One Day, My Prince, page 24
Charlotte Handy. Hell, no one had ever even offered the possibility that Charlie Lockhart was a woman. Joe didn’t know if Lockhart was a maiden name or an alias. It didn’t matter, not now.
No wonder so many lawmen had disappeared looking for Lockhart. If they made it this far they probably went to the sheriff, who would lead them into a trap. Who would suspect that sour old woman of being one of Texas’s meanest, deadliest robbers?
The town had cleared out as those who’d attended the social went home and closed their doors. Night was coming. The sky was already gray. Where the hell was Sarah?
As they walked down the boardwalk, their booted footsteps echoing ominously in the quiet dusk, Deacon Moss finally spoke up. “You ever touch Rosie again and I will kill you,” he said in a low voice.
Joe unconsciously rubbed his jaw. He had no intention of ever touching Rosie, or any woman other than Sarah, again. Still, he didn’t think Moss would believe him if he said so. “You get that proprietary about a woman, you might as well go ahead and marry her,” he said as he looked past a dirty window into the deserted general store.
“Marry her?” Moss’s voice raised slightly. “I ain’t never gonna get married.”
If he wasn’t so damn scared at the moment, he might have actually smiled. A few weeks ago, hadn’t he harbored the same thoughts? No ties for him, by golly, no promises to make and keep. “It’s not so bad,” Joe said softly. “Hell, you might even like it.”
Behind him, Moss snorted.
“Forget it, then,” Joe said. “Let Rosie marry somebody else.”
Before Moss had a chance to respond, Joe stepped from the boardwalk and into the deserted street. Not so much as a breath of wind stirred. By God, Sarah was not going to be out there all night. Alone. In the dark. With Tristan Butler and his hellish mother.
He raised his six-shooter in the air and fired once. The sound echoed through the town, reverberating off the empty businesses and the darkening sky.
“Tristan Butler, you sorry son of a bitch!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, circling all the while to keep an eye out for movement, his gun ready, his heart pumping. “Only a lily-livered coward hides out like this. Show your ugly face!” He was answered by complete, deep silence.
“They’re not buying it,” Moss muttered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw movement. In response to the same motion, Moss spun around and drew his weapon. Mayor Drake, disturbed by the commotion and carrying a weapon of his own, stepped onto the street. “What the hell are you doing, Shorter?”
Joe waved the idiot back. “Stay out of this, Drake,” he ordered softly. “Go find yourself a nice, safe hole to hide in.”
Drake backed away.
Once again, the street was deserted. People had to know what was going on, they had to be watching.
Joe fired into the air again. “Goddammit, Butler! Show yourself!”
The man who stepped into the street, a good five buildings down, was not Tristan Butler. No matter. Sheriff Morris Potter would do just fine, for the moment.
“Where is she?” Joe asked as he stalked down the middle of the street.
“Don’t make trouble, Shorter,” Potter warned. He held his own unholstered six-shooter, ready to do battle if necessary.
“I want my wife,” Joe said as he drew near. “Now.”
Without warning, the sheriff drew his weapon and positioned himself to fire. As if on automatic, Joe’s arm popped up, he aimed and squeezed the trigger. The sheriff’s shot went wide. Joe’s didn’t.
“Behind you!” At the sound of Moss’s shout, Joe spun. He was too late. Tristan Butler had crept up to the rear while he’d been engaged with the sheriff. Butler’s gun was raised and steady, and Joe found himself smack dab in the man’s sights. He held his breath as gunfire split the air again.
Tristan Butler fell, his unfired gun in his hand, and Deacon Moss lowered his smoking weapon. For a split second all was silent again. He still didn’t know where Sarah was, or what had become of her.
Before Joe could thank Moss for saving his skin, a screaming Lottie Handy ran into the street, appearing without warning from between two buildings. Joe’s heart thudded much too hard and fast. The screaming woman practically dragged a bound Sarah with her. Distraught over her son’s shooting, she still had the sense to keep Sarah close and use her as a shield. No one was getting off a clean shot.
