Merline Lovelace (21 page)

When Suzanne and Jack arrived at the tent Matt and Ying Li shared with the Widow Overton, the bride’s eyes lit up at the suggestion of a wedding ceremony.

“Ai ya!”
Displaying an uncharacteristic spurt of enthusiasm, she clapped her hands. “You will be Ying Li’s good fortune woman?”

“I…er…”

“Is most important. No good fortune woman, Ying Li no can marry Matt Butts.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can. What, exactly, does being a good fortune woman entail?”

Suzanne soon discovered that her duties as a wedding arranger were embodied in centuries-old customs. To her secret relief, there wasn’t time for
the Three Letters and Six Etiquettes, but she rather thought she could manage the wedding feast, the hair-combing ceremony and the all-important dress.

“Red,” the girl insisted. “Must be red, for good spirits.”

Suzanne and Jack left Ying Li huddled with the Widow Overton, their differences forgotten in the all-important business of planning a wedding. Wondering where in the world she’d find the scarlet fabric the bride desired, Suzanne walked back to the McCormacks’ with Jack.

“Too bad I didn’t bring Mother Featherlegs’s dressing gown with me.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, “too bad.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she was too caught up in her duties to be distracted by the memories that crowded into her head.

“And a gift,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “We must think of a suitable bride gift, Jack.”

“I’ll take care of that. You just handle the dress and the hair combing.”

Luckily, one of the officers’ wives on post had tucked away a bolt of cherry-colored silk, which Suzanne gratefully purchased. Even more luckily, a Chinese tailor had set up shop in a tent not far from Mrs. Overton’s. Smoothing his wrinkled
hands over the watered silk, he promised a fine dress.

With that important task underway, Suzanne turned her attention to the wedding feast. Both the menu and the guest list had grown considerably beyond the simple punch and cake she’d first envisioned. She was going over the menu with her mother late Thursday afternoon when Sam and one of the McCormack boys rushed into the kitchen.

“Mama, come look!” the boy panted. “There’s a freight wagon coming, and the driver asked directions to our house.”

“A freight wagon? Goodness!”

The flustered Elizabeth McCormack wiped her hands on her apron and headed for the front porch. Julia and Suzanne followed, as curious as she.

Sure enough, a long-box wagon drawn by four mules rumbled down the dirt road circling the parade ground. A chorus of barking dogs and curious children followed in its wake, crowding around when the driver drew to a halt in front of the McCormacks’ quarters. The bandy-legged driver tipped his hat to her.

“Got a delivery fer you, ma’am.”

“For me?”

He dragged a crumpled waybill out of his pocket and squinted at it. “Well, it says here to deliver it to Jack Sloan, care of Fort Meade’s commandin’ officer. This is the right house, ain’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

The puzzled women waited on the porch while the driver knocked the pegs from the tailgate with a wooden mallet, then clambored into the wagon bed and dragged a burlap-wrapped object to the edge. Grunting, he hefted it down.

“This here is just one of five pieces,” he warned, sawing at the rope securing the burlap with his pocketknife. The wrapping fell away. Women, children and the driver himself all stared in astonishment.

“What…? What in the world is it?” Mrs. McCormack gasped, her disbelieving eyes on the scaly dragon breathing wooden fire into the air.

Laughter bubbled in Suzanne’s throat. “I do believe that’s Ying Li’s wedding present.”

J
ack and Suzanne redirected the freight driver to Mrs. Overton’s tent and managed to arrive at the same time the bed did. Between bouts of tears, incredulous exclamations and beaming smiles, Ying Li thanked Jack over and over again. Matt wasn’t quite as thrilled.

“How the devil am I going to get the blasted thing up to the gold fields?” he muttered to Suzanne.

“The same way Jack got it to Fort Meade, I would imagine. By freight wagon.”

They stood side by side, studying the majestic piece. Assembled, it occupied almost half of poor Mrs. Overton’s tent. The widow had been forced to move her belongings to the front to make room for it, which would make for cramped quarters for the small post-wedding party Suzanne had suggested and the widow insisted on hosting.

