Wild Card

He dragged in a long, slow breath, the slightest hint of sage tangy on the air, and let it out slowly, feeling the tension ease in his shoulders and gut. Adjusting the reins in his hand, he glanced upward and got a faceful of rain for the effort.

Disgusted, he scanned the treeless horizon. Even the usually ever-present antelope were nowhere in sight. That town had to be close. He stood in the stirrups, the stiff leather groaning in response.

Where the hell was Broken Spur?

A quick look out the front window at the sky confirmed Clair’s concerns. The rain that had started during the night showed no sign of letting up. Water cascaded off the porch roof. Water pooled in the street. Water dripped from the leak in the ceiling near the end of the bar, plick-plopping into a metal bucket in a way that was beginning to irritate her nerves.

As of ten-thirty yesterday, Clair Travers was the proud owner—a laughable overstatement—of this ramshackle saloon: peeling wallpaper, faded mirror, mismatched tables and all.

Business was bad. Heck, there was no business. Bill, with all his belongings in a small trunk, had left on yesterday’s morning stage. She’d tried to talk to him, tried to give him back the Scarlet Lady. What the devil did she want with the a saloon?

But Bill had had other ideas. It seemed he’d been thinking about California for quite a while, thinking about those summers without rain and winters without snow. Mostly, he’d been thinking about a certain woman who had a small apple orchard near the base of the sierra. He just hadn’t wanted to sell out to Slocum.

No, he didn’t hold any hard feelings, he’d told her in a tone that lacked sincerity. She was sure there was a certain amount of deflated male pride involved in his willingness to leave.

His parting remark, as he’d stepped up into the stage had been, “This town is too small for two saloons.”

“Well, great, but what am I going to do with it, then?”

“That’s your problem,” he’d said, and the stage had pulled out.

So here she was, alone in an empty saloon.

That drip had turned to a thready stream. Terrific. She went to get a larger bucket from the storage closet she’d discovered near the back. Bill had stashed everything in there, from food to mops.

As she substituted one bucket for the other, she had to shake her head in wonder—maybe it was disgust. Both, probably.

She needed to own a saloon about as much as she needed an anvil chained to her leg. She hefted the rain bucket to the back door and tossed the water into the mud behind the building. Kicking the door closed, she turned.

You aren’t staying.

No. Of course she wasn’t She was wanted by the law, for heaven’s sake.

Her mind flashed on a man’s leering features, his hands pawing at her body as his mouth covered...

She jumped as though she’d been struck. Heart pounding in her chest, she sucked in a couple of deep breaths.

Abruptly she tossed the empty bucket down with a ringing thud and, needing to move, strode across the room, ten long strides from front to back. She pulled open the front doors and stood there, watching the rain splash and puddle in the street. The chilly air penetrated the worn yellow cotton of her shirtwaist, and she rubbed her upper arms. After a minute or so, she felt calmer and stepped back, looking at the room.

It’s yours, lock, stock and leak.

This was something, wasn’t it? A ghost of a smile teased her lips. She’d never owned anything before—nothing more than the clothes on her back, anyway, and a few pieces of jewelry.

“Umm.” She made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. “My saloon.”

Intrigued with the notion, she strolled around the room, sort of checking things over—not that she was staying, mind you, but just...checking. There were twelve tables and an odd assortment of chairs, all in need of a coat of paint. How much was paint these days, anyway?

That wallpaper was a disgrace even for a saloon—red roses on a background that had probably been white at some time in the ancient past Now it was closer to brown, dark brown.

The place did have possibilities though. She’d start by doing a thorough cleaning, take down the wallpaper and see—

You aren’t staying.

Well, she hedged, there’s staying and then there’s staying. She sure wasn’t going anywhere in this rain. Why, she doubted the stages were running today. The mud was probably up to the wheel hubs by now.

She toyed with a stray lock of hair that had come loose from the pins, twisting the blond strand around her index finger, thinking.

An old adage about a moving target being harder to hit or, in this case, harder to find, floated through her brain. Move on. It was the wisest thing to do. It was the only thing to do, but...

As she ran her hand along the top of her bar, her fingers glided over the rough surface and her eyes skimmed the floor, badly gouged from too many pairs of spurs. Floors could be sanded, bars could be painted, and walls...

