Gaffney, Patricia (30 page)

"Don't come near me." He backed up jerkily, dragging
Glen with him. Gray-faced and round-eyed, she was too terrified to do anything
but stumble after him. "I'll kill her," Wylie swore. "You think
I won't? Then I'll kill you."

Empty-handed, the sheriff kept coming. "Give up the weapon.
You're finished."

Jesse had a bad moment when Wylie cocked the gun and jammed it
harder into Glen's cheek. Tom was right—he was a coward; he paid other people
to do his dirty work—but if panic made Merle pull the trigger, the jig would
definitely be up.

But he didn't. Tommy didn't stop, he just kept coming and coming—a
fine sight nobody in Paradise had expected to see in this life—until he and
Glen were chest to chest and Wylie ran out of backing-up room. He looked like a
statue, frozen, numb; he couldn't even talk. In the end, the sheriff plucked
the gun from his stiff fingers, and Jesse sagged with relief when Tommy stashed
it deep in the pocket of his neatly pressed pants. With luck, Gault's gun would
never be seen again. At least not until somebody put real bullets in it.

Cady gave a soft cry and threw herself into his arms. Glen
would've thrown herself into Tom's, but the sheriff still had a job to do.

"You remain under arrest," he advised the prisoner,
reaching behind his back for his handcuffs.

"And now I'll have to add resisting. Glen, did he hurt
you?"

"Huh?" She rubbed her reddening cheekbone dazedly.
"He sure did."

"Assault, too, then."

"Why, you—"

"And kidnapping."

"You little prick, I'll—"

"Keep it up, Merle. Come on. One more word, and I'll throw in
terroristic threats."

Merle shut up.

****

"Am I drunk?" Cady asked Levi while she waited for him
to refill six glasses of beer.

"Not 'less you been nippin' behin' my back."

"I feel drunk. Maybe it's the fumes." He grinned, and
she threw her head back and laughed. Drunk or not, everything was so
funny.
And
everybody in Paradise was her best friend. If not for Levi, she'd be giving the
booze away. "Drinks on the house," she'd instructed when half the
town piled in to Rogue's Tavern to celebrate. "You crazy," he'd told
her, "you'll lose yo' shirt." He was right; what was she thinking?
"Okay, half price," she compromised, and even though he'd disapproved
of that, too, she'd held firm. Because this was a day to give thanks and not be
chintzy. "Except women," she threw in. "Women can drink
free." Levi laughed at that—the Rogue never got female customers.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the bar.
Such happiness—her flushed face shone with it, and she looked downright pretty
in her best dress, the dusty rose silk with pale green embroidery on the
low-cut bodice. She'd had a shock, though, changing into the dress. Rooting
around in her drawer for new stockings, she'd discovered her nest egg was
missing. Two thousand dollars—a
catastrophe.
And yet—what a measure of
the state she was in that, except for Levi, she kept forgetting to tell
anybody! Not even the sheriff! She could only think it was Turley and Clyde, on
their way out of town, but that didn't make sense. How would they know exactly
where to look?

Another possibility had tapped at the back of her mind, but only
once. Since then she'd banished it, and rightly so; how absurd, and how
unworthy of her. It didn't bear thinking about. Literally.

The Rogue was jumping. Chico was banging out "Sugar in the
Gourd" as fast as he could, and Floyd and Oscar were trying to dance to
it. Cady laughed along with everybody else watching the two old fools. "I
never knew what a shadow he cast," she confided to Levi as he plunked down
the last overflowing mug on her tray.

He nodded; he knew who she meant. "It's like that fairy
tale."

"What fairy tale?"

"Them three little pigs. How they celebrate when the big bad
wolf gets what's comin' to him."

"Ha. Yeah." It was like that. Merle Wylie had been like
a dark shadow over Paradise for ages, and today the sun had come out. Grown men
were cavorting like children. Innocence was back and freedom was in the air, as
intoxicating as Cady's best bourbon whiskey.

