The Vigilante's Bride (12 page)

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! One of them is ninety years old.”

“And one of them isn’t.”

He meant to shock her with that, but strangely she didn’t look at all surprised. It was almost as if she expected him to say that.

Emily let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “You’re absolutely right, of course. But then, you are about most things.”

He shot her a sharp look.

“I never thought of that,” she went on, plucking a crumb of biscuit off the table, rolling it between her fingers. Wide-eyed, she looked at him. “What do you think I should do?”

He drained his coffee and set the cup down, secretly pleased. For the second time she was being sensible and listening to him, just as she did with the guns. She was a stubborn one, all right, but he’d learned how to handle her.

“I’ll talk to Molly, but don’t get your hopes up. She’s a stickler for what’s respectable and proper.”

Demurely, Emily lowered her eyes. “Well, I’ll just have to wait for her answer. I’ll do whatever you two decide.”

All the way to the barn, and later riding out to the range, their conversation niggled at him. Again and again he played it over in his head, aware of a small warning buzz in the back of his brain. It wasn’t like Emily McCarthy to give in to him that easily. She’d sounded too confident, too sure of herself – even a little rehearsed, when you came right down to it.

Like an insect whining in his ear, the thought wouldn’t go away: somehow, someway, she was putting something over on him. But for the life of him, he couldn’t see it.

Not unless she and Molly had already got their heads together.

Nah, never happen. There wasn’t a devious bone in Molly’s body. But Emily . . . His eyes crinkled. Chuckling, he went over this morning’s breakfast in his mind again. Whatever she was up to, it wouldn’t work with him. He was on to her.

CHAPTER
11

Riding home from the range that day, Luke glanced over at the rider on a claybank horse alongside that looked as if it had rolled in red mud. A genial scarecrow of a man with straw-colored hair, Henry Bertel was nearly as tall as Luke and one of New Hope’s best range men.

“How many you figure are missing?” Henry asked.

Luke didn’t answer for a moment, then frowned and shook his head. “Hard to say. Couple hundred, at least.”

Henry gestured his outstretched arm toward a group of heifers grazing nearby, away from the others. “Today I looked for two I know were here before Christmas – a bull with a busted horn and a cow that was snake-bit last summer. They’re both gone.”

Luke and half a dozen New Hope hands had counted and recounted cattle since dawn, all reaching the same conclusion: The herd was down. Way down.

“Where in blazes did they go?” Henry muttered.

“Nowhere. I think someone’s stealing them,” Luke said. The words drawled out softly, belying the angry set of his mouth.

Henry made a disgusted sound. “Hope you’re wrong.”

Looking at the group of heifers in the distance, he gathered the reins. “Be right back; want to check those out one more time.” He slapped the reins and set the claybank into a slow canter across the field.

Scully’s face had drawn into a deep scowl as he listened. “What you gonna do, Luke?”

“Talk to Sheriff Tucker.”

Scully slid a veiled glance at Luke. “Guess I figured you might do something more direct.”

Luke shook his head. “Not anymore. Besides, that’s something you never do alone. You need witnesses.”

“I’d help you, if you needed me.”

Luke looked over, touched by the offer. “I appreciate it, but the main reason I came back to New Hope was because they got law here. This is the sheriff ’s problem now.”

But only a few months before, he thought, he would’ve handled missing cattle his own way. He and three or four men with rifles would have hidden out on the range and watched the herd. Sooner or later they’d have caught the thieves, and that would have been the end of it.

He’d grown up with range law, accepted it, understood it, almost believed in the harsh justice of it. A cow was property. Steal it, you steal a man’s livelihood.

And thieves were hung.

But this was New Hope. They had real law here. Cattle rustlers or not, folks wouldn’t take kindly to finding local citizens strung up and left hanging out here as examples.

But it worked.

In Lewistown, when Stuart and other ranchers started losing cattle by the hundreds to rustlers, they did something about it. Stuart formed the vigilance committee. Luke, his head foreman, had oversight setting it up and of the men on it. Unlike some, Luke always had mixed feelings about the committee.

Though he hadn’t been inside a church in years, some of his upbringing at New Hope had rubbed off. Molly had seen to it that every one of her kids went to Sunday school and church every week.

“Thou shalt not kill.”

It got through.

And years later he’d wrestled with it. But after two different preachers told him the Sixth Commandment wasn’t meant to protect criminals, he felt a lot easier about running the committee for Stuart. But those days were over. This time he intended to handle it differently, legally, right down to the letter of the law.

