A Texan's Luck (3 page)

Lacy pushed away a tear as she remembered riding back on the dusty stagecoach that day. Now twenty, she was old enough to realize what a fool she had made of herself with Larson. The ride home had only prolonged her agony. Her body hurt from being used, but the dreams he killed scarred. The coach had been crowded with women wearing too much perfume and men smoking cheap cigars. When Lacy threw up in her handkerchief, the passengers decided that she would benefit from more air.

At the first stop, she was encouraged to take the seat on top of the stage. She'd pulled on her bonnet and gladly crawled into the chair tied among the luggage. As she watched the sunset that day, Lacy took the letters from her bag that Walker had written to his father years ago. She fell in love with her husband through reading his letters of adventure, memorizing every line as if it were written to her.

One by one, she watched them blow out of her hands, drifting in the wind behind the stage like dead leaves. That day she put away childhood. That day she'd given up on dreams.

Lacy stood in the dimly lit shop and pulled her shawl around her as if the wool could hug her frame. She stretched tired muscles. It was late, and tomorrow would be a busy day. Every Saturday after all the papers were sold and the flyers nailed, Lacy rode out to her friends' farm. There, she could relax for a few hours. She'd play with Bailee and Carter's children and remember how years ago when Sarah, Bailee, and she had been kicked off of a wagon train, they'd talked about what life would be like in Texas. Bailee had sworn she'd never marry, and Sarah had thought she wouldn't live to see another winter. But Lacy, then fifteen, had boasted that she would marry and have so many children she would have to start numbering them because she'd run out of names.

"Five years ago," Lacy whispered to herself as she climbed the stairs. Five years since they came to Texas half-starved, out of money, and out of luck. Bailee found her man and had three sons with another baby on the way. Sarah wrote often about her twins.

"And then there is me." Lacy walked into her small apartment above the shop. "I had a husband for fifteen minutes, once."

Her rooms welcomed her with colorful quilts she'd made and tattered books she'd collected. When she first moved in and began to learn the newspaper business, she could barely read, but Lacy studied hard. Her father-in-law never tired of helping her learn those first few years. He'd treated her like a treasure, even though she'd been little more than a ragamuffin when he'd paid her bail and married her to his son by proxy. From the first, he talked of what a grand jewel she'd be to his son when the boy finally came home from serving in the army.

On evenings like this, she missed the old man dearly. She longed for the way he always talked about Walker as if his son were still a boy, and the way he could quote every article he'd ever written as though it were only yesterday and not material from twenty years in the business. He loved telling stories of newspapermen who'd stood their ground in Western towns from Kansas City to California and had to fight, sometimes even die, for what they wrote. She missed his company.

Before Lacy could heat water for tea, someone tapped on the back door.

She lifted the old Navy Colt from the pie safe drawer and went to answer. No one ever climbed the stairs to her back door except Bailee, and she wouldn't be calling so late.

The minute she saw Sheriff Riley's stooped outline through the glass, she relaxed and set the gun aside. He'd taken a few bullets in a gun battle several years ago, and the limp made it hard for him to stand straight.

"Evening." She opened the door to a cold blast of air that almost took her breath away. "Want to come in for a cup of coffee, Sheriff? It's cold enough to snow." The little porch area at the top of a narrow flight of stairs held no protection from the night, and lately, the sheriff looked little more than bone.

Riley shook his head. "Now you know I can't do that. What would folks say, a lady like yourself having a male guest after dark?"

She grinned, knowing no one would think a thing about the old man coming in from the winter night to sit a spell, but she wouldn't spoil his fun. "You know you're the only gentleman I ask inside. I'd shoot any other man who came knocking after dark, but I know you wouldn't be here if you didn't have a reason."

Riley nodded. "I'd hope so. You being a respectable lady and all. I wouldn't even bother with a trial if I found a body on this porch." Though he'd listened to their confessions of killing a robber on the road to Cedar Point five years ago, Riley had always treated Lacy, Sarah, and Bailee more like daughters than outlaws.