Her saloon.

The words, the reality settled softly, warmly in the pit of her stomach; she felt like a child with an unexpected present.

Broken Spur was remote, she reasoned. The likelihood of running into someone from Texas was next to none. She’d been on the run three months and she hadn’t seen any posters—not once. Maybe they weren’t looking for her.

Phrases like “starting over” and “second chance” flitted through her mind. Logic struggled with a lifetime of longing.

Her luck had changed here. The Fates wouldn’t hand her this dream, this wish, if she wasn’t meant to have it. Broken down as it was, it was hers and...and, dammit, she was keeping the Scarlet Lady.

Decision made, exhilaration soared in her. Breathless, eyes shining, heart racing, she was actually grinning when a sudden gust of wind banged the front door open; hinges squeaked as the door slammed against the wall, then bounced back. Cold air poured into the room like a ghostly presence, carrying with it an eerie foreboding that sent her euphoria fleeing. The fright was so real, so intense, it took her a couple of seconds to shake it off.

“This is silly,” she said out loud as though to dispel any demons that might have floated in with that rainy mist Forcing her smile back in place, she strode across the room to close the door, her black skirt flouncing with each long step.

That was when she saw him.

A moving shadow against a menacing gray sky, he was all but obscured by the rain. A shiver moved through her. Instinctively, she hugged herself in a protective gesture, though why, she wasn’t quite sure.

The street was a lake, ankle-deep in water and mud.

The horse and rider didn’t seem to notice. The sorrel moved slowly up the street, lifting his legs free of the quagmire one at a time. As though heedless of the rain, the rider never hurried the animal or the packhorse he led.

Sidestepping, she edged over to the window as she paralleled his progress.

She could make out his tan slicker, the bottom third stained brown with splattered mud. Water ran off his black hat, front and back, the brim sagging. He was tall, she could tell that much, and he moved with the horse in the way of a man who spent a lot of time in the saddle.

So what brought a man out in this miserable weather? she mused and almost instantly she spotted the answer. That packhorse he was leading wasn’t carrying supplies—it was carrying a body, slung facedown over the saddle, the boots protruding from the end of a dark brown tarp used as a shroud.

Clair went very still.

“Bounty hunter.” She said the words on a funereally-quiet whisper as though to say them too loud would confirm her fear, as though he would hear her and know she was there, watching.

Self-preservation made her take an instinctive step back, then another and another, until the rounded edge of the bar pushed hard into her back, the corset stays digging painfully into her flesh.

“He’s come” was all she managed before she spun on her heel and started for the back door, only to come up short.

Dread snaked coldly and relentlessly up her spine as she stared at the door that represented escape—but escape to where? She didn’t own a horse or a wagon of any kind. There were no stages until day after tomorrow, assuming the stages got through. In the meantime, where could she go?

Trapped!

Calm. Stay calm.

She repeated the words like a litany until the panic eased and her heart rate slowed to a manageable level. She glanced over her shoulder toward the window and the man still visible through the glass. Her gaze flicked from him to the back door then to the man again. If he came in here, she could... What?

So he’s a bounty hunter. So what? There could be a hundred reasons he was here. Broken Spur was the only town around for at least fifty miles. The storm could have driven him in.

Through the rain haze she saw him again. He was here to get out of the storm and collect his bounty, his...blood money. He’d be gone soon, tonight, tomorrow at the latest. She’d seen his type more than once. His type liked noise and women and wild times, none of which he’d find around here. Confidence built on reason.

He’d get his money and go and she’d never even see him again. Again? Why, she never had to see him at all, she realized with a start.

Cautiously, almost on tiptoe, she moved toward the front doors and pushed them closed, pulling down the shades and praying she didn’t attract his attention.

Her breathing came in shallow, rapid gasps as, eyes fixed on the man, she reached for the lock. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal, feeling the hole where the key should have been. Nothing.

No! There had to be a key. Where the hell was the key? Everything would be all right if she could just lock the damn door.

Gritting her teeth in frustration, she grabbed up the closest chair and wedged it under the rusty knob, but the knob was too low and the chair too tall and it only slid to the floor like some drunken cowboy.

