Once an Outlaw (17 page)

All this was brought home to her even more forcefully that evening, when she was sitting up in bed brushing her hair and Pete and Lester knocked at her door.

“Come in,” she said quietly, and as they stepped inside, the single candle burning in a sconce beside the bed cast pale streams of amber light upon their bruised faces.

Clint Barclay had certainly gotten in his share of punches, she thought. Her heart sank like a rock in her chest.

“Don’t mean to bother you, but we want to say one thing, Em.” Pete’s gaze was worried. “It’s about Clint Barclay. I know you weren’t trying to take his side today against us, but the fact is, that’s how it looked. You shouldn’t have interfered—we were just trying to teach him a lesson and—”

“Pete, you attacked him—both you and Lester, when all he did was save me from getting drenched all night long on Beaver Rock.”

“He didn’t do any more than that, Em?” Lester stepped forward, his moon-shaped face flushed with embarrassment. Despite Emily’s frown, he plunged ahead. “Sorry to be so blunt, but damn it, Em, this is too important to beat around the bush. Are you saying he didn’t try to take advantage of you when the two of you were stuck alone in that shack all night?”

“Of… course not. Don’t… be ridiculous!” But even as she spoke, she felt her cheeks burning.

“I told you before, I’ve seen how he looks at you,” Lester went on, glowering. “And the truth is, Em, men like Barclay want only one thing from a girl like you. Not that you’re not every bit as good as anyone else,” he said hastily, “that’s not what I mean—you’re the best, Em, the prettiest, the finest girl in the world … but…”

“Well, it’s
us
—we’re the problem.” Misery and guilt shone in Pete’s eyes. “Face it, Em. You’re related to us… and that means a man like Barclay won’t ever respect
you, not the way he should. He’d only use you. The same goes for lots of men. But especially someone like him—”

“You don’t have to warn me about Clint Barclay. I’m not stupid. Don’t you think I know how the world works?”

“Sure, but—”

“You’re trying to protect me, both of you, and I… I appreciate it, but it isn’t necessary. Clint Barclay isn’t interested in me, not in any way.” Somehow she managed to sound airy and unconcerned, despite the fact that her throat was dry as dust and her heart aching. “And I’m certainly not interested in him!”

“That’s good, Em.” Pete shifted from one foot to the other. “Because we know you haven’t had much experience with men and—”

“I’ve had enough to know that I’d never let myself become a … a kind of toy or … casual amusement for any man—and that includes Clint Barclay,” she said forcefully. She set the brush down on the bedside table, hoping they didn’t notice that her hands were trembling. “Now please, I’m worn out and I’d like to go to sleep.”

There was silence for a moment. Pete and Lester looked at each other. “Well, so long as you’re sure.” Lester still sounded doubtful.

Pete studied her in the flickering candlelight. “We just want to take care of you, Em. You had everything on your shoulders for too long—the farm, Aunt Ida and all. We’re here now. If Barclay or anyone else bothers you, you can just let us know and we’ll take care of it.”

“I know you will.” She swallowed. She’d never even told them how Slim Jenks had “bothered” her, because she knew it would only lead to disaster. But she’d rather eat a lizard every day for breakfast then tell them anything at all about her and Clint.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she assured them with a false smile. “Good night.”

The moment they shut the door, she blew out the candle and cast the room into darkness, the same kind of darkness that smothered her heart. It was a relief to slip into bed, to lie there upon cool sheets and not have to pretend that what Pete and Lester had said hadn’t cut straight through her soul. For she knew the truth of what they’d said, and she’d been telling herself the same thing: Clint Barclay might be more handsome, honorable, and kind than Slim Jenks, he might use persuasion and charm and sweet talk, instead of coarse insults and force, but what he wanted from her was the same. He didn’t want her for a wife or even a sweetheart, he didn’t want to squire her here or there or court her or treat her with respect. He was only interested in her because she was the one woman in town who wouldn’t try to lure him into marriage. Because she was the one woman in town who wasn’t respectable enough to be considered a possible bride. He could dally with her in secret and not have to worry about her or anyone else getting the wrong idea.

Just as Hobart Wainscott had cornered her in the hallways of his mother’s house when she’d been dusting or sweeping, Clint had cornered her in the shack.

It hadn’t meant anything to him. He didn’t care about her.

No matter that his kisses were deep and hot and drove everything else right out of her mind. No matter that he touched her with a gentleness that made her wild. No matter that she had been sorry to see Pete and Lester at the shack’s door this morning, because—fool that she was—she’d wanted a little more time alone with Clint Barclay.

