here.”

He rolled his eyes back to see her. “I knew you would be.”

Maybe not everything was lost. Maybe he could still be saved. Her surroundings swam back in a heated rush. Men milled around her, and she saw nothing but boots and sand-dusted pant legs, until Dean knelt beside her. His steady eyes were a cool relief. He spared a moment to stroke her cheek, and she pressed back, thankful for his calm when she was anything but. He turned back to her father and pulled his shirt open with one quick movement that sent buttons spraying into the dirt.