Think. She shoved the hair back from her face. Hitching up her skirt, she tore around behind the bar. Paper. She needed paper, something to write on. Frantically she scanned every surface, every nook and cranny.

Spotting a pasteboard box buried under the weight of empty whiskey bottles, she dumped out the bottles in a wild tumble of glass that shattered on the floor.

Her fingers slipped on the slick paper surface as she tugged, muscles straining, and finally ripped off the top flap.

Okay, now pen, pencil, something. She yanked open drawers, one after another, her hand groping in the dark confines until blessedly her fingers closed around a pencil.

Quickly she scrawled a word and raced back to the door, sliding the sign in front of the shades.

Closed.

With a sigh, she turned and sagged against the door frame, her trembling hands sandwiched between the smooth wood and the cotton of her skirt.

Closed. It was so simple. She was safe.

Jake was never so glad to see any place as he was to see Broken Spur.

Muscles in his legs, stiff with cold. complained as he swung down from the saddle and stepped in mud that oozed up around his boots like quicksand.

Looping the reins of both animals over the gnarled hitching post, he grabbed his gear, saddlebags and rifles and strode the three long steps to the marshal’s office.

“Damn, it’s cold,” he grumbled by way of a greeting as he stepped inside. As he shook his hat and himself like a hound, water sprayed against the wood walls and dripped on the pine flooring, making tiny circles in the dirt.

“Thanks a lot, Jake,” Woodrow Murphy said, looking up from his place behind the desk. “And here I just cleaned.”

“Oh, yeah, I can see you’ve been hard at work.” Amusement danced in Jake’s jet black eyes as he scanned the ten-by-twelve unpainted room, glancing at a pair of barrel-backed chairs and an oak desk that looked scarred enough to have been through a couple of wars. Every flat surface was stacked with papers, and Jake figured Woodrow hadn’t filed a thing since he’d taken this job three years ago.

“Why, I have been cleaning,” Woodrow retorted, his expression remorseful enough to make a parson smile. “You shoulda been here last month.”

Jake chuckled. “Woodrow, it’s good to see you again, old timer. It’s been too long.”

Woodrow grinned like a kid on the last day of school and came around the desk, his hand extended as he walked. “You, too, Jake. What’s it been—six months now? Seven?”

“I couldn’t say.” Jake shrugged out of his slicker and the black wool jacket he wore underneath and hooked both on the pegs by the doorway.

The men shook hands.

Jake dragged one of the two chairs toward the stove. “You look good, Woodrow.”

“You look like something the dogs chewed up and spit out.”

“Thanks,” Jake replied, warming to the teasing. “I didn’t need to come up here to be insulted. There’s folks a lot closer to Rawlins that would be more than happy to do the job.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet,” Woodrow confirmed with a chuckle.

Jake settled his weary body into the chair, while Woodrow perched on the edge of the desk. Jake could see him out of the corner of his eye. He held his hands up to the stove, letting the heat warm his fingers and inch its way up his arms.

“I’ve got Ben Allshards outside.”

“Yeah?” The marshal’s pale blue eyes widened in his round face and he looked toward the window and the horses standing head down in the storm. When he looked back, his mouth was drawn in a thin white line, and his brow was slightly knit. “What happened?” As he spoke, he opened a desk drawer.

Jake saw Woodrow produce a bottle of whiskey and two metal cups from the drawer. “Drink?”

“Yeah.” Jake joined him at the desk.

Woodrow splashed whiskey in both cups and handed one to Jake.

“So what’d he do?” Woodrow raked one hand through his thinning, graying hair.

“Him and a partner held up the bank at Broomfield.” Jake took a long drink, nearly emptying the cup. The whiskey burned his tongue and the back of his throat. He needed a drink, something to ease away the cold and the regret. Killing a man wasn’t easy. He helped himself to another splash of whiskey. “Partner got away...so far.”

Woodrow dropped into his chair, the metal swivel squeaking. “You going after him?” He tipped back, making his plaid shirt pull tight over his rounded stomach.