At least he would try. First.

The following Saturday morning, Luke and Henry Bertel rode into Repton to see Sheriff Tucker. It seemed everybody had business in town that day. As he waved to Jupiter Jackson coming out of the dry-goods store, Luke saw Bart Axel entering the big two-story Empire Bank & Trust Company next door. Down the street, a couple of X-Bar-L hands pushed into one of the saloons.

Saturday was market day, the streets choked with buggies and wagons of all descriptions and riders. Noisy freighters with their big teams and heavy wagons waited to be unloaded of goods shipped in from Chicago, Ohio, and back east. Horses were tied to hitching rails, awning poles, anything that would hold them. Women with packages and kids in tow held their skirts out of the mud and picked their way to the other side of the street. When two young boys darted after a dog that ran right between the legs of Henry’s claybank horse, the two men swung off their horses and led the animals the last half block or so to a hitching rail in front of Lucky Eddie’s Saloon.

“Pleasure before business.” Henry grinned and rubbed his hands together. All the way in from New Hope, he’d talked of little else but the girls at Lucky Eddie’s.

Looping the reins around the rail in front of Eddie’s, Luke straightened his hat and turned to cross the street. “You go ahead. I’ve got to see the sheriff.”

Henry clapped him on the shoulder, his cheeks creased in a wide smile. “Not so fast. You’re coming inside with me. You ain’t been to town once since you got back.”

“All right, all right,” Luke said, with an embarrassed grin. He didn’t want to admit he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Tucker again anyhow.

They crossed the sidewalk and stepped into Eddie’s. As soon as their eyes adjusted from the bright daylight of the street to the smoky dimness inside, they walked midway down the bar to an empty section. The bar was a huge mahogany counter, mirrored behind, and running the length of the room.

Luke hooked a boot heel over the railing, his right hand moving automatically to the gun on his hip, thumbing the small leather loop off the hammer, lifting the handle quickly, checking the gun was free, a habit he’d developed years before.

“What’ll you have?” Eddie the bartender swiped a rag over the bar top in front of them.

“Just something cold and wet for me. Got any of that new ginger drink they’re so crazy about in Chicago?” Luke asked.

The bartender nodded. “Ginger ale, they call it. We got it. Anything Chicago’s got, we got.”

“While you’re at it, he needs a lady to drink it with,” Henry said, nudging Luke with his elbow. “Right, boss?”

“Confound it, just order, Henry,” he snapped.

“Gimme a whiskey, Eddie.” Henry turned to Luke, his long face reddening. “You know what? You been mighty testy the last couple of weeks.”

Luke winced. Henry was a hard worker and a friend besides. Irritating as he was, he wanted to help. And deep down, Luke knew he was right. He hadn’t been himself lately: short-tempered, worried, and working every one of them too hard, including himself.

“Don’t mean to be,” he said. “Ignore me. I got a lot on my mind.”

“I gathered that, and her name’s Emily, ain’t it?”

“Did you order?” Luke looked at him, stone-faced.

“You know I did, and you’re just changing the subject.”

Eddie winked at Luke and tipped his head toward two bored-looking girls sitting at the end of the bar. “Take your pick.”

Both women were looking the two of them up and down. One was tall, with a mass of dark hair wound in tight spit curls she scratched carefully with her little fingernail, as if it were a wig. The other girl – plump and pretty – wore a shiny green satin dress cut revealingly low.

Her carrot-colored hair was piled loosely on top of her head in a bouffant style. She smiled at Luke in obvious invitation. He looked away. He hadn’t come in here for that.

Henry looked at the girls and then at Luke. “Want to go talk to them?”

“Not today. Soon as I finish my drink, I’m going over to see the sheriff.”

Henry beckoned to the girls.

A minute later, a throaty voice purred in Luke’s ear.

“Hi, pretty cowboy, my name’s Buffy.” She settled herself on the stool next to him as if she’d been invited and rearranged her skirt. A thinly plucked eyebrow rose. “My goodness, but you’re a big one, ain’t you?”

Inwardly, Luke squirmed, feeling like a piece of meat on a block. She was younger than she looked, he decided, and unless he missed his guess, she had a lot of miles on her. Luke’s gaze traveled to her hair again – dyed. He wished it were any color but red. With a feeling of distaste, he looked away.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Sullivan.” Hoping she’d go away, he said nothing more to encourage her. Instead, he turned his glass around and around, pretending an interest in making wet rings on the bar in front of him.