Lottie Handy knelt in the dirt beside her son, dragging Sarah down with her so that she was on her knees in the street. One strong hand tightly restrained Sarah, the other picked up Butler’s weapon. Sarah set her eyes on Joe, and he felt that gaze to his toes. Dammit, she was scared. She was hurting. And he didn’t have a shot.
“You killed him,” Lottie said, softly, but loud enough for Joe to hear on the quiet street at the end of this long, long day.
He had to do something. The sight of Sarah in that woman’s hands, the knowledge that at any moment the unthinkable could happen … “It’s over,” he said, taking a step toward Lottie Handy—Charlie Lockhart—and Sarah. “Let Sarah go.”
The widow came to her feet quickly, Butler’s gun steady in her hand. Sarah was yanked to her feet and held before Lottie like a shield. “You killed my baby, my only child.” There were no tears for Charlotte Handy; just venom. “You shot him,” she said as she raised Butler’s weapon. Joe watched in horror as the widow turned the gun on Sarah.
“Hold it!” Deacon Moss leapt between Joe and the advancing Mrs. Handy. He gave the woman a big smile, as if he thought his charm might somehow save this situation. “He didn’t shoot your boy. I did. And it was self-defense, you can’t blame a man for that. There’s no reason to threaten the pretty lady….”
Because Moss stood between Joe and Mrs. Handy, Joe didn’t see the gun change direction. It fired, his heart stopped, and Moss went perfectly still for a long moment. He crumpled to the ground.
From somewhere, Joe heard Rosie scream.
“What a fool,” Mrs. Handy muttered. As she turned the barrel of the gun toward Sarah again, Mayor Drake stepped quietly from the shadows.
Would this never end? Hell, the mayor was in on the whole thing, too? He should’ve known. He’d never liked the bastard, not from the first time he’d seen his fat, red face. A crooked sheriff and a crooked mayor. What else could an outlaw ask for?
Moss was down, Rosie was crying, and Lottie Handy looked as if she were a split second away from pulling the trigger again.
Drake lifted his rifle as if he knew how to use it, pointing the barrel steadily at Mrs. Handy. From his angle he had a clear shot. “Let her go, Lottie,” he demanded.
When Lottie turned her attention to Drake, Joe made his move, leaping past a prone and motionless Deacon Moss to grab the gun from the widow’s hand and pull Sarah away. At two against one, and disarmed, Charlotte Handy raised her hands in surrender.
Through her tears, Rosie stared at the bloodstain high on Deacon’s chest. He was still breathing, so the bullet must’ve missed his heart. But the injury was bad. Oh, it was very, very bad.
“Deacon?” she whispered, afraid that even though he was breathing he would never open his eyes again.
Joe bound the hands of the woman who had shot Deacon, and then handed her over to the mayor. Drake, with the help of a few citizens who’d made belated appearances, led her toward the jail.
She forgot them all when Deacon’s eyes fluttered open. “Rosie?”
“I’m here,” she answered.
“I sure didn’t mean to get myself shot, Sugarplum, but I couldn’t let that awful woman shoot your friend.” His voice was weak, but stronger than she’d expected. That strength gave her hope. “I know how much she means to you.”
“You’ll be okay,” she said, not quite believing her own words. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
He didn’t try to look at the wound or feel for it. Instead he took her hand and looked her in the eye. “Marry me, Rosie.”
She sniffled, and the tears began to fall in earnest. “You’re only asking because you think you’re going to die. That’s not fair.”
“I’m not gonna die! And even if I was, that’s not why I’m asking you to marry me.” His voice was too weak and soft, and the hand that held hers trembled.
“Why now?” she whispered.
Impossibly, he smiled. “It just all kinda came together, you know? That bullet hit me, and all I could think about was you. It was like everything stopped, and I was just hanging there with nothing on my mind but your face. Your smile.” He stopped talking to take an easy, shallow breath. “And I remembered what that Joe White fella said right before all hell broke loose, about how if I didn’t marry you someone else likely would. I didn’t like that idea much.”
“We can talk about this later,” Rosie said, afraid he’d hurt himself if he kept talking.
Deacon shook his head, gently and slowly. “No, I’ve got to say this now.”