She served drinks to Curly Boggs and his gang, and took orders for
more from Leonard and Jim and Jersey Stan. She had so many customers, she
barely had time to flirt, an oversight many of them pointed out to her. But she
always knew where Jesse was; it was as if she had antennae hidden in her hair.
Right now he was at the head of a bunch of tables the boys had shoved together,
like the guest of honor at a rowdy banquet. She sent him a secret smile as she
sidled past him en route to the bar—and let out a squeal when he grabbed her
and hauled her onto his lap, empty tray and all.

"I can't sit, I've got—" A kiss shut her up. Boy, was he
an expert at that. Jesse laughing, Jesse's arms around her, Jesse trying to
steal another kiss while his pals whistled and whooped—
This is it,
Cady
gloated.
I'm really in paradise.

Jacques Tournier stood up and offered her his chair, and Jesse
said he'd let her up if she'd sit in it and quit flying around like a barmaid.
"I
am
a barmaid"—she laughed, but she took the
chair—"just for a minute," and even took a swig of Jesse's beer when
he gave it to her.

Toasting him was the order of the day. She sat through half a
dozen tributes to his bravery, his coolness under pressure, his amazing
accuracy, his general wonderfulness—all of which he responded to with modest
smiles and deprecating mumbles. "Speech!" somebody yelled.
"Speech!" Others took up the chant, and after a while Jesse got up,
amid thunderous foot-stomping and table-walloping.

"I don't have much to say," he began in a voice so
low-key and quiet, the whole saloon shut up to hear him. "I appreciate
everybody's good wishes, and it's nice to know you're glad I didn't get shot
today. I'm glad, too, but... the truth is, I'm not proud of what I did.
Killing's a thing no man in his right mind enjoys."

"Yeah" and "Well, that's right," a few men agreed
in hushed voices.

"Sometimes there's no way out, though, and then all you can
do is try to face up to it fair and square. That's all I did, and I'm grateful
it worked out in my favor. But I swear I got no pleasure from that man's dying,
and—I hope to God I'll never have to kill again."

He sat down, not to more cheering but to a thoughtful, nearly
sober silence. Cady found herself blinking hard to keep tears out of her eyes.
Stunned, grateful tears—Jesse was giving up gunfighting! It was the answer to a
prayer she'd never even prayed, never dared to hope for. She had so many
questions—why had he lied and told her he wasn't Gault? why had he pretended he
couldn't shoot?—but they could wait. All she wanted to do now was look at him.
Touch him, listen to him laugh. Be with him.

Luther Digby was no drinking man, so she was surprised to see him
zigzagging through the crowd, making his way toward Jesse's table. What
surprised her even more was that his wife was right behind him. Respectable
women never set foot in Rogue's Tavern, and Sara Digby was about as respectable
as they came. But Cady had an idea why the Digbys were here, and the first
words out of Luther's mouth confirmed it.

"Mr. Gault, my wife and I want to thank you for what you did
for us."

Jesse scratched his chin and tried to look perplexed. "What
might that be?"

Luther looked down, a little embarrassed. Maybe, Cady thought,
Jesse's charitable gesture didn't sit too well with his pride. "I'll be
paying you back as soon as I can. It may take a while, but you'll get every
penny, and that's a promise."

"Luther, I don't have the least idea what you're talking
about."

Sara spoke up. "Louise Sullivan wanted to come by and pay her
respects, too. One of her kids took sick, though, so she couldn't leave home.
She says to tell you you'll be in her prayers for the rest of her life."

"Well, that's mighty kind," Jesse said gruffly,
"but you tell her for me she'll be praying for the wrong man."

Sara just smiled. She looked frail, but Cady had seen her lift
grain sacks almost as heavy as she was. "If that's how you want it, Mr.
Gault, that's your business. But I know who I saw at my door that night. I
should've come forward before now, but to tell you the truth, I was
scared." Impulsively, she reached for his hands with both of hers.
"Thank you," Cady heard her whisper. "Thank you for saving
us."

Jesse blushed purple.

