Deborah Camp
Authors: Primrose
The Dangerous Hearts Series
Fallen Angel
Fire Lily
Master of Moonspell
Right Behind the Rain
Riptide
The Daring Hearts Series
Black-eyed Susan
Blazing Embers
Cheyenne’s Shadow
My Wild Rose
Primrose
The Love and Adventure Series
After Dark
For Love or Money
In a Pirate’s Arms
Just Another Pretty Face
Vein of Gold
The Love and Laughter Series
A Newsworthy Affair
Hook, Line, and Sinker
Love Letters
The Butler Did It
Wrangler’s Lady
The Love Everlasting Series
A Dream to Share
Midnight Eyes
Strange Bedfellows
They Said it Wouldn’t Last
Winter Flame
The Passionate Hearts Series
Destiny’s Daughter
Oklahoma Man
Taming the Wild Man
The Second Mr. Sullivan
Weathering the Storm
The Tender Hearts Series
Devil’s Bargain
Sweet Passion’s Song
This Tender Truce
To Have, To Hold
Tomorrow’s Bride
The Wild Hearts Series
A Tough Man’s Woman
Lady Legend
Lonewolf’s Woman
Too Tough ToTame
Tough Talk, Tender Kisses
P
RIMROSE
D
EBORAH
C
AMP
Copyright © Deborah Camp, 1988
All Rights Reserved
First published by Avon Books
The ancient saying is no heresy:
“Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.”
William Shakespeare
The Merchant of Venice
, II, 9
The Widow Hathaway was an enigma in the town of Scyene, Texas. She kept mostly to herself, but was friendly enough when spoken to. She was a pretty thing with deep dimples in her cheeks and a fetching smile when she chose to use it. But there was always an aloofness about her, as if she didn’t want to get too close and catch anything from anyone. The town gossips said she was still in shock after losing her dear husband—thirty-five years her senior—three months ago when he’d been struck dead by lightning.
“Give her time,” they all said. “She’ll come around. All she needs is a good man to take her by the hand and guide her back amongst the living.”
On this May morning in 1876 the Widow Hathaway had come into Scyene to shop. She’d heard that new merchandise had arrived in the town jail and she wanted to be the first to have a look-see.
She hesitated another few moments to tuck wisps of her auburn hair under the back of her bonnet before she entered the sheriff’s tiny office at the front of the jail. Her nerves fluttered as she prepared to do something outrageous. Something borne of sheer desperation.
The stench of men—tobacco, month-old sweat, and stale breath—hung heavy in the room. The floor was spotted with tobacco juice, and the brass spittoon in the corner was stained with it. Sunlight slanted through the east window
to illuminate air thick with dust motes. Zanna Hathaway lifted a lacy, gray handkerchief to her nose behind her widow’s veil and sniffed at the toilet water she’d splashed on it earlier. The perfume of crushed violets settled her roiling stomach.
Racks of rifles lined one wall, and a wood door with cast-iron hardware sealed off the entrance to the jail cells. Harmonica music came winging into the room from the area where society’s undesirables were caged. The
wah-wah-wahing
musical wail fingered Zanna’s stiffly erect spine with apprehension. The upward scaling notes dovetailed neatly into a chorus of
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
. Zanna tucked the handkerchief into one of her tight cuffs and forced herself to breathe the rancid air. Don’t be a shrinking violet, she advised herself. You’ve got to be tough to get your way in this scheme.
Sheriff Warwick sat beside his desk, polishing a rifle. He was a round-faced man in his fifties with a shock of white hair and a walrus mustache to match. He had a high-pitched voice that didn’t seem to belong to a man who weighed well over two hundred pounds. He glanced up and offered an automatic smile which froze halfway across his mouth when he recognized the veiled figure before him.
“Zanna Hathaway,” he said, his voice breaking with surprise as he bounded up from the chair. “What can I do for you, ma’am? Having trouble out at the Primrose?”
“No, sheriff.” Zanna closed her black parasol and tucked it under her arm. “I heard you’ve a new prisoner in your jail.”
“That’s right. The judge found him guilty yesterday and sentenced him to hang next week in Dallas. A Texas Ranger will transport him there in the morning.”
“Found guilty of what?”
“Cheating at cards and stealing a horse.” The sheriff squinted one eye in shrewd appraisal. “Is that what brings you into Scyene? You missing a horse?”
“No, sir.” She jerked absently on the black gloves covering her work-roughened hands. “I haven’t called on you to voice a complaint. I’ve come to see the convict.”
Sheriff Warwick propped his hands on his gun belt and regarded her with open amazement. “You know him, Mrs. Hathaway?”
“I don’t believe so. What’s his name?”
“Adams.” The sheriff turned some papers around on his desk until he could read the printing. “Grandy Adams. Know him?”
“No, I’ve never heard that name before, but Adams is a nice, simple name. A good name to have, I would think.” Zanna confronted the sheriff’s look of confusion with an upward tilt of her chin. “If I like the looks of him, I mean to marry him today.”
