Outlaw's Bride (18 page)

Geezus, Beaudry, get a hold of yourself. Pretty soon you'll be spouting love poems.

He resolutely turned his attention to the saloon's customers. It was second nature for him to keep an eye on everyone, and he used the mirror to surreptitiously observe the clientele. After ensuring nobody posed a threat, he allowed his gaze to follow the barmaid. She turned, caught his eye in the mirror, and winked at him, though it was Mattie's face he saw.

Shit.

Disgusted, Clint picked up his beer mug and moved to a table. He eased himself into a chair, heedful of his tender wounds. He'd been too sick to appreciate Mattie's gentle hands on him before, but the memory of her feathered touches now made him grow as hard as a stallion in a herd of mares.

“Get ya another beer?” Sunny Joy asked him.

Clint glanced at the empty mug and nodded. “Thanks.”

“No problem, cowboy.”

She leaned over to pick up his glass, her bountiful breasts in danger of spilling out of her dress. Her scent—a mixture of vanilla, tobacco, and whiskey—washed across him, reminding him of other women in saloons too numerous to recall.

“You look like you could use a little … relaxin',” she said.

Clint appreciated an impressive bosom as much as the next man. But Sunny's face had the hard lines common among women in her profession, unlike Mattie's skin, which was smooth and silky. He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, ma'—Sunny, but I'm not interested right now.”

She frowned in disappointment and straightened, laying a hand on his shoulder. “When you get interested, you know where to find me, handsome.”

He couldn't remember the last time he'd turned down a willing woman's invitation. What kind of magic did Mattie have that made him want only her?

The batwing doors swung open and the sheriff entered. His gaze roamed around the room until it settled on Clint, and he crossed the floor to join him. Dropping into a chair, Atwater removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Hot 'nuff to wither a fence post out there.”

“Yep, it's warm.” Clint eyed the lawman warily. “You stop by for a reason or just to pass the time?”

Atwater shrugged. “Thought that was your horse out there. Didn't see no travelin' gear on it, though.”

“Told you I was leaving tomorrow. I just took my horse out for a ride.”

“Fine-lookin' piece of horseflesh. Oughta put out some good foals if'n you ever settle down.”

That was one of the main reasons Clint had bought the mare—he'd figured to use her to help start his herd. So many plans had been killed along with his wife….

Sunny interrupted his melancholy thoughts as she set a beer in front of him. “The usual, Sheriff?”

“'Fraid so, Sunny.”

She smiled fondly. “Comin' right up.”

“You goin' after him?” Atwater asked Clint after Sunny left.

“Yep.”

“What're you gonna do when you find him?”

“Kill him,” Clint replied without hesitation.

Atwater narrowed his gaze. “You're talkin' coldblooded murder.”

An icy ball of hatred settled in Clint's gut. “I'll give him as much of a chance as he gave my wife.”

“That ain't your decision to make, Beaudry. Leave it to a judge and jury to hang him legal-like.”

“The courts won't convict him without better evidence.”

“Then how do
you
know it was the same fella who shot you?”

“I was on my way home the night it happened—the night she was killed. I saw a man on a blond horse, just like what the man who shot me was riding.” Bitterness rose in Clint's throat. “That's not enough evidence to convict a man for murder.”

Atwater stared at Clint silently with no expression on his face. “That's right. More'n one man rides a palomino.”

Clint took a long swallow of his beer, hoping it would fill the well of anger and emptiness in his chest. It didn't. Nothing would until vengeance was satisfied. “But not many, and it's damned coincidental that I've been after the murderer for a year and just as I'm getting close, I'm bushwhacked.”

Atwater studied him from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. “What if you're wrong?”

The sheriff's quiet question brought a sliver of doubt to Clint that he quickly extinguished with burning rage. “I'm not.”

“I used to be just like you, Beaudry. So damned sure of myself and certain that I couldn't make a mistake. But back when I was even younger'n you, somethin' happened that nearly made me quit bein' a lawman for good.” Atwater paused and his gaze turned inward. “Some men came off a trail drive, all ready to raise holy hell. They got drunk in record time and started makin' trouble. I was a deputy then, so full of myself I couldn't see nothin' but how I could be a goddamned hero.”

Self-recrimination swept across the older man's face. “I met them on the street, goaded one of 'em into a gunfight. We drew. He missed, but I got him.” He swallowed. “He missed
me,
but his bullet killed a woman who was crossin' the street at the other end of town.”

Though Clint sympathized, he didn't see how it applied to him. “That's a risk we all take when we pin on a badge.”

The sheriff slammed his fist on the table, startling Clint. “
We're
supposed to take the risk, not those we're protectin'. We make a mistake, innocent people suffer.”

Clint knew that all too well. Anguish clogged his throat, but it was anger that spoke. “Why the hell do you think I turned in my badge?”

Atwater leaned back in his chair, and his features eased as empathy replaced his anger. “Maybe you made a mistake in not bein' home with your wife, but seems to me you can't handle the choices a lawman's gotta make.” Atwater paused, then said quietly, “Maybe that's the real reason you turned in your badge.”

C
lint wanted to be righteously angry, but the sheriff's words hit too close to home. Emily had accused him of the same thing—being irresponsible. Maybe they were both right. Even though Clint had married, he wasn't sure if he'd wanted to settle down. At the time, it just seemed the thing a man his age should do.

