Her Sheriff Bodyguard

Chapter Five

They arrived in Gillette Springs just as the sun dipped behind the mountains to the north. The trunk sat waiting in the hotel foyer, as Hawk had instructed, so he arranged for a room. The women ordered a bathtub to be brought up. He made sure they bolted the door and strode off to find the sheriff.

The man’s office was just three doors down from the hotel, but nobody was there. A sign stuck to the door read At Polly’s Cage. Back at five.

Good idea. He could use a shot of whiskey before heading back.

“Sheriff Davis in town?”

The pie-eyed deputy leaned against the polished wood bar and sent Hawk a sloppy grin. “Leadin’ a posse up to Idaho,” the paunchy man allowed with a derisive snort. “Left me in charge, he did. In charge of what, I’d like to know. Nuthin’ exciting ever happens in this town.”

“Might be something exciting tonight,” Hawk offered. “Suffragette lady’s making a speech.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard about her. Over at the church, seven o’clock.”

“Listen, Deputy, someone took a shot at the lady two nights ago in Smoke River. Think you should...” Hawk leaned toward him and lowered his voice. Then he stopped short and studied the man. Old. Out of shape. And drunk. This deputy couldn’t protect a dog from a flea.

Hell. All he wanted to do was head back to Smoke River and forget the woman now taking a bath at the hotel. He wanted to get as far away as possible from Caroline MacFarlane.

But he couldn’t leave her to the protection of this sorry excuse for a lawman. He ground his teeth until his jaw hurt.

“How about you make sure nobody sits down in that church tonight without removing their sidearms. Pile ’em up on the back pew and guard them.”

“Oh. Oh, sure, mister. I’ll do that for sure.”

And not much else, Hawk realized. The minute Caroline entered the church she would be a sitting pigeon. Hell and damn, he couldn’t leave her. When he returned to Smoke River he’d send off a stiff note to Sheriff Davis about his derelict deputy, but for tonight, Hawk figured he’d have to stand in. Maybe he’d have to rethink the whole thing to keep this headstrong woman safe.

He grabbed a bath and a shave at the barbershop across the street from the saloon, then went up the hotel stairs to tell Fernanda and Caroline what not to do tonight.

* * *

“Whatever do you mean, don’t wear this dress? This is my most tailored suit. It is perfectly proper and stylish and it commands resp—”

“It makes you look stiff and superior and men hate women like that.”

Caroline drew herself up as tall as she could and glared at him. “Oh, they do, do they? Well, let me tell you something. It is not men I am trying to reach, Mr. Rivera. It is the women I want to hear my message.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s the men you need to convince. The women are already on your side.”

Fernanda laid a restraining hand on her arm. “He is right, hija. It is men who will be voting to give the vote to the women.”

Rivera yanked open the door to her wardrobe where she’d hung up her dresses and flicked through the hangers. “Wear something frilly,” he said. “Something with ruffles or bows or ribbons or something.” He pulled out her flounced yellow skirt.

“Wear this.”

“That is meant for a party or a reception. It is entirely too dressy for speech-making.”

“Wear it anyway.”

The man was impossible. She eyed his selection with trepidation. It was entirely too frivolous for playing the role of a—what had he called her?—a crusader?

Oh, Mama, I am beginning to wish I had known more about what I would be getting into.

But Fernanda had a point; it was men who would be voting to change the suffrage law.

“I—I cannot do it. I refuse to...to...well, seduce the men with a pretty dress.”

“You want to win the war,” he grumbled, “you do what you have to do.” He reached over and plucked the pins holding her bun at her neck.

“And wear your hair down.”

She gasped as her hair tumbled free. “Just what do you think you are doing?”

“Damned if I know,” he muttered. “Keeping you safe. Out of the line of fire from some crazy gent who wants to stop you.”

“Oh.” The look on his face stopped every protest she could think of.

“Look, Caroline,” he said. “I don’t believe in your cause. I don’t want you women to win the vote. But I also don’t want you to get yourself killed.”