Henry, however, had lost no time. An arm wrapped around the dark-haired girl’s waist, he was nuzzling her neck and whispering to her.

“Where you from?” Buffy asked Luke.

“Up north.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The strong, silent type, huh?”

Luke grinned and tried to be polite. “No, ma’am. Not at all.” He rested his arms on the bar, deciding to finish his drink and then leave.

Around her neck she wore a thin velvet ribbon with a white silk daisy nearly the size of his fist. She touched the flower and looked at his glass. “Eddie, bring me a ginger ale, too,” she called.

When it came, she reached to take the drink and brushed Luke’s arm as she did. Smiling, she raised her glass in a small toast to him. Her other hand went to the flower again, stroking its petals, drawing his attention – deliberately – to the low cut of her dress. He looked away with a vague feeling of repugnance.

She slid off her stool and lounged against the bar. He was aware of her eyes traveling the length of him, a heated gaze he recognized. Time to leave. He set his glass down, still half full, and started to get up.

Buffy slipped her hand over his. “Don’t leave. Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll fix you a real drink, not this syrupy stuff.” Then, with a sly smile, she added, “How’s that sound?”

Instead of being flattered, he was annoyed and a little insulted. He was just old-fashioned enough that he liked to do the asking.

He tried to stave off a building frustration at being with the wrong woman. He was no prude and no stranger to bawdy houses, either. But the whole situation had unnerved him completely. Here he was in the biggest saloon and bawdy house in town, with a pretty woman waiting to take his money – and he just wasn’t interested. Feeling like the biggest fool in Montana, Luke looked down at Buffy. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. I came to town on business today. I’m only stopping in for a few minutes with my friend.”

“Leave him alone, honey,” Henry cackled. “The man’s pining for someone else. He’s got another redhead on his mind today – L ittle Miss Perfect. Right, Luke?”

“Maybe. And maybe not.”

“No maybes about it.” Henry tightened his hold around the dark-haired girl’s waist. “I got you on my mind. Let’s dance, honey.” He headed her out to the dance floor.

“Did I do something wrong?” Buffy asked.

“No, I did. Coming in here was a mistake.”

“Because of . . . her?”

“Little Miss Perfect?” Luke chuckled and nodded.

“Sounds like you care about her.”

“She’s just a friend.”

Buffy smiled at that and traced a fingernail back and forth along Luke’s sleeve. “Most fellers like my hair.”

“I’m sure they do. You’re a very pretty lady. Now, why don’t you run along and find another customer?” he said in a low voice, easing his arm away. Glass in hand, he walked to the other end of the bar, away from her.

Drawing a long breath, he turned around and rested both elbows on the bar behind him. The saloon had filled up. A haze of smoke hung near the ceiling. Through the rising level of men’s voices, he heard the sharp crack of billiard balls, the piano banging in the corner.

Emily played the piano better, a lot better. Luke chuckled, trying to imagine her ladylike little figure perched on the red-fringed piano stool, instead of that dandy in the straw hat and striped shirt.

“And you’ d be leaning against this bar every night, ready to pound the first joker that so much as talked to her.”

Maybe Henry was right.

He glanced down the bar at Buffy, another girl on his mind. He didn’t know what to do about Emily anymore.

Henry was laughing and shuffling around the dance floor with the dark-haired girl, his arm seesawing the air.

Luke turned back to the bar. For reasons he never could fathom, women found him boyish and sweet, mistaking his clamped control for shyness, drawn by the slow-talking, easygoing manner he used with the ladies. Other girls wanted to mother him, bake for him, knit things for him.

All except Emily.

Hunched over, he absently turned an ashtray around. An angry exchange of voices on the dance floor interrupted his thoughts.

Luke looked up to see Bud Schmidt shove Henry away from his dancing partner. Henry swore and stumbled backward a few steps.

“Get away, Bud,” the girl piped. “I’m dancing with him.”

Bud laughed and swung her against him, moving in time to the music, rising up on the balls of his feet in the peculiar pigeon-toed gait of his. “Not no more,” he said.

“Says who?” Indignant, she pushed him away.

Arms flailing, Henry waded in and grabbed Bud’s arm. Schmidt was fast. A quick punch to Henry’s midsection doubled him over and sprawled him facedown on the floor.

Luke pushed away from the bar. “Come on, Henry, time to go,” Luke said, intending to drag him out of there while Henry could still walk. Something cold and hard pressed into the back of his neck.