They were as different as night and day. He’d grown
up on Cloud Ranch, a cattle ranch known all over the West as one of the grandest and most profitable spreads in the country. As Lonesome’s sheriff, he was a pillar of the community, devoting his life to upholding the law.

And she was Emily Spoon of the notorious Spoons—dirt poor, a nobody, niece to a man who had served time in prison for stagecoach robbery, and sister and cousin to two others who’d eluded the law only because no one had ever been able to prove they were thieves.

With his big family home in Wyoming, his brothers, and his fancy new sister-in-law, an elegant woman like Caitlin Barclay, did she really for a moment believe that he would ever think of her as anything other than an amusing distraction from all the women in town trying to become his bride?

She’d almost been caught up in the pull of that devastating smile, in the urgent heat of his embrace. She’d almost forgotten who she was while she lay warm and close in the circle of those strong arms.

But now she was home in the cabin, and the storm was over, and the night was quiet and still, and she could hear the voice of truth in her head.

Last night was a mistake, but it was over. Over and done with. She’d keep her distance from Clint from this point on.

Even when she ran into him again, as she no doubt would somewhere, sometime in town, she wouldn’t let him make a fool out of her.

And with any luck he’d be married soon, she realized. Surely one of the women in town who’d set her cap for him would reel him in like a big flopping fish.

And the sooner that happened, the better, Emily told herself, dropping her head down on the pillow.

Misery descended on her as she tried to drift into
sleep. She kept thinking of last night, when his hands had stroked her as they lay upon the cot, of the way his mouth ignited hers, and the deep, even tenor of his voice. She was wondering how it would feel to sleep in Clint Barclay’s arms, to be held and kissed by him all through the night, to see his face in the morning when she awoke.

And she wondered at the emotions he stirred in her, at the yearning that quivered through her when he was near.

Just forget him
, she told herself in frustration as night marched on toward dawn and still sleep eluded her.

Forget about the shack, the cot, the kisses that drowned out the storm
.

But Emily knew as she tossed and turned alone in her bed that she could just as soon forget about breathing.

HE NEXT FEW DAYS FLEW BY IN A
rush of visitors and activity, as the women of Lonesome descended upon the Teacup Ranch. In buggies and wagons and on horseback they arrived some bearing fabric they’d purchased themselves, one or two with older gowns they wanted let out, taken in, and gussied up to match the current style, some with no notion of what kind of gown they wanted but eager to hear Miss Emily Spoon’s suggestions.

“I’d love a gown in the style of the one you wore to the town dance,” Carla Mangley told her eagerly, as the other women waiting their turn murmured agreement.

“And Carla will also need another gown,” Agnes Mangley put in sharply. “Something even more elegant, fit for a ball. It’s to be worn at the dinner in honor of her late father, my dear Richard. It’s being held in Denver, you know. The governor will be there.”

“Yes, I know,” Emily murmured measuring Carla’s slender waist. Everyone in town knew all about the Mangleys: they’d become the wealthiest and most socially prominent folks in town a few years back when Carla’s father and his brother had discovered the richest silver
mine in Leadville. Agnes and Carla had inherited his half of it when Richard Mangley died, and—in case anyone ever forgot how wealthy the Mangley women were—despite their furnishings from Paris and New York, their jewels and gowns and painted carriage, their frequent trips abroad—Agnes Mangley never missed an opportunity to remind them.

“Will you get to meet the governor, Carla?” Tammy Sue asked.

“Of course she will,” Agnes answered before Carla could say a word. “Her uncle Frank is on excellent terms with the governor, and naturally will introduce both Carla and me.”

The women were all suitably impressed and offered suggestions for Carla’s new gown, while Emily listened and measured and planned. So while Uncle Jake and Pete and Lester were doing the spring branding, and Joey tended to his chores and worked on the simple lessons Emily had set out for him, she offered the ladies of Forlorn Valley coffee and pie, pored over sample books, laid out various fabrics, and measured and pinned.

She made one trip to town to purchase bolts of lace, satin, muslin, and silk, and the fanciest buttons and sequins she could find in the mercantile.

She stayed up sewing at night until her eyes ached, and by the time Saturday arrived, the day of the box lunch social, the only gown she had yet to complete was her own—a pale lavender muslin with a ruffled skirt and scooped neck, far simpler than the sprigged and beribboned and lacy confections she’d sewn for the other women. But it suited her well enough, Emily thought with satisfaction, as she sewed the last few stitches of the hem. Besides, she had no desire to outshine her customers—that might be bad for business, she reflected with a rueful grin.