“Oh,” she said again. Suddenly all the air whooshed out of her and all her brave words dissolved into thin air. Very well, she would do it. She would wear the yellow dress. She would be soft and feminine and she would win the vote of the men on behalf of the women. Rivera was right. It was +exactly like going to war.

But oh, Lord, no one had told her how frightening it could be.

“Get dressed,” Hawk ordered. “I’ll walk you to the church in ten minutes.” Like a good soldier, she didn’t even flinch. Made him wonder something else about her.

He closed the door and paced up and down the carpeted hallway outside and tried to figure her out.

* * *

The church was filled to overflowing. The mix of seated men and women was about even. Deputy Saunders had secured all the sidearms on the back pew and was standing guard over the pile of holsters and gun belts and revolvers. At least he had sobered up.

Hawk had arranged with the minister to use the entrance in back of the pulpit so Caroline would not have a long walk up the aisle. Fernanda was already seated in the front pew, her face looking serene and her hands folded in her lap. But her dark eyes were wide with apprehension.

Caroline stood next to him, waiting for the last of her audience to squeeze into a pew. She took his breath away in that yellow dress. Hell, she’d have every man in the church in love with her before she even opened her mouth.

She, too, looked calm. Resolute. Suffused with soldierly purpose. He’d seen lieutenants with less steel in their spine.

She also looked female as hell and too vulnerable. His chest tightened just a fraction more than he liked.

Beside him, she drew in a shaky breath and started forward.

“Wait.” He laid his hand at her waist and pulled her to a stop beside him, then slipped the small pistol he’d bought out of his vest and pressed it into her hand.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“It’s a pistol. It’s lighter than my revolver. Carry it in your skirt pocket.”

“I—”

“Careful,” he said. He closed her fingers around the gun butt. “It’s loaded.”

She snatched her hand away, then nodded. “Thank you.” He watched her slip it into her pocket.

“Ready? Let’s go.”

As he had instructed, she moved through the doorway and quickly placed herself behind the minister’s solid oak lectern. Hawk followed, seated himself on a side chair just behind the pulpit, and scanned the crowd. Quietly he laid his revolver across his lap.

The audience couldn’t see the weapon; besides, every eye was glued to the vision in yellow standing at the front of the church.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Caroline MacFarlane.” She kept her voice low and even, not a hint of harangue or inflammatory words. Good girl.

“I want to tell you about my mother, Evangeline MacFarlane. When I was old enough to notice such things, I became aware that my—” she hesitated and Hawk tensed “—my father struck my mother. He did this often, almost every night, and he made no attempt to hide from me what he was doing.”

She paused and Hawk focused on the men in the crowd. Some looked angry; some looked a little guilty; but most bore a look of concern.

“When I was twelve years old my mother took me away from our home. She said she could not live like that any longer, and no matter how my father begged and pleaded, she refused to go back.”

The women in the audience nodded and murmured to each other. A few even dabbed at their eyes.

“But my father went to court. And the judge—” Again she stopped and this time she swallowed hard. “The judge said my mother had to return to my father, had to live with him even though he mistreated her. He said it was the law in Massachusetts, that if a woman left her husband, she forfeited her right to her children.”

Hawk studied the faces of the men. No doubt some of them beat their wives. Maybe they felt they were justified; maybe a few felt guilty. But not one of them challenged Caroline or shouted an insult. Instead, they waited to hear her next words.

“My mother decided this was wrong, that forcing a woman to live with an abusive husband was wrong. She moved us into a room at a boardinghouse. Later, to save herself—and me—she left him for good and took me with her. She joined a group of women and spoke out against this injustice, and other injustices against women. We traveled all over the country, and everywhere we went, my mother spoke out to support women.”

In the uneasy silence, Hawk finally began to breathe easier. It was not an unruly crowd; the men were stirred up, he could see that, but they weren’t violent.

Caroline went on, her voice still soft. “Did you know that here in Oregon a woman cannot divorce a man for cruelty or abandonment? And that if a woman earns any money of her own, it goes to her husband?”