“Naw.” Jake wandered over to the window to look out at the body draped over the packhorse. Water streaked down the canvas and the soles of the man’s boots. “The man’s in the next county by now and out of my jurisdiction. I’m gonna send Bill Hurley-”

“Sheriff in Laramie County.” Woodrow filled in the information by way of understanding who Jake was talking about “Good man.”

Jake sipped his whiskey. “I’ll send Hurley a wire. It’s his job now.” He returned to the stove and sank into the chair, his feet stretched out in front of him, the half-full cup resting on his chest, his faded blue shirt stained dark down the front from the rain. Muscles in his back and neck slowly relaxed.

Woodrow leaned forward, elbows propped on the edge. of the paper-strewn desk. “You get the money?”

“I got lucky.” It was a hell of a thing to call killing a man lucky. But he knew that Allshards had had a choice. He made the wrong one—he’d gone against Jake McConnell.

The two men sat in silence, the kind that comes from being longtime friends and from being lawmen. Feeling safe and relaxed for the first time in a while, Jake let his eyes drift closed. Lord, he was tired. He hadn’t realized how tired until just that second.

Outside, lightning sizzled overhead like fireworks on the Fourth. Thunder rattled so close, he could feel it in his teeth. And that rain, hell, the rain pounded on the metal roof.

“Sounds like a stampede going on up there.”

“Yeah.”

Woodrow motioned - with the whiskey bottle. “More?”

“A little.”

Woodrow asked, “You know who Allshards’s partner was?”

“I’m guessing it was Ingles. Those two usually ride together.”

“You know—” Woodrow shuffled the mound of assorted paper on his desk “—I think I’ve got a poster around here on them two....”

“Woodrow—” Jake straightened “—you couldn’t find your hat in a room full of elbows. One of these months I’m going to come in here and you’ll be gone, buried in the paper.”

Woodrow gave up on the looking. “Fast as I put this stuff away, some government weasel down in Cheyenne, with nothing better to do, sends me more. Why, in the old days when me and your pa was riding together—”

“I know. In the old days when the world was flat—”

“Never mind, you young pup!” Woodrow broke in, laughing.

And Jake laughed, too. It felt good to laugh again, better to be with a friend. “Before we get down to some serious name-calling, I think I’ll call it a night,” Jake let his feet slam to. the floor and stood all in one motion. “I’m headed over to the telegraph office to let the Broomfield bank know I got their money.” He hefted the saddlebags. “I’ll stop by the local bank and get them to lock it up until we can send it out on the next stage.” Jake shrugged on his slicker, still wet from the storm. “Will you rouse the undertaker out and get him to take care of the body?” He settled his hat comfortably on his head, then gathered the rest of his gear and his guns.

“Sure.” Woodrow came around to Jake, giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Son, you look tired.”

“I feel like I could sleep for a week.” Too long on the trail mixed with whiskey on an empty stomach--he thought if he didn’t get to bed soon, he’d go to sleep standing right here.

They started for the door. Woodrow grabbed his tan hat and navy blue coat, the one with the torn left pocket. He pulled them on as he spoke. “You remember about the trouble, don’t you?”

“Trouble?” Jake halted, hand curled around the smooth brass of the knob, the door barely open. “What trouble?”

“You mean you didn’t get my wire?” Woodrow was doing up the last of his jacket buttons.

Jake forced himself to focus. “What wire?”

“Hell, I sent it a week ago.”

“You’re the marshal here.” Jake leaned down on the knob. “What kind of trouble needs the county sheriff?”

“It’s Earl Hansen out to the Bar W and Amos Carter over to the—”

“MJ. Yeah, I know,” Jake interjected. It was his business to know the ranchers in the county, and the MJ and Bar W were two of the biggest. “What about ’em?” He was feeling annoyed.

“They’ve been going at it over water rights.”

“What do you mean, ‘water rights’? They’ve been friends for years, as far as I knew.”

Woodrow shrugged. “All I know is Hansen and Carter had a blowup and Hansen went and built a dam cutting off Carter’s water.”

“Did you talk to ’em?”

“Course, but they won’t listen to me. I figured maybe you being the county law...”

“Oh, yeah, that’s me, all right—big shot.” He was too tired to talk and too tired to care right now. He opened the door. “Well, those boys shouldn’t be having any trouble with water on a day like today.”