The sheriff, like everyone else in town, regarded her as if her husband had simply left for the day and would be back anytime. Here, she was Mrs. Larson, and there was a solidness about it, even if there was no substance to the man she married.

Riley shifted into his coat like an aging turtle. "I just came to tell you that I got a telegram a few minutes ago saying Zeb Whitaker will be getting out of jail next week. I promised you I'd let you know the minute I heard."

Lacy fought to keep from reaching for the Colt. Big Zeb Whitaker was an old nightmare she laid aside years ago when he'd finally gone to prison. She could still feel his hands on her when he'd grabbed her and ripped the front of her dress open to see if she were woman enough to kidnap. She thought she killed him once. She would kill him for real if she had to. He was the first man Bailee, Sarah, and she met when they came to Texas, and if Zeb had his way, he would have taken their wagon and left them for dead.

"Lacy?" Riley said as though he didn't think she listened.

"Yes." She balled her fist to keep her hands from trembling.

"Rumor is he still thinks one of you three women has his stash of gold. I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up around here. I'm not too worried about Bailee way out on the farm with Carter watching after her, and Sarah tucked away where Zeb will never find her." Riley's face wrinkled. "But you … with your man gone and all."

He didn't need to say more. She knew she was alone. Her man wasn't gone; Walker had never been here. Except for the one brief meeting, he was no more than a name on a piece of paper.

"I think you should leave town, Lacy." When Riley met her stare, he added quickly, "Just for a few weeks. Go see Sarah. Or maybe you have family back East you could visit. Maybe if you weren't here, he'd forget about looking you up."

Lacy wanted to scream,
Leave town with what?
There were times over the past few years when she didn't have enough money left to buy food. Once she survived on a basket of apples Bailee brought in from their farm. The two friends never discussed how Lacy was doing, but Bailee always brought apples and eggs and more from the farm, claiming she wanted to trade them for a newspaper. More often then not, Lacy swapped a ten cent paper for a week's worth of food.

Lacy didn't want the sheriff, or anyone else in town, to know how little she had. They all seemed to think her invisible husband sent her money regularly. "I'll be fine here, Sheriff, don't worry about me."

Riley shook his head. I don't know, Lacy. I'm not as spry as I used to be. I'm not sure I can face a man like Zeb Whitaker."

"He's aged, too, you know. He's probably barely getting around. Who knows, he might come back to say he's sorry for causing us so much trouble five years ago."

"Mean don't age well." The sheriff frowned. "I'd feel a lot better if your man were here."

"Walker's down on the border fighting cattle rustlers," Lacy lied. She'd been using that excuse for months now; it was time she made up another reason. "I'll be all right. I have the gun you gave me."

Mumbling to himself, Riley turned and headed down the steep stairs. Lacy knew he wasn't happy about her staying, but this was her home, her only home, and she needed to run the shop. None of the three men who worked for her could take over her job.

Duncan was almost deaf. Folks coming in to place an ad had to stand next to his good ear and yell their order. Eli's bones bothered him so much in winter that he stayed on his feet most of the day. If he sat for more than a few minutes, he seemed to rust. And, of course, Jay Boy was just a kid Lacy paid a man's wages because he supported his mother and little sister. He might be learning the business between errands, but he couldn't take over.

Lacy closed the back door and locked it. She had to stay. If Whitaker came, she'd fight, maybe even die, but she wouldn't run.

She almost wanted to laugh at the way the legend of

Whitaker's gold had spread over the years. The night he'd tried to steal their wagon, they'd left him in the mud, his saddlebags heavy beside him, but with each year folks came up with theories of what might have happened to the gold. Some thought the women had it and were waiting until Whitaker died to spend it. Some decided Whitaker buried it because if he'd been caught with it, he'd serve more jail time. Even a few believed there had been no gold that rainy sunrise.