Rosie laid a hand in his hair and leaned close. “All right.”
“I’m not jealous anymore, not of Joe White or anyone else,” he whispered. “None of that matters. I don’t care about the past. I don’t care that I wasn’t your first and only man.”
She started to pull away from him, afraid of what he’d say next.
“I just wanna be the last man,” he whispered as he closed his eyes again. “That’s all I want.”
Sarah and Joe were headed this way, stepping quickly. Rosie leaned forward and gave Deacon a soft kiss. “Deacon Moss,” she whispered. “You’re the best.”
Tristan Butler was dead, Sheriff Potter and Deacon Moss were both severely injured, and Lottie Handy was locked up in the Jacob’s Crossing jail.
Along with the incompetent doctor and Rosie, Sarah saw to the two wounded men in the doctor’s less-than-sterile office. She turned her back on Joe when he tried to talk to her, using the two injured men as an excuse. She wasn’t ready to talk to him, not yet. Maybe not ever.
He’d used her. Why was she surprised? Hadn’t he told her how important his job was? How dangerous the outlaws he chased were? Perhaps he didn’t think it at all wrong that he’d used her as cover and then as bait for his trap, that he’d stolen and lied and made her fall in love with him so everyone would think he was truly Joe Shorter.
He wasn’t Joe Shorter. There was no Joe Shorter. The man who kept trailing along behind her asking if she was all right was Deputy U.S. Marshal Joe White, and she didn’t know him. She didn’t know him at all.
When the doctor pronounced the sheriff dead, tears sprang to Sarah’s eyes, though not for the sheriff, not for Rosie and for the man she hovered over. They weren’t even tears of sorrow, but tears of absolute rage.
When the doctor stepped up to examine Moss, Joe stepped around Sarah and shoved the doctor aside. “You’re drunk,” he said as he ripped away Moss’s shirt and began to poke at the wound himself. “I’ll cut this bullet out myself.”
Rosie wanted to help but couldn’t bear to watch, so she left Deacon’s side and came to stand beside Sarah. Exhausted, she draped an arm over Sarah’s shoulder. A moment later she was holding on for dear life and sobbing quietly. Sarah, who had rarely been touched before coming to Jacob’s Crossing, put her arms around Rosie and let the woman cry on her shoulder.
Joe worked quietly and quickly, once Deacon had passed out. Only once did he lift his eyes to her, to deliver a cutting, questioning glance. Outside it was fully night, now. Black. Dark as pitch. Only the light of a few brightly burning lamps lit the room.
What would she do when Joe left? And she was quite sure, watching him remove the bullet from Deacon Moss’s body, that he would leave. She couldn’t see him living a quiet life, farming, raising seven children. Loving her. Oh, he might like to come through and visit on occasion, as he’d mentioned once before, but she knew her heart couldn’t bear watching him come and go. Wondering when he might knock on her door. Agonizing over how long he’d stay. It would be torture.
He quietly declared Deacon’s surgery a success. The bullet was removed, and according to Joe the damage was not as bad as it might’ve been. Deacon had lost a lot of blood, he warned, and anything could happen … but the kid was alive and strong, and the outlook was good. Rosie took up a hopeful post at his side.
Joe washed his hands, but his shirt was stained with Moss’s blood. Sarah shivered as he came to her and placed his hands on her face, forcing her to look up at him.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
Sarah stiffened and tried her best to be cool, distant, precise. “My wrists are chafed,” she answered. “And I had a nasty scare. Other than that, I’m quite well, thank you.”
He frowned at her. “What the hell is wrong with you? Dammit, I was scared out of my wits.”
“Why is that? Did some part of your master plan go awry?” She took his hands in hers and removed them from her face. “All’s well that end’s well, isn’t that what they say in your business? I’d say that as long as Rosie’s beau recovers, this fiasco ends quite well.”
“I never wanted them to touch you, to drag you into this,” he whispered.
Sarah wanted to believe him, but she didn’t. She’d been a fool to think he could truly love her.
The door to the doctor’s office swung open, and four armed strangers strode into the room. The one in the lead, an older, tough-looking man, spoke up.