She paused again. “Ladies and gentlemen, do you think this is fair?”

There was a sudden commotion at the back of the church. Hawk lifted his revolver, shielding it from view with his hand, and thumbed back the hammer. But the cause of the disturbance was a young boy of about eight or nine, who darted up the aisle to where Caroline stood and thrust a folded piece of paper into her hand.

“Man said to give you this,” he panted.

She unfolded the note and gasped. Then she looked over at Hawk.

Her face had gone white as milk.

Chapter Six

Hawk didn’t much care what the note said, but it told him Caroline’s speech was over. He lifted his Colt and stepped past her. “That’s all, folks. Miss MacFarlane just got some bad news and she has to leave.”

Behind him he heard the paper rustle and knew her hand was shaking. He ached to turn back to her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the crowd.

The church began to empty. Women chattered excitedly to each other, the men picked up their sidearms under Deputy Saunders’s watchful gaze and went out.

Fernanda edged past him and reached out to Caroline. “Mi corazón, you look like ghost. Que pasa?”

Finally the last man left, followed by the deputy, and Hawk reholstered his revolver. The Mexican woman stood patting Caroline’s trembling hands, her face bleached of color. She held the note out to him. “Here, señor. You read.”

Hawk had the sinking feeling that the contents were going to tie him into something he wanted no part of. Long ago he’d learned to watch his back when something didn’t feel right, and this sure didn’t feel right.

He glanced at the paper Fernanda had stuffed into his hand. Crudely printed in red crayon were the words “I WILL GET YOU BITCH.”

He looked up to find Caroline staring at him like she’d been poleaxed, her widened eyes darkening to blue-violet and her mouth clamped shut so tight her lips formed a thin unsmiling slash in her pale face.

He stepped forward and laid his arm around her shoulders.

“D-don’t,” she whispered. “I need to be strong.”

He could feel her whole body shaking. “Don’t be a fool. You need to stop trying to be brave.”

She jerked her head up. “Don’t tell me what to do! If I p-pretend, it gives me courage. I grew up pretending.”

Hawk snorted. “Someone just threatened your life, Caroline. You should be damn scared, not playacting.”

Fernanda nodded emphatically. “Always she pretend.”

Suddenly Hawk wanted to fold her into his arms, but he figured that would frighten her even more. He settled for tightening his arm about her shoulders and gently tugging her toward the doorway behind the pulpit.

“Come on. You need to go back to the hotel and lie down. Maybe have some coffee brought up.”

“I n-need something stronger than coffee.” Her voice was less shaky, but she was still trembling like she’d taken a bad chill. He guided her to the back entrance, but before stepping through the door he pulled her to a stop.

“Wait.” He withdrew his revolver and inched out the doorway far enough to see both sides of the street. Not a sign of a living soul. A faint light shone in the window of the sheriff’s office, but no horses were tied at the hitching rail in front of Polly’s Cage. Tinny piano music drifted from the saloon. He moved to the corner and studied the buildings on both sides of the main street—still nothing.

He stepped back inside. “Looks clear.”

Caroline drew a deep breath and started forward, but Hawk reached out and yanked her close to his side, then motioned to the Mexican woman hovering behind him. “Fernanda, stay on the other side of her.”

“Si, señor.” She grasped Caroline’s arm.

Once inside the hotel Hawk lifted his arm from Caroline’s slim shoulders, grabbed the room key and went up the stairs ahead of her, his revolver drawn. He unlocked the door, checked inside the wardrobe and under both beds. Fernanda hurried to close the curtains and then confronted him. “What we do now, señor?”

Damned if he knew. He couldn’t leave Caroline alone with just Fernanda; even if the Mexican woman did carry a pistol, he’d bet she wasn’t experienced, and Caroline...

Caroline needed a shot of Dutch courage. Hell, he needed one, too. He also needed to think. He made sure the women were safe and had locked the door. Then he walked over to the sheriff’s office for some reconnaissance and on to Polly’s Cage for some comfort.