“Mighty pretty.” Uncle Jake gave her an approving smile as she hurried into the kitchen, still threading a lavender ribbon through her hair. “Mind if I peek into that box lunch you’ve fixed? I just might want to bid on it myself.”

“No one’s supposed to know who brought which box lunch—or whose they’re bidding on,” Emily informed him, her eyes twinkling, “but… Nettie told me that everyone does.”

He chuckled.

“So I’ll let you have a peek, since I can’t think of anyone I’d rather share lunch with than you, Uncle Jake—”

She broke off as Joey raced inside, his face still damp from washing at the pump. “Can I see what’s in your box lunch, Em-ly? I won’t tell anyone it’s yours!”

Jake laughed, and Emily did too, her heart lightening at the little boy’s good spirits. She knew he was both excited and wary about going to the box lunch social and meeting the other children of Forlorn Valley.

Several of the women who had come for fittings and then to pick up their dresses had met Joey, so his presence was no longer a secret. Emily had merely explained that she was caring for the boy to help out a friend and to her relief, even Mrs. Mangley hadn’t done more than lift her eyebrows. No one had asked questions. No one had made any fuss about it.

So she’d decided that the whole family ought to attend the box lunch social. Joey could meet the other children, and everyone would have a chance to see that Uncle Jake, Pete, and Lester Spoon were not fearsome monsters bent on robbing the good citizens of Lonesome.

“I promise, Em-ly, I won’t tell anyone,” Joey exclaimed, eagerly eyeing the box on the kitchen table.

The child’s eyes lit as he opened it. Emily had lined it with pink silk and decorated it with multicolored bows and some straw flowers she’d clipped from an old sun-bonnet. It wouldn’t be the fanciest box in town, but she was pleased with the ham-and-chicken sandwiches on baked sourdough, the deep-fried corn fritters, a jar of boysenberry preserves, a beautiful peach pie, and the dozen almond sugar cookies she’d tucked inside, draped carefully in Aunt Ida’s pretty white linen napkins, along with a jug of lemonade.

“Ooooh. Can I have this box lunch, Emily, puh-leese?” Joey peered hopefully at her and her heart filled with tenderness and delight. Thanks to Uncle Jake’s quiet talks and card games and all the time he spent with him, Joey had even rebounded from the scare about John Armstrong. His appetite was healthy again, and even though he was a bit nervous about meeting the children of Lonesome and Emily’s plans to enroll him in school, he was a far happier child than the fear-shadowed boy who’d first arrived at the ranch.

“You can’t have this one, Joey, but guess what.” Hurrying to the kitchen, Emily reached up to a high shelf and took down another box. This one was decorated in blue calico, and the small wood horse Uncle Jake had whittled was tied to it with a yellow ribbon. “This box is just for you.”

Joey stared at the carved wooden horse, his eyes wide. “That’s … that’s … Jumper!” he cried excitedly. “I thought you said he was for Lester!”

Jake’s smile was as broad as the box. “He’s all yours, son. Truth is, I was whittling him for you from the start.”

Emily helped Joey untie the ribbon, and he clutched the horse in his small fingers. “Jumper!” he breathed, and made a dipping, up-and-down motion with the horse as if
imagining it jumping over logs, rocks—maybe even mountains, Emily thought, her eyes suddenly damp with tears.

“And don’t forget the fixins in the box. Those are from Emily,” Uncle Jake reminded him with a nod.

Joey tore his eyes from the horse and opened the lid of the box to find everything in the larger box duplicated in smaller portions in his.

“Oh, boy! This is
my
box lunch?”

“All yours.” She drew in her breath as he suddenly threw himself into her arms.

“Thank you, Em-ly. Thank you, Uncle Jake.” His face was muffled against her shoulder but she could hear his words. “This is almost as good as having Mama come back,” he whispered against her ear.

Emily held him tight. “Listen to me, Joey, your mother is going to come back—very soon. And when she does, I’m going to bake her the biggest chocolate cake you ever saw to celebrate.”

“Really?” He lifted his head at last and his brown eyes shone into hers.

“I promise.”

“Oh, boy!”

Emily felt almost happy as they joined Pete and Lester outside in the warm spring sunshine, Uncle Jake carrying her box for her, and Joey proudly clutching his, the small whittled horse stuffed into his shirt pocket.

