Under A Prairie Moon (13 page)

He rested one hand on the gun butt and grinned at her. “I felt naked without it.”

Kathy nodded. Some men looked drop-dead gorgeous in a cowboy hat, and he was one of them.

The clerk added up their purchases the old-fashioned way, with pencil and paper. Kathy noticed that Dalton’s gun cost twelve dollars.

A short time later, the transaction was completed and their purchases were wrapped in brown paper tied with string. Dalton paid the bill, tucked the bundle under his arm, and they left the store.

“What now?” Kathy asked.

“I keep a room at the boardinghouse. You can change clothes there.” Descending the stairs, he took up Taffy Girl’s reins.

Kathy looked at him in feigned astonishment. “Go to your room, sir? You must be joking. Whatever will people think?”

He grinned at her. “They’ll think you’re a tart, and that I’m damn lucky. Come on.”

She stifled the urge to stick her tongue out at him as they walked down the dusty street.

Martha’s Boardinghouse was a big two-story building surrounded by a neat white picket fence. A huge tree shaded the front porch. Flowers grew in neat rows along the walkway. Smoke curled from the chimney.

Dalton looped the mare’s reins over the hitching post at the front gate. “Martha must be fixing dinner,” he remarked as they climbed the porch stairs. “She’s a mighty fine cook.”

“What will she think about me?”

“I dunno. I’ll tell her you’re my cousin, visiting from New York.”

“Chicago.”

“What?”

“I’m originally from Chicago.”

Dalton grunted as he opened the door for her and Kathy stepped inside.

“Is that you, Miss Canfield?”

“No, Mrs. Dunn, it’s me.”

“You’re just in time for vittles, Mr. Crowkiller.”

“I’ve brought a guest. My cousin from,” Dalton flashed Kathy a grin, “New York City.”

“Your cousin.” Martha came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “I didn’t know you had any family.”

Dalton smiled at his landlady. “Martha, this is my cousin, Katherine. Katherine, this is Mrs. Dunn.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Kathy said.

“Why, I’m right pleased to meet you, Miss Katherine. My, aren’t you a pretty thing,” Martha said with a cheerful smile.

“Thank you,” Kathy replied, thinking that Martha Dunn could pass for the Fairy Godmother from Cinderella, with her bright blue eyes and her gray hair gathered in a bun at her nape.

“My, my,” Martha remarked as she took in Kathy’s jeans and bright yellow t-shirt, “but they do dress strangely where you come from, don’t they, dear?”

“I…that is…”

“Katherine had an unfortunate accident and had to borrow some clothes,” Dalton interjected smoothly.

“Why, you poor thing.” Martha patted Kathy’s arm. “Will you be visiting long?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Mr. Carmine has left town,” Martha said. She smiled up at Dalton. It was easy to see that he had charmed the woman long since. “If your cousin needs a room, his is available.”

“That’d be right nice,” Dalton said.

“Why don’t you show your cousin where it is? I’ve got biscuits in the oven. Don’t be late for dinner,” she called, hurrying back into the kitchen.

“She seems very nice,” Kathy said.

“Yeah, she’s a sweetheart. Come on, your room’s down the hall across from mine.”

“She likes you too,” Kathy muttered.

“What?”

“I saw the way she looked at you.”

“What the devil are you talking about? She’s old enough to be my mother.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dalton muttered an oath as he opened the door to Kathy’s room. “You should be comfortable in here.”

“It’s nice,” Kathy said, stepping inside. A large window overlooked the main street. There was a big double bed covered by a calico quilt, a chest of drawers, a commode. A pretty rag rug brightened the wooden floor; lacy white curtains billowed softly at the window. “Very nice.”

“Yeah.” He thrust the paper-wrapped bundle into her hands. “Why don’t you change? I’ll meet you in the dining room in twenty minutes.”

Kathy glanced at her watch. “Okay.”

Dalton left the room, closing the door behind him.

With a sigh, Kathy sat down on the edge of the bed, clutching the package to her breast. It was all so bizarre, so unreal, like a dream.

Only she wasn’t dreaming.

Kathy hardly recognized herself as she stared at her reflection in the oval mirror on the highboy. Dressed in crisp blue gingham, with her hair pinned back and no makeup, she looked just like one of the
Little Women
! Jo, she thought, or maybe Meg.

She glanced at her watch and then, realizing that her digital watch would likely raise a few eyebrows, she slipped it off and tucked it in a drawer, then left her room, long skirts swishing about her ankles. She had never felt so weighed down in her whole life.

She found Dalton in the dining room. He stood up when she entered, a slight smile on his face as he held out her chair.

“Such manners,” Kathy murmured. “Who would have guessed?”

“I wasn’t always a gunfighter,” he retorted, his voice pitched for her ears alone.

She sat down. “No?”

“No, cousin. You forget, my mother was born and raised in Boston.”

Kathy grinned at him. “Touché, Mr. Crowkiller.”

Martha Dunn bustled into the room carrying a huge wooden tray. “Miss Canfield won’t be joining us this afternoon,” she remarked as she placed the tray in the center of the table, “but Mr. Petty should be down directly.”