By the time Rivera returned, Caroline had talked her fear down to a manageable level and explained again to Fernanda that, no matter what, she would not stop making speeches. She would never stop.

She was afraid, yes. Whoever it was had managed to track her down, and sending a child with such an awful note, in front of everyone, had chilled her to the bone. But she could never let it show. And yes, she used her stiff, proper manners to disguise the terror, the fear that she actually would be killed. Her life, speaking out about what had happened to her mother, and to her, compelled her to go on, even when her heart hammered under her buttons and her throat was so dry she could not spit.

Oh, Mama, if you are looking down on me, give me courage, for I know I must go on.

She had just donned her silk night robe when she heard Rivera’s voice on the other side of the door. Fernanda stopped brushing her hair, turned the key in the lock and let him in.

In his hand he carried three glasses and a pint of whiskey.

Fernanda reached for the bottle. “Ah, señor, you are an angel from God.”

“Not quite,” he growled. “I talked with the deputy sheriff. That kid was the barber’s son. He’d never seen the man who gave him the note. No horse that he could see, but the fellow was tall. Spare build. Walked hunched over a bit. Dark clothing and a hat pulled too low to see his face.”

Fernanda poured three glasses of whiskey. “What we do now, señor?”

Hawk slapped his hat down on the bed nearest the door and downed a big swallow of the liquor. “You’re not gonna like this any more than I do, but—” he took another gulp “—I’m sticking to you like cockleburs on a horse’s tail.”

Caroline sank onto the other bed and eyed him. “I beg your pardon? What exactly does that mean?”

She was dressed for bed, Hawk noted. Bare feet, her hair a loose tangle of curls. For an instant he lost his train of thought.

“It means I’m sleeping in your room tonight. It means you do exactly as I say until I can get you to wherever you’re going next.”

“Boise. In Idaho. We plan to catch the train from Oakridge.”

“That’s fifty miles from here.”

“There’s a stagecoach tomorrow morning.”

He thought that over. Maybe the stage would be safer than traveling on horseback, especially since whoever was trailing them, if anybody really was trailing them, apparently hadn’t been fooled.

A suffocating sense of duty descended on him, the kind of obligation he swore he’d never undertake again. But hell’s bells, here he was, up to his neck in it again. He prayed to God it would turn out better this time.

He polished off his whiskey and poured another for himself and for Fernanda. Caroline had wrinkled her nose at her first sip and the glass she now rotated in her two hands was still full.

“Okay, tomorrow we take the stagecoach to Oakridge.” And he’d pray every mile that the sheriff in Boise was not holed up in a saloon or out with a posse chasing some outlaw. He wouldn’t relax until both women were safe inside the hotel.

* * *

Before first light, Hawk arranged with the livery owner to board Red and the two mares, then walked over to the sheriff’s office, where he caught the deputy asleep at his desk. The man was damn incompetent, but at least he listened and agreed to keep his mouth shut. By eight, Hawk had taken the stage driver aside and explained some things while the women climbed on board.

“Ya wanna ride shotgun, Hawk?”

He thought it over. Jingo could probably use an extra rifle, so he nodded and stepped around to explain to Fernanda and Caroline. “Going to be a long trip, ladies, but we’ll be stopping in Tumbleweed for fresh horses and some dinner.”

The two women nodded, but neither was in a smiling frame of mind. Couldn’t blame them one bit. He climbed up beside the driver and laid his Winchester across his lap. “All set, Jingo. Let’s go.”

Jingo released the brake and lifted his whip, but before he could snap it over the team, a tall man barreled down the hotel steps and yanked open the passenger door. “Aw, hell.” Jingo spit a mouthful of tobacco juice beside the coach.

Hawk grabbed his rifle but Jingo laid a gnarled hand on the barrel.

“You know that guy?” Hawk asked.

“Sorta. Gambler sometimes. Horse trader other times.” The whip cracked and the stage lurched forward.

“Is he on any Wanted posters?”

“Naw. Too slippery if ya ask me. S’ides, gambling ain’t illegal. Yet.”