Lacy had decided a few years ago to stop trying to tell the story and just let people believe what they wanted to. They would anyway.

For the next few days she carefully locked every door and made sure the old Colt was not far from her hand. She caught herself jumping at the jingle of the front bell and waking each night when the wind rapped at her upstairs windows. As the days passed, she calmed, telling herself she was in the middle of town and had nothing to fear from an old buffalo hunter like Zeb Whitaker.

If he did come to town, he would need but one look at her shop to see that she couldn't have stolen the gold he said weighed down his saddlebags that morning. Lacy remembered seeing coins spilling out of the bags after she'd clubbed him, but she hadn't taken a single one.

One week went by, then another. Winter settled in, turning the usual mud holes in the streets to ice and frosting the air. Lacy worked in the shop by day and quilted by candlelight late into the night. She hated winter, for she never felt warm. Even standing in front of her small fire, only one side warmed, the other chilled. She tried to use the stove upstairs only when needed and conserve her wood to heat the downstairs. But winter settled in for a long stay, and the nights seemed endless as she made herself work long after dark.

Around midnight, she gave up trying to quilt. While she dressed for bed, thin bricks heated by the fire. In her gown, Lacy carefully wrapped each brick and stuffed it beneath the covers near the bottom of her bed. Then she jumped in bed, laughing at her own attempts to keep warm.

The wind rattled the windows along the back of the apartment even more than usual, with a promise of snow.

Lacy poked her head out from beneath the quilts. She listened. The alley behind her shop sometimes sounded like a wind tunnel, dragging a howling winter into the shadows. The wooden frame of the shop below groaned. Somewhere boards popped as they shifted.

She slipped back under the blankets, hoping her breath would warm the space between the sheets.

Just as her icy toes thawed, thanks to the hot bricks, the back door rattled. The sound was muffled by a towel she'd placed to keep out the draft, but she thought she heard the creak of the door handle.

Lacy hesitated, weighing fear against being cold. The Colt rested on the dresser not three feet away, but the journey would cost her the little body heat she'd managed to trap beneath the covers.

She told herself no one would try to break in tonight. It was too cold. In the years she'd lived alone above the shop, no one had ever tried to break in. Once a drunk fell into the front windows downstairs, but he hadn't intended to enter. This was a quiet little town most of the time where folks felt safe. Crime rarely paid a call.

But what better time than tonight, with the wind blowing and no one brave enough to investigate a scream?

At the third rattle of the door, Lacy jumped from the bed and ran for the Colt. As her hand touched the handle of the gun, a cold wind barreled through her apartment. The back door swung wide open, clamoring against the wall.

Lacy held the weapon in both hands and faced the wind. She might freeze, but she'd protect to the death what was hers.

A tall figure in a dark wool coat stood before her wearing a hat low, blocking his face from view. He filled the opening. The short cape of his coat flapped in the wind like a flag.

She raised the gun and tightened her finger around the trigger.

The stranger stomped into her kitchen as if he had a right to be there. Swearing at the storm, he raised a gloved hand to shove the door closed. The dove-colored gauntlet shone pale in the moonlight.

Leveling the gun to his chest, she stepped forward. Only the yellow braiding of his hat cords kept her from firing.

"Cavalry," she whispered, remembering that only army cavalry wore yellow on their uniforms. "Infantry wear blue, artillery wear scarlet," she repeated her facts as if writing an article and not facing an intruder.

The trespasser glanced up. Icy blue eyes stared from beneath the shade of his wide-brimmed hat.

"Walker!" She almost didn't recognize him. His chin was covered by a short, black beard, but even in the shadow of his hat, she would never forget those eyes. Cold, heartless eyes, that asked nothing and gave even less.

He jerked his hat off and tossed it on the kitchen table. "Shoot me, Lacy, if that's what you plan to do, or put that old cannon away. I'm in no mood to waste time being threatened by my own wife."