“Come again, Mrs. Hathaway?” Sheriff Warwick chuckled and tipped his hat back from his forehead. His blue eyes twinkled merrily and his white mustache wiggled above his smiling lips. “Are you trying to pull my leg, ma’am?” He looked past her. “Who put you up to this? Deputy Cravens? It’s just like him to—”
“Could I see the prisoner now, please? I came around early so I’d get first crack at him. I understand that Widow Marshall and Miss Agatha are in the market for husbands, too.”
“You’re serious?” He collapsed into the squeaking chair as if the breath had been knocked out of him. “Mrs. Hathaway, you’re not thinking straight. Why would you want to take a good-for-nothing crook for a husband?” His brows shot up and he rose from the chair. “Now I understand. You poor thing. You’re still in mourning for your mister. You’re not yourself. You go on back to the ranch, ma’am, and I’ll send Doc Pepperidge out to you.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, but was rebuffed by a sharp jerk that left his hand resting on a cushion of air.
“I’m not daffy,” Zanna snapped. “Is there or is there
not a county ordinance, passed at the end of the war and stating that a landholding woman can claim a man from the gallows, providing he isn’t charged with murder or any other heinous crime?”
Sheriff Warwick scratched at his day-old stubble. “That’s right, but that ordinance is for ugly old maids and over-the-hill widder women. Not pretty young ladies like yourself. If you’re having trouble out at the ranch, I’m sure Duncan will be only too glad to help you. You should turn to your kinfolk at a time like this.”
Zanna shook her head in firm denial. “I should like to see the convict.”
“I can’t do that. It ain’t right for the widow of a fine man such as Fayne Hathaway to be thinking of taking a piece of filth as a husband. It just ain’t right.”
“Then I’ll fetch my attorney, Theodore Booker, and bring him around to recite the law to you. Theo says I have every right to view the prisoner and claim him if I see fit.”
“You’ve talked to Theo Booker about this harebrained idea and he told you to go ahead with it?”
“I have, and he did.” Zanna’s small smile was triumphant. She was tired of men telling her what to do and how to do it. It felt awful good to be taking the reins of her own life for a change. “Now will you escort me to his cell, sir? I should like to be married by noon.”
Sheriff Warwick folded his arms across his shirtfront. A ray of sunlight glanced off his silver star. “I suppose you’ve also talked to Preacher Timmons about this?”
“He stands ready to marry us if need be,” Zanna assured him, then looked pointedly toward the jail door. “So, if you please …”
“And what does Duncan say?”
“Why should I discuss this with Duncan? He has his own ranch and his own affairs to conduct. I’ll not burden him with mine.”
“But he’s your brother-in-law and he’s—”
The harmonica let fly another mournful tune and the sheriff cast an evil glance at the door. Zanna couldn’t remember the name of the song, but she’d heard it before and could hum along with it in her mind. It had something to do with being buried under an apple tree back home in Tennessee.
“You’re making a big mistake,” the sheriff grumbled as he removed a ring of keys from a peg. “Once you see this piece of trash, I’m sure you’ll change your mind right quick. He wouldn’t win any prizes, I’m here to tell you.”
“Few men would, sheriff,” Zanna said with severity, then swept ahead of Amos Warwick onto the narrow walkway in front of the two jail cells. The smell was worse in the jail. It was so bad it was tangible, turning the air a hazy blue. Zanna plucked her handkerchief from her cuff and held it to her nose again, breathing the perfume through the layers of her silky veil.
The harmonica music faltered, faded, and stopped. Zanna squinted against the dirt and dust hovering in the air. Spears of sunlight fell through the window, throwing bars of gold across the convict’s face, which was in profile. He glanced her way, then looked back to the window and again lifted his face to the warmth of the sun. Dark stubble covered the lower half of his face.
“On your feet, Adams,” the sheriff bellowed. “There’s a lady present.” When the man made no move to obey, the sheriff squeezed past Zanna and pressed his face close to the bars. “Did you hear me, you son of a hoary mule?”
The prisoner turned his head toward the sheriff ever so slowly, as if the minimal effort was a gigantic one for him, but he didn’t stand. He sat on the cot, one leg pulled up and bent at the knee. His black breeches hung in tatters from the knees down. His boots were badly scuffed and slashed in places. His white shirt was ripped, speckled with blood, and hung open because all the buttons had
been torn from it. A silver and copper harmonica dangled from the fingers of his right hand. His left hand was bound by a bloody handkerchief.
“You deaf?” the sheriff yelled, making Zanna wince.
The convict delivered a droopy-lidded glance in Zanna’s general direction. He touched one end of the harmonica to his forehead in a halfhearted greeting.
“I don’t know what she’s claiming I’ve done to her, but I didn’t do it. I never saw her before in my life.” His accent was southern, his voice sultry and parched like a desert breeze. He looked her over with his bloodshot eyes. “Widow’s weeds. I didn’t kill your husband, ma’am, no matter what the sheriff’s told you. I’m not a murderer.”