“How many boarders have you?” Kathy asked.

“Four, including you, now that Mr. Carmine has left town. Poor man, he was called home due to the illness of his sister.”

Kathy nodded sympathetically.

“Please, Miss Katherine, help yourself.”

Martha lifted the cover on the tray, revealing several large bowls of mashed potatoes, corn and chunks of beef swimming in gravy.

“It looks good,” Kathy said.

Martha beamed at her. “Oh I forgot the biscuits.”

“Don’t believe a word about old Carmine,” Dalton said. “He left town because he couldn’t meet his gambling debts.”

“Really?” Kathy asked.

“Really.”

“Here we go.” Martha placed a basket of biscuits on the table, then sat down at the head.

A few minutes later, a rather portly man dressed in a dark-brown coat and striped pants entered the room.

“Mr. Petty,” Martha said, smiling, “this is Miss Katherine…oh dear, I’m afraid I didn’t get your last name.”

“Wagner,” Dalton said.

“Of course. Miss Wagner, this is Mr. Hyrum Petty. He works at the bank.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kathy said.

Petty bowed over her hand. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Wagner,” he said gallantly.

“Thank you.”

Petty sat down across from Martha. He was a rotund man, with a fringe of dark-brown hair, brown eyes and a pencil-thin moustache. He wore a brown tweed suit, and a cravat with a ruby stickpin.

The meal passed pleasantly enough. Petty dominated most of the conversation, talking about stocks and bonds and rumors that the railroad would soon be coming to town.

Dalton said very little. He concentrated on the food on his plate, savoring each bite. So many different tastes and textures! He had forgotten what food tasted like, it had been so long since he had eaten anything. When he’d told Kathy that Martha was a good cook, he had almost forgotten just what that meant. And the coffee. He took his black, savoring the rich aroma, the warmth, the slightly bitter taste. How many times had he longed for a cup of coffee in the last hundred and twenty-five years?

Martha served apple pie still warm from the oven for dessert, and Dalton thought maybe he’d gone to heaven after all.

When the meal was over, Petty bid them all farewell and left to go to the bank.

Kathy stood up as Martha began clearing the table. “Mrs. Dunn, can I help you with the dishes?”

“Well, isn’t it sweet of you to offer!” Martha exclaimed. “But I can’t let you do that. You just run along now and have a nice visit with your cousin. Supper is at six, Mr. Crowkiller. Don’t be late.”

Dalton winked at his landlady as he followed Kathy out of the dining room.

“Why did you tell them my name was Wagner?” Kathy asked.

Dalton lifted one brow. “Why do you think? The name Conley’s pretty well known in these parts.”

“Oh yeah, right. I didn’t think of that.” She turned toward the parlor, then paused when Dalton didn’t follow her. “Where are you going?” she asked, following him outside.

“I thought I’d take your horse over to the livery, then go over to the saloon.”

“Oh.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Something wrong?”

“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

Dalton shrugged. “Anything you like.”

“Can’t I go with you?”

“To the saloon?” He looked at her as if she had just suggested they stroll naked down Main Street.

“Why not? In my day, women frequent bars all the time.”

“Maybe so, but this is my day,” he reminded her, and then he blew out a breath. “Hell, it’s your reputation,” he said, taking up the mare’s reins. “I guess you can come along, if you’ve a mind to.”

Kathy couldn’t help staring at her surroundings as they walked down the street. It was like being on a Western movie set, seeing women in long dresses and bonnets and men wearing leather vests over long-sleeved cowboy shirts and Stetson hats. And guns. All the men wore guns. They passed a shopkeeper sweeping the boardwalk in front of his store. He nodded and smiled at Kathy. Farther down, the sheriff was sitting in front of his office, his feet propped on the railing.

He stood up as they drew closer. “Crowkiller.”

Dalton stopped. “Morning, Sheriff,” he said, his voice neutral.

The lawman grunted. “Burkhart came to see me this morning. Seems one of his new hands turned up dead last night. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Dalton shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“Uh-huh. Where were you last night?”

Dalton hesitated. “I was out at the Conley place, playing poker with Russell.” It was a lie, but he figured Conley would back him up.

The sheriff jerked his chin toward Kathy. “Who’s this?”

“My cousin, Miss Katherine Wagner.”

Kathy smiled brightly. “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff.”

The lawman tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

Dalton ran his hand along the mare’s neck. “Anything else I can do for you, Sheriff?”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” the sheriff replied sourly. “Nice meeting you, Miss Wagner.”

Kathy smiled again, then followed Dalton down the street. “Did you?” she asked when they were well away from the sheriff. “Did you kill that man?”

“Would you believe me if I said no? It’s for damn sure old Lard Ass thinks I’m lyin’.”

“Did you do it?”

With a sigh, Dalton turned to face her. “Yes, I shot him. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Slowly, she shook her head, wondering why she felt so disappointed. She had known he was a hired gun.

He looked at her a moment, as if trying to read her thoughts, then started walking again.

Kathy trailed after him, a dozen questions hovering on the tip of her tongue, yet afraid to ask them for fear of what the answers might be. He said he had killed the man. Had it been in cold blood? And did that really make a difference? Dead was dead.