“Yet? What does that mean?”

Jingo spat again. “Women get the vote, first thing them straitlaced old biddies’ll do is outlaw card playing.”

Hawk kept his mouth shut about the passengers and the straitlaced part. Sure was thought-stopping, though. He’d once won a woman in a card game.

He couldn’t help worrying about what was going on inside the coach. Couldn’t hear anything over the thunder of horses’ hooves and creaking wheels. He knew Fernanda would fire off a shot if something was wrong, but...

“Hold up, Jingo.”

“Huh? What for?”

“You heard me, pull up.”

He was off the driver’s bench before the stage rattled to a stop. He strode around to the passenger door and yanked it open.

Fernanda let out a screech. “What happen, señor?”

“Nothing, yet. Any trouble back here?”

Caroline sat straight-backed in her severe dark blue dress, her hands primly folded in her lap. Hawk noted her knuckles were white. Gambler man tipped his black derby back off his face and blinked small round eyes at him. “You expecting some trouble, Sheriff?”

Hawk swore under his breath. The man was sprawled beside Fernanda, his long legs resting on the seat next to Caroline. Hawk used the rifle barrel to knock them to the floor.

“Hey, what the—?”

“You only paid for one seat, mister. The one next to the lady doesn’t belong to you.”

“Oh, very well. Excuse me, ma’am.” The watery eyes closed and he tipped the derby back over his face. Caroline sent Hawk a grateful look.

“You all right?” he mouthed.

The ghost of a smile curved her lips and she nodded. Hawk tipped his head toward the stranger and lifted his eyebrows in a question. Again she smiled, and this time it touched her eyes.

He sucked in air as his stomach rolled over, then latched the door and rejoined Jingo on the driver’s bench.

“Them ladies all right?”

He grunted.

“Relax, Hawk. We got some hard hours on the road ahead of us.”

“You just drive this contraption, Jingo.” He wouldn’t relax until they reached Oakridge. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Gambling Man inside the coach, whether he was really on the up-and-up or whether he flimflammed when he saw a badge.

Sweat began at the back of his neck. Another few hours of this and he’d draw his weapon on every male that came within twenty feet of her.

“Ya want me to sing somethin’?” Jingo quipped. “The horses like it when I sing.”

Hawk rolled his eyes.

Jingo warbled in an off-tune tenor voice all the way to the stage station. By the time they pulled up at the small two-room shack, Hawk’s patience was wearing thinner than the film on a stagnant frog pond.

Chapter Seven

Caroline stepped down onto the ground and grabbed for Fernanda’s steadying hand. Her legs were stiff, a headache pounded in her temples and her bottom was numb from hours and hours perched on the hard leather bench. Behind them, the man who’d introduced himself as Mr. Overby jerked awake and snuffled. “Ah, dinner,” he exclaimed.

She doubted she could eat anything after jouncing along in the stifling heat but she could surely drink something; her throat was dry and scratchy as sandpaper. And her nerves were jumpy.

Fernanda conducted her into the tiny station, asked for water and walked on through straight to the necessary. When they returned, their host, a grizzled old man with a greasy apron looped around his waist, showed them to a rough wood table and dished up bowls of what looked like stew. Caroline picked up her spoon and immediately set it down and pushed the bowl away.

“You must eat, mi corazón. We have many miles ahead.”

She couldn’t. Caroline drank glass after glass of water, but her stomach was too unsettled for food. She watched Mr. Overby shovel in huge mouthfuls of his meal until he looked up.

“What are you staring at, miss?”

Caroline jerked. “Nothing.” She turned her gaze away and Hawk Rivera slid in beside her, bringing with him the scent of leather and sweat. She much preferred it over the cologne-heavy smell of Mr. Overby. In fact she was beginning to like the way the sheriff smelled, like a man instead of a candy shop. She wished he would sit inside the coach with them.

“Stew any good?” he queried.

“I wouldn’t know. I cannot eat it.”

He snaked out his hand and pulled her bowl back to her. “Try,” he ordered. “Making speeches takes strength.”