“That’s for sure.” Woodrow made a derisive sound in the back of his throat.

Jake stepped out onto the sidewalk, Woodrow right behind him, both men ducking their heads and turning away from the beating rain. Jake had to hold on to his hat brim to keep it from flapping in the wind. “I’ll come around tomorrow and we can talk. Okay?”

Lightning split the gloom of the gray sky like a flash of gunpowder and was followed by the explosion of thunder.

“Sounds good.”

Woodrow grabbed up the packhorse’s rein and reached for the lead on the gelding. Jake shot him a questioning stare.

“Let me,” Woodrow said, talking loudly over the storm. “I’m headed to the livery anyway.”

“A man’s not much of a man if he can’t put up his own horse,” Jake countered, rain soaking through the wool of his trousers and icing his recently warmed skin beneath.

“A friend’s not much of a friend if he can’t help out once in a while.”

With a smile and a pat on the shoulder, Jake said, “I owe you.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” Woodrow left, leading the horses.

Jake trudged off to send the wire telling the folks in Broomfield their money was safe. It was the part of the job he liked. Law and order.

Clair paced back and forth, back and forth along the length of the bar, her heels drumming a steady rhythm on the uneven wood floor. Every so often she’d pause long enough to glance over at the marshal’s office.

How long did it take to identify a body? How long did it take to write a voucher for the bounty hunter’s money?

Just go, why don’t you? she thought, as though her wishing would make it so, would make him leave.

Anxious, downright worried, she started pacing again, the hem of her skirt picking up the dust with every step. She’d about reached the far end of the bar when the front doors banged open, the wood slamming against the wall and sending her heart up into her throat. Clair whirled around faster than a carousel.

It was him.

He filled the doorway like some dark menace and sent her mind racing. Was he after her? Had he seen a Wanted poster somewhere?

Well, there was no escape now. She had to play out the hand she’d been dealt. Good sense and a little healthy caution made her move discreetly behind the bar. She needed a protection—of sorts.

“Hell of a storm out there,” the man said in a voice that was deeper than a well bottom and smooth as fine whiskey. Her nerves prickled at the sound and the closeness of him.

He kicked the door closed with his booted foot and took off his slicker and hat, which he tossed on the nearest tabletop as if he hadn’t seen the Closed sign displayed in the front window. She had the distinct feeling his type didn’t bother with things like signs or warnings. His type did what they damn well pleased. A reckless temper flared and before she could stop herself, she said, “Can’t you read? We’re closed.”

“Since when?” he challenged. “This isn’t Sunday.”

If he was angry, he didn’t show it. In fact, when he turned to look at her the man was smiling. Who would have expected that? Not her. She’d had the misfortune to meet a few bounty hunters over the years and not one of. them had ever smiled. Leered, frowned, snarled, even, but smiled—never.

Her pulse took on a funny little flutter, then settled. This was crazy. Maybe so, but he was looking at her all soft and easy and way too familiar. Her pulse fluttered again.

“No, it’s not Sunday, but we’re closed, all the same.”

“How come?” he asked again.

He took a step in her direction and she was glad for the bar between them. His face was all chiseled planes and smooth curves like the wild countryside he’d come in from. Several days’ growth of dark beard covered his square jaw and framed his mouth like a mustache.

His hair was black as coal and gleamed from the wet. There were deep furrows where he’d finger-combed it back from his face. The overly long ends curled around his ears and neck and skimmed the top of his collar.

But it was his eyes that held her. Even in this dim light she could see they were black as midnight and just as wild. She was transfixed, intrigued by his unrelenting gaze. A restlessness stirred in her like some long-forgotten memory—eager, exciting, promising.

Bounty hunter, remember?

Sure she remembered. She tore her gaze away, pulled herself up to her full height, all five feet eight inches, and said, with all the authority she could manage, “I don’t have to explain to you. I said we’re closed.” She was feeling awkward and uncomfortable and it was more than just his being a bounty hunter, though Lord knew that was enough. She grabbed up a rag and absently started wiping a glass.

For a full five seconds he looked straight at her as though he was giving her declaration some thought.