Chico started in on "For He's the Jolly Good Fellow."
Cady assumed it was for Jesse, but just then he held up his hand and waved at
somebody in a white hat coming through the doors—Sheriff Leaver. Everybody in
the saloon joined in the song, and it was a treat to watch Tommy's serious face
break into a shy, delighted grin. Glen found him and grabbed his arm, pressing
against him like she'd never let go. She turned her face up, practically
begging him to kiss her. But Tom kept his dignity and only patted her arm. Cady
guessed it was only vulgar people like her and Jesse who couldn't keep their
hands off each other in public.

Tom came over and sat down at their table. Cady sent Glendoline a
meaningful look; it said,
Would you please get back to work?
Either Glen
didn't see it or she pretended not to. Resigned, Cady started to get up
herself, but Tom said, "Wylie won't talk," and she sat back down, too
interested to leave. "He says he wants a lawyer, so I wired for one from
Jacksonville. That's his right—I didn't have any choice."

Nestor Yeakes commenced to swear. "Won't that beat all if the
son of a bitch gets off?"

"He won't. How could he," Will Shorter, Jr., asked,
"when half the town heard that gunman's dying words?"

"Still. Ain't no telling what some slick, smarty-pants lawyer
might pull to get him off."

Tom said, "Oh, I don't think we'll have to worry about Merle
getting off."

"How come?"

He cleared his throat and stroked his goatee. Cady had an idea
Tommy was enjoying his time in the limelight—and why not? Today he'd shown what
he was made of. Nobody in this town was ever going to call him Lily Leaver
again. "Warren Turley left town this afternoon. Which isn't as—"

"Damn," Cady interrupted. She finally remembered to tell
him—"He's got my money!"

Tom turned to her, frowning. "What's that?"

"Sometime between last night and this afternoon, somebody
snuck in my room and stole two thousand dollars." Everybody stared at her.
"My life savings." She still couldn't get over how philosophically
she was taking this calamity. Reaching over, she squeezed Jesse's thigh under
the table. It was a matter of priorities, she guessed, and Jesse, not money,
was at the top of hers.

"Well, if it was Turley," the sheriff was saying,
"things might not be as bad as you think. Because Turley took off, but
Clyde didn't, and we just had a real interesting conversation, Clyde and me. He
told me where Turley's probably headed—his brother's place over in
Kerbyville—and I've already telegraphed the sheriff there to pick him up."

"Hot damn." Sam Blankenship slapped him on the back.
"Nice going, Tom. Now let's hope they get him before he spends all o'
Cady's money."

She joined in a fervent chorus of
Yeahs.

Tom cleared his throat again. "That's not all Clyde had to
say. I can't get into it all now, it wouldn't be proper. But I'll tell you
this: If Merle Wylie gets out of jail anytime in the next ten or twelve years,
it'll have to be for his own funeral."

A spontaneous cheer went up. Cady joined in, hoping not too many
beer mugs got broken by men thunking them on the tables.

"And, Cady," the sheriff continued when he could be
heard, "if you were ever going to get your life savings stolen, now would
be a real good time for it to happen. Because it's looking like you're going to
be a very rich lady."

All she could say was, "I am?"

"According to Clyde, Wylie's been stealing gold— nuggets, not
just dust—out of the Seven Dollar since February."

"I
knew
it."

"His men found a pay streak and traced it back to your mine,
and they've been smuggling high-grade ore out for the last four or five months.
It might take a while to get it all straightened out, but when everything
settles—according to Clyde, who sure seems to know what he's talking
about—you'll be about the richest saloonkeeper in Josephine County."

Cady sat back limply, too shocked to respond to the jokes and
toasts and good wishes going on around her. A jubilant Jesse gave her a
smacking kiss and a rib-cracking hug. "Can I pick 'em?" he kept
saying, laughing like a kid. "Can't I just about pick 'em?"

But when the noise abated a little and everybody's attention
wasn't on them, he took her hand and leaned across her to say to Sam
Blankenship, "Sam, you're still handling the sale of the old Russell
place, aren't you?" Cady's heart leaped in her chest.

"Yep," said Sam, his eyes lighting up. "You
interested?"