“How do you suppose he talked Mother Featherlegs into parting with it?” Matt wondered.

“She’s a businesswoman first and foremost. I suspect he just offered her the right price.”

Jack confirmed Suzanne’s guess when he paid off the freight driver. Brushing aside the soon-to-be groom’s gruff thanks, he wished him a happy wedding night.

The inevitable tide of red rushed into the kid’s face. His color deepened even more when Ying Li skipped over to him, her dark eyes aglow.

“Matt Butts and Ying Li make strong sons in honorable father’s bed. We fuckee…” She stopped, corrected herself. “We do dragon dance all night, all day.”

That dazzling promise banished Matt’s doubts. He went off to work at the quartermaster’s, resigned to hauling the bed with him on his planned adventures, then spent a good part of the night before his wedding at Three Dog Saloon with Jack.

Remembering how drunk Matt had become the last time he bent a leg at a bar, Suzanne could only hope he’d exercise a bit more restraint this time. He and Jack both. Smiling at the memory of that wild night in Rawhide Buttes, she joined Ying Li for the ritual combing of the bride’s hair.

“Ying Li sit here,” the girl said, setting a box at the front of the tent. “Must see moon.”

Despite the cold that steamed her breath and nipped at her cheeks, she bundled up in a blanket and handed Suzanne a wooden comb.

“Missee comb four times.”

With her head tipped back and a curtain of wet, shining hair hanging down her back, she drew curious glances from the residents of the other tents. Wide-eyed children wandered over to watch. A thin, mangy dog sniffed around the box before Ying Li shooed it away.

Ignoring the slowly gathering audience, Suzanne drew the comb through the long, silky hair and struggled to interpret her soft phrases. The first combing, she gathered, symbolized time from beginning to end. The second, harmony from that moment until old age. The third, many sons and grandsons. The fourth, wealth and a long-lasting marriage.

The phrases might have a strange lilt to them, but the sentiments echoed those of women through the ages. A longing for harmony, for love, for a lifelong mate. Suzanne’s thoughts drifted to Jack. To the way he’d held her that moment beside the paddock. To his insistence that he endow her with all his worldly goods.

They were so close, she and Jack. Only a breath or two away from admitting what was in their hearts.

Caught up in her thoughts and the ancient ritual
of preparing a bride for her wedding, she didn’t notice the two men who’d joined the crowd until she caught a mumbled phrase.

“…the Chinee whore I told you about.”

Glancing up, she saw a bearded, bleary-eyed watcher dig an elbow into his friend’s ribs. The words were just slurred enough for Suzanne to guess the men had come from the saloon, and just crude enough for her to shoot them a glare.

“Do, please, curb your tongue.”

One had the grace to look ashamed. The other, merely belligerent.

“Come on.” The younger of the two pulled at the older man’s arm. “We don’t want no trouble.”

His companion shook off the grip. “We ain’t sayin’ nothing that ain’t true. That little Chinee done lifted her skirts for anyone with two coins to rub together down at Rawhide Buttes. From what we hear, she’s willin’ to do the same here.”

Suzanne gave him a hard look. Although the shadows hid most of his face, she didn’t like what she saw of his expression. Why didn’t she think to tuck her derringer into her skirt pocket?

“Mrs. Overton,” she called calmly, never missing a stroke with the comb. “Would you be so kind as to send one of your neighbors to the Three Dog Saloon to fetch Mr. Butts and Mr. Sloan?”

“Jesus,” the younger man muttered. “I ain’t
staying around to tangle with the likes of Black Jack Sloan.”

He melted into the crowd. After a long, narrow stare, his friend did the same.

However much Jack’s reputation might worry her, Suzanne had to admit it proved rather useful in situations like this.

She was still mulling over that pertinent fact when she left Ying Li and made her way back to the McCormacks’ by the light of a bright, full moon. She arrived at the house just in time to see a rider dismount and hand his reins to a waiting orderly. Even without the gold epaulets on his caped overcoat, Suzanne would have recognized him anywhere.