It was a lovely day for a picnic—the sun blazed in a crystalline sky that stretched in a vast, cloudless canopy across the land. Uncle Jake drove the team, with Emily seated beside him, Joey in the back of the wagon admiring Jumper, and Pete and Lester riding alongside.

Every time thoughts of Clint Barclay tried to intrude into her mind, Emily chased them away, as she’d been doing
ever since the fight at the line shack—until they reached the long, sloping meadow where the tiny, crumbling schoolhouse was situated.

As they approached, Emily glanced at all the people seated on the grass or upon chairs, upon logs or rocks, or strolling through the willows bordering the creek, and she spotted Clint at once. Her heart flipped over painfully in her chest. He looked all too handsome in a gray silk shirt and dark pants, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes from the sun as he leaned one shoulder against a tree and engaged in earnest conversation with Hamilton Smith, Fred Baker, one of the cowboys she’d danced with at the hotel, and Doc Calvin.

She refused to be caught staring if he happened to glance her way, so she tore her gaze away and instead swept it around the clearing as her uncle pulled the team up beneath a stand of aspen.

She saw Carla Mangley, Bertie Miller, and Margaret Smith, as well as several other women whose dresses she’d sewn, and noted with pride that all of her gowns showed to advantage. Yet, though the money she’d earned from sewing dresses for this one event was a tidy and reassuring sum, the sight of all the women wearing her finery as they set their sights on Clint Barclay made her feel queasy.

She had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite of her own box lunch today, no matter who won her box.

And which of the ladies of Lonesome will Clint Barclay favor with his bid?
she couldn’t help wondering. Not that she cared one way or another, she told herself with a shake of her head.

As Uncle Jake helped her down from the wagon, and Joey jumped out, wiping his hands nervously on his pants, she saw Clint turn his head in their direction. He
straightened, and she saw his eyes narrow beneath the brim of his hat.

“Clint, it’s no use fighting the women of this town—not all of ’em at once,” Hamilton Smith pointed out. “As I told Bessie this morning, you might as well just give in and pick a gal to marry. It’s going to happen sooner or later, whether you like it or not.”

“The hell it will.” Despite his firm words, Clint felt sweat pop out on his brow, and it wasn’t only because of the heat and sunshine. He was starting to feel cornered, like a calf surrounded by a dozen wranglers twirling ropes toward its scrawny neck.

“How did any of them get a notion that I wanted to marry
anyone?”
he complained. Bitterness chewed through him. “It’s not as if I ever said one word about hankering to get myself hitched.”

Reluctantly he tore his gaze from the vision that was Miss Emily Spoon in a pale lavender gown that was as fresh and pretty as she was herself, and focused on Ham’s plump face, then shifted his gaze to Doc Calvin’s owlish one. Fred Baker shot him a sympathetic grin.

“Beats me why women get any notion into their head,” the cowboy admitted. “I’m just happy it’s you and not me they’ve set their sights on.”

“
I
think it was your brother’s wedding that did it,” Ham offered sagely. “Even Bessie said to me that once a man goes to a wedding, he’s bound to get ideas. Hmmmph,
women
do, that’s for sure. But I reckon they think now Wade is settled down, since you’re the middle brother, you’re bound to be next.”

“No, sir.” Doc Calvin pushed his spectacles higher on
his nose. “I think it’s something more. Folks like having you around, Clint, that’s all. They want you to stay put. Lord knows we couldn’t find a better sheriff. And women tend to think that if a man’s married, happy, he’ll stay put.” His eyes twinkled behind the spectacles. “They just don’t want you to leave, and figure if you get hitched, settle down, start a family—”

“Family!” Clint quelled the almost overpowering urge to vault onto his horse and head for the hills. “Now this is getting out of hand!”

“So.” Fred winked. “Which lady’s box are you planning to bid on, Clint? Everyone in town is looking at it as a sign of which gal you’re going to walk down the aisle—”

“Shows how much they know.”

Clenching his jaw so tight it ached, Clint stalked off to rustle up a glass of lemonade. He wished like hell it were whiskey.

Box lunch socials weren’t for him. Pretty meadows filled with flowers, the laughter of children, women trying to throw a lasso around him—none of it was for him. He’d rather be parched with thirst and stranded on the hot endless plains without horse or canteen, or ambushed by rustlers or Indians or outlaws, or flat on his face in a snake pit—anywhere but here, in this sunlit meadow doing something as tame and civilized as going on a picnic.