When they reached the livery, a big man clad in a pair of canvas pants and a leather apron came to meet them.

“Help you?” he asked.

“Looking to leave my horse here for a day or two.”

The man nodded, his gaze running over Taffy Girl in a quick, assessing glance. “I vill take good care of her, don’t you worry.” He patted the mare on the shoulder. “She’s a fine beauty. If you vant to sell her, let me know.”

“You’d have to talk to the lady about that,” Dalton said. “The mare belongs to her.”

“Ah.” The man looked at Kathy and smiled. “Do you vant to sell her?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Vell, if you change your mind, you let me know, ya?”

“I will.”

“He’s got a good eye for horseflesh,” Dalton remarked as they headed back toward the middle of town. “Are you sure you want to come with me?”

She wasn’t sure at all, but she nodded, unwilling to go back to the boardinghouse and twiddle her thumbs.

The Square Deal was quiet this time of day. Kathy glanced around, taking it all in, noting that it looked pretty much the way saloons in cowboy movies always looked. There was sawdust on the floor, a long bar with a brass rail, tables covered in green baize, a picture of a voluptuous nude behind the bar. A man sat at a back table, playing solitaire. Two others were involved in a desultory game of poker. Two heavily painted women stood at the bar. They smiled at Dalton, the interest in their eyes fading when they saw Kathy.

Dalton went to the bar and ordered a whiskey, then looked at Kathy, a question in his eye.

Kathy hesitated. She had never been much of a drinker, a wine cooler now and then, a little champagne on New Year’s Eve. “I’d like a beer.”

“Beer for the lady,” Dalton said.

“She don’t belong in here,” the bartender said, his expression surly.

“Is that right? Well, she belongs with me, and I’m here.”

“Yessir, Mr. Crowkiller,” the bartender said quickly. “Whiskey and a beer, coming right up.”

Dalton met Kathy’s gaze in the mirror. “All right,” he said, his voice low. “Spit it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

She shook her head, unable to put the question into words.

Dalton rested one foot on the rail. “It was a fair fight. I told him to get the hell out of town, and he refused. He was slow and stupid, and now he’s dead.”

She was trying to think of a reply when the man who had been playing solitaire swaggered toward the bar.

“Well, now, who’s this?” he drawled, looking Kathy up and down. “A new girl? ’Bout time Carly got some new blood in this joint.”

“Get lost, Sullivan. She’s with me.”

Sullivan grinned at Kathy. “You don’t wanna be with him, do ya, honey? Come on, lemme buy you a drink.”

“I said she’s with me.”

Dalton’s words hung in the air. The bartender glanced from Sullivan to Dalton and moved to the far end of the bar. The two men playing poker paused in their game to see what all the ruckus was about.

“Sure, sure.” Sullivan winked at Kathy. “Get rid of ’im and I’ll show you a good time.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold coin, which he waved in front of her face. “I got money. Lots of money.”

Kathy stared at the man, not knowing whether to laugh or be insulted.

Reaching forward, he dropped the coin down the front of her bodice, then grabbed her hand. “Come on, darlin’. Let’s go find a room.”

She was trying to pull her hand away when Dalton grabbed Sullivan by the shirtfront and slammed him up against the bar. “I said she’s with me.” He bit off each word. “You got that?”

Sullivan raised both hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing.”

Dalton glared at him a moment, then let him go. “Get the hell out of here.”

Red-faced, Sullivan scrambled away from the bar and left the saloon.

The two poker players went back to their game.

The bartender placed a shot of whiskey and a glass of beer on the bar, then moved away.

Dalton picked up the whiskey. He downed it in a single swallow, then motioned for another.

Kathy sipped her beer, thinking maybe she should have stayed at the boardinghouse after all.

Dalton drained his glass and set it on the bar. “Let’s go.”

He dropped a few coins on the bar and headed for the door.

Kathy took another drink, and then followed him outside.

Dalton hesitated on the boardwalk a moment, then turned left and started walking, fast. It was all she could do to keep up with him.

Leaving the town behind, they came to a small pond surrounded by trees and shrubs. Dalton sat down on a log, arms resting on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees.

Kathy stared at him, wondering what he was thinking, wondering how she was going to get back home, to her own time, where she belonged.

She heard him swear, and then he glanced up at her. “I wish I knew what the hell we were doing here.”

“Yeah, me too.” She sat down beside him.

“Do you think it’s possible to change the past?”

“We already have,” she said, and when he looked confused, she shrugged. “My being here has already changed the past, hasn’t it?”

“I reckon so.”

“Where were you on this date before?”

“Out at the Conley ranch being interrogated by the sheriff.”

“Then we have altered the past,” Kathy mused, “because he questioned you here, in town, instead.”

“Yeah, I reckon.”

“What else did you do?”

“There was a dance at the schoolhouse to celebrate the Fourth. I stayed in town that night, then spent the next three or four days harassing Burkhart and his men. After that, I went back to the ranch.” Back to Lydia. For all his big words about not fooling around with another man’s wife, he hadn’t been able to stay away from her.