“Colonel! You’re back!”

She rushed into his arms for a fierce hug. The joy she always felt at her stepfather’s return from the field flooded her, tinged with only the tiniest hint of dismay that he’d returned to Fort Meade two days early.

“Your mother telegraphed me about your young friends’ wedding. I didn’t want to miss it.”

“Matt and Ying Li will be so proud to have you at the ceremony.”

“She also reported that Sloan’s back on his feet.”

Suzanne bit her lip. “Yes, he is.”

Sliding his arm around her shoulders, Andrew
Garrett walked up the front steps with her. The rich scents of his wool uniform and leather accoutrements surrounded her, as familiar and comforting as the affection he’d always showered on her.

The McCormacks’ orderly met them at the door. His face wreathed in smiles, the striker greeted the colonel.

“Your missus is in the back parlor, sir, with Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. McCormack.”

“Thank you.”

Handing the orderly his overcoat, hat and gloves, he straightened his uniform coat. Suzanne watched, somewhat surprised to note the sprinkling of silver at his temples. She’d never really noticed it before.

“Mother will be so glad to see you,” she said, tucking her arm in his. When she would have walked down the hall with him, he stayed her.

“Do you remember asking about the pockmarked drifter who was on the stage with me when Parrott held it up?”

Her heart stuttered. “Yes?”

“When I got back to Fort Russell, I did some checking. He got off the stage at the next stop. From what I could gather, he’s back in Deadwood.”

Less than a half day’s ride away!

“His name is Dawes,” the colonel said. “Charlie Dawes.”

“That’s…” Suzanne swallowed. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

She looked away, her head bent, and Andrew cursed himself for a fool. He didn’t want to reach his hand into his pocket, hated what he had to do next. If he didn’t love this girl so damned much, he’d bundle her and Julia and Sam up right after the wedding tomorrow, escort them home and let Sloan find his own way to perdition.

“I talked to the U.S. Marshal down in Cheyenne,” he said reluctantly. “He allowed as how the territories are a bit short on deputy marshals and long on cattle rustlers and outlaws like Parrott. He also allowed as how it’s time vigilante justice gave way to the courts.”

Hope and caution warred in her eyes. “Does that mean he’s going to go after Dawes himself?”

“Not exactly. The way he figures it, if Sloan’s so all-fired determined to hunt down a man we suspect of marking coaches and worse…”

“Much worse!”

“…he might as well be wearing this.”

Digging into his uniform pocket, he drew out a tin star. Suzanne stared at it for some moments before her troubled gaze lifted to his.

“I don’t know whether or not he’ll take it.”

“He will if I have anything to say in the matter.”

Andrew didn’t want a lawman for Suzanne any
more than he wanted a gunfighter. Neither one could expect to live long enough to retire to a rocking chair. But her point about the violence he himself faced every time he rode out on patrol had hit home.

“Wearing a badge won’t make Sloan any less of a target for every drunk or hothead who wants to prove himself a man,” he admitted. “The only difference is that when he faces them down, he won’t stand alone. He’ll have the full force of the law behind him, as well as the citizenry. And the military,” he added grudgingly.

Suzanne huddled on the humpbacked horsehair sofa in the McCormacks’ front parlor, waiting for Jack to return from his prewedding revels with Matt. A flickering oil lamp with roses painted on the glass chased the shadows to the corners of the room. The banked coals in the black cast-iron heating stove did the same to the chill.

Everyone else had retired for the night, including her mother and the colonel. He’d left it to Suzanne to deliver the news about Dawes to Jack. And the tin star.

Opening her fist, she stared down at the badge. It was dented and dull, passed from one man to the next with some frequency, Suzanne suspected. Would Jack be the next to wear it? Would he want to? Men like Bat Masterson and Bill Tilghman and
Wyatt Earp had made the transition from shootist to peace officer. Could Jack make it, too?