“The mayor said I’d find you here,” he said, looking at and speaking to Joe. “Looks like we missed all the fun.”
Sarah turned her back to Joe and smiled too sweetly at the man. “How do you do?” she said with a smile. “I’m so sorry you missed all the fun, Mr….”
“Marshal Webb,” he said, obviously annoyed by the pleasantries.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard all about you. I’m Sarah Sh—Sarah Prince. I’ve been assisting Deputy White in his duties here, pretending to be his wife so no one would suspect that he was anything other than a lowly farmer. It made perfect sense, for who would suspect a man with a clinging wife and seven children?”
“Sarah…” Joe said, a warning in his voice.
“And I did so well at that charade,” she said, her voice growing only slightly angry, “that he decided I might do double duty and serve as a decoy. It worked quite well, as you can see.”
He touched her shoulder and she stepped away so his hand fell. She couldn’t bear to turn and look at him. “Since the bad men are dead or behind bars and the world is a safer place tonight, I will assume I’m finished with my duties and can get on with my life.”
Marshal Webb looked more confused than anything else. “I thank you, Mrs.—”
“Miss Prince,” she corrected.
“Miss Prince,” he said, and then he looked over her shoulder to Joe. “Your telegram was cryptic, but I had no idea you’d gone so deeply undercover. Brilliant, White.”
Sarah’s snort was so soft she doubted anyone would hear her, as she brushed past Webb. The three men behind the U.S. marshal, deputies like Joe she assumed, moved aside to let her pass. She heard Joe curse and call her name, but she didn’t slow her step or look back.
Once she was on the safety of the dark boardwalk, she let the tears she hadn’t wanted Joe to see fall freely. With every step fresh tears flowed. She had been such an idiot to believe his lies! He’d never intended to stay. He’d never loved her. It had all been part of his plan.
“Sarah!”
She increased her step when she heard Joe call her name, hurrying away from him.
“Dammit, Sarah.” He ran now, his big booted feet noisy on the boardwalk behind her.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she said when he was close enough to hear her soft words.
“Well, I sure as hell have plenty to say to you,” he said, grabbing her arm and spinning her about. “Dammit, do you really think I’d purposely put you in danger?”
“To catch Charlie Lockhart?” she asked. There were tears in her eyes, she knew, but her voice was calm and clear. “Yes, I do.”
He shook his head. “No.”
She stared up at him, anger chasing her tears away. “Answer one question for me, Stumpy. Why did you stay? When the judge made his ruling, and the girls were safe, why did you stay?”
He hesitated.
“Was it perhaps because you saw Tristan Butler on the street?” she asked crisply. “Was it perhaps because you found yourself smack-dab in the middle of a nest of thieves, and decided it would be prudent to remain Joe Shorter for a while longer?” She lowered her voice, in case there were curious ears nearby. “Did you think it would be smart to have an adoring wife as cover? Make her love you and no one will ever suspect that the marriage isn’t real, that you’re not precisely who you claim to be.” Her lower lip trembled. “Pretend to love her, and no one will ever suspect—”
“No,” Joe said, shaking his head slowly. “I never intended—”
“You never intended anything at all, did you?” she whispered. “You certainly never intended to stay here any longer than it took to catch your outlaws.”
How could he possibly defend himself? She knew him too well.
“It’s what I do,” he said softly.
Sarah turned her back on him and walked away.
“Where are you going?” he called as he joined her.
“Home.”
“What are you going to do,” he snapped. “Walk?”
“I suppose.”
He mumbled, probably something horribly obscene, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, hell, I’ll give you a ride.”
“No, thank you,” she said crisply. “I’d prefer to walk.”
This time she heard his curse quite clearly, as he reached out, grabbed her, and flung her over his shoulder. “You are not walking home, Miss Priss,” he said angrily. “I don’t care if I have to hog-tie you, you’re riding home with me.”
“Unhand me, Stumpy,” she said primly.
“I don’t think so,” he muttered.
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Chapter Twenty-five
Once he had Sarah on Snowdrop, she didn’t try to escape. She did glance down once, though, as if judging the distance of the fall she’d have to take if she jumped.