He used to relish the pursuit of outlaws and bringing justice to the untamed Texas frontier. Now Clint had grown tired of the chase. Maybe that's why Mattie's home and her small family had drawn him in so deeply.

Clint studied the aging sheriff and he saw himself in Atwater's creased features. The image disturbed him and made him wonder if he'd be alone, just like Atwater, twenty-five years from now. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

Sunny returned carrying a glass of milk and set it in front of Atwater. “Here ya go, Sheriff.”

“Thanks, Sunny.” He smiled up at her. “You decide if you're gonna marry me or not?”

She laid a hand on his shoulder and winked. “I don't think I could keep up with you.”

Atwater chuckled and Clint smiled at their friendly banter. He remembered another barmaid—Arabella—from another time. He hadn't expected to see her again, especially in a town like Green Valley as Mrs. Amelia Johnson.

Sunny glanced at Clint hopefully, but he didn't give her any encouragement. She sighed and sashayed off to the next customer.

Atwater elbowed him in the side. “She likes you, Beaudry.”

“I like her, too.”

“Then take her up on her offer. If I was twenty years younger, I would.” He paused. “On second thought, I was married twenty years ago, so I guess that wouldn't have worked, neither. Sarah woulda killed me.”

Clint chuckled, and found himself warming toward the man. He pulled a cheroot from his pocket, placed it between his lips, then lit it with a lucifer. Clint enjoyed the tang of the tobacco and exhaled a lazy swirl of smoke. “Have you lived in Green Valley long?”

“Nearly fifteen years. I been sheriff ever since Mattie's husband got hisself killed. Before that, I was Jason St. Clair's deputy.”

Mattie hadn't told Clint the details surrounding her husband's death and he was curious. “What happened? Mattie doesn't talk about him.”

“St. Clair was a hothead, and he could be meaner'n a rattlesnake on a hot skillet if he was crossed.” Atwater shook his head. “St. Clair was a helluva charmer when he wasn't bein' a bully. Mattie was just a girl, not even seventeen when Jason laid it on thick for her. Mattie didn't have a chance—bein' raised in the orphanage, she didn't know nothin' but work. St. Clair plumb swept her off her feet and right into his bed. Gertrude Hotzel caught them there.”

Clint shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He couldn't picture the Mattie he knew crawling into bed with a man like Atwater described.

“She was just a kid,” Atwater reiterated, as if reading Clint's thoughts. “All she knew was that St. Clair wanted her—nobody'd wanted her since her folks died.”

Clint's throat tightened, imagining young Mattie and her happiness when a man had paid attention to her. He wondered if her husband had ever taken her fishing, and quickly discarded the notion. Jason St. Clair didn't sound like the type who fished.

“The wedding was two days later,” Atwater said. He took a sip of the milk and grimaced. “Damn stomach. Don't ever get old, Beaudry. Everythin' starts fallin' apart.”

“The way I'm going, I doubt I'll give myself time to start falling apart,” Clint said wryly.

“You don't have to go that way.” He eyed Clint shrewdly. “Fact is, I bet you could find a job here real easy if you decided to stay.”

Clint had a strong hunch he knew what the older man was talking about. “You have one in mind?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, Mattie's right. I'm gettin' too damn old for this job, but there ain't been nobody I can trust to take care of the folks in this town. That is, until you showed up.”

Clint held up his hands as if to push the offer away. “I'm done with being a lawman.”

“Bein' a sheriff in Green Valley's a whole lot different than bein' a U.S. marshal. First off, there ain't no travelin'. You marry someone like, say”—Atwater's smile reminded Clint of a politician—“Mattie, and you can be home every night.”

The thought of being with Mattie every night had its share of advantages—advantages Clint wouldn't mind exploring. But even if he gave up the hunt for his wife's murderer, he wasn't certain he was ready to take on the responsibility of a ready-made family. Besides, though he admired Mattie and lusted after her, he didn't love her.

“If I was interested—which I'm not—it would never work. Mattie's all fired up against guns and there's not a sheriff around who'd give up his weapon.” Clint snorted. “Hell, he'd be crazy if he did.”

“I wear a gun and it don't seem to bother her,” Atwater said.

Startled, Clint realized the sheriff was right. Was it just himself that Mattie didn't like wearing a gun? And if so, why? Did he remind her too much of her dead husband? Or would she look at the situation differently if Clint agreed to become Green Valley's sheriff?

Hold it right there, Beaudry.

“It doesn't matter, Sheriff. I'm moving on, come morning,” Clint said.

Atwater finished his milk. “All right, son, you made your point. But this fella has nearly a four-week head start on you. How do you expect to find him?”

“I'll start where you left off after you trailed him.”

“That'd be about twenty miles from here, near Whitecliff. Lost the trail in some rocks.”

“You have any idea where he might've been headed?”

Atwater shook his head. “You might have a better idea than me, since you been trailin' him for so long.”

Clint shook his head in frustration. “This is all new territory.” He glanced out the window to the waning light. “I'd best be getting back before Mattie starts worrying.” He pushed himself up.

“Think about what I said, son,” Atwater said. “You could do a lot worse than settlin' here and becomin' Green Valley's sheriff.”