If the colonel was right, the era of the gunfighter was fast coming to an end. Wild, wide-open cow towns like Abilene, Denver and Cheyenne were now small, bustling cities. Although they still boasted more saloons than churches and opera houses, shoot-outs in the streets were less common. Courts of law had replaced the kangaroo courts that let killers like the one who’d gunned down Wild Bill Hickok go free. Maybe… Maybe Jack would recognize that it was time to move from the gun to the gavel.

Suzanne’s fingers folded over the star so tightly the edges cut into her skin. She still had it clutched in her hand when she heard his walking stick thump on the front steps. Not wanting to disturb the McCormacks’ orderly, she slipped the badge into her skirt pocket and went to meet Jack at the door.

He stepped inside, bringing with him the frost of the October night. He was leaning heavily on the walking stick, Suzanne noted, and white lines bracketed his mouth, but she knew better than to comment on either.

“Still up?”

Nodding, she helped him out of his wool jacket. “I was waiting for you.”

His gray eyes glinted. “Were you worried I’d
get as drunk as I did at Rawhide Buttes and rouse the whole house?”

Folding the jacket over the stair rail, she cocked her head. “
Are
you drunk?”

“No, but Matt is. I left him spouting the most god-awful poetry to Ying Li at the top of his lungs.”

“Oh, dear.”

The glint in his eyes deepened. “My guess is they won’t wait until tomorrow night to try out their wedding bed. For all her peculiar ways, Ying Li’s an accommodating little thing.”

“Indeed?”

Jack might not be drunk, but he’d downed more whiskey than he should have, trying to ease the ache inside him at the thought of riding out the day after tomorrow. Charlie Dawes’s trail had probably gone stone-cold by now. It could take Jack weeks, if not months, to pick it up again. He should have lit out after the bastard the day he’d pulled his boots back on. He would have, if not for the woman standing before him. Just looking at her brought the ache back, sharper, deeper.

“Now, don’t pucker up on me, sweetheart. You know how it makes me itch to kiss you.”

One brow arched. “Well?”

What the hell? He might not get another hour alone with her like this, what with the kid’s wedding tomorrow and Garrett due back at Fort Meade
the day after. If he was going to make any more memories to carry away with him, this looked to be as good a time as any.

He brushed his knuckles down her cheek, savoring the creamy smoothness, memorizing the curve. Curled his hand under her chin. Tipped her face up an inch or two. Her eyes held his until he angled his head and brought his mouth to hers.

The need that ate at him was like a raw wound, more lethal than any nicked lung, more painful than a bullet through the thigh. Resisting the urge to crush her against him, he slid his hand to her nape, cradling her neck while he stored up her taste and touch and scent.

She stood quiet under the kiss, letting him take his fill. It might have been two minutes or ten before he raised his head. When he did, he hurt so hard he wasn’t sure he could make the stairs. To buy a little time, he reached for his jacket and drew out the crumpled yellow paper the telegraph operator had handed him when he’d sent the offer to Rawhide Buttes for Ying Li’s bed.

“This is from the bank down to Denver, confirming my authorization to transfer the funds from my account to whatever bank you designate.”

Frowning, she glanced down at the folded telegram.

“Take it, Suzanne. If you decide you don’t want
the money, or find you don’t need it, you don’t have to arrange the transfer.”

Her chin came up. “I’ll accept the money, if you’ll accept this.”

She slid a hand into her skirt pocket. For a moment, Jack thought she intended to offer him her little derringer to carry in his boot. Maybe a likeness to tuck in his saddle as a keepsake. The last thing he expected was the star nestled in her palm.

His eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get that?”

“The colonel brought it with him.”

“He’s back, is he?”

Her expression was unreadable, but Jack had a good idea what was coming.

“Yes. He arrived earlier this evening. He used his influence with the authorities down to Cheyenne. You’ve been appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal.”

“That right?”

“That’s right.”

Folding his arms, he let the star sit in her palm. “What made him think I’d agree to letting him arrange my life for me?”

“He didn’t get the idea from me, if that’s what you’re implying. I told you, you’re going to have to decide on your own if you want to come back to me after you hunt down Charlie Dawes.”