Way Back Page 7

  “Boost me up, will you?” I requested of Axton.

  “Surely will,” he said, doing so, but I could tell he had no idea of my actual intent.

  I shifted my hips, orienting myself to the feel of an unsaddled horse – it felt different, not nearly as secure, and though I could not imagine riding this way for any length of time, the distance I intended to ride just now was short. I was thankful the mare wore a bridle and gripped the slim leather reins, one in each fist.

  I looked down at Ax. “I’ll be right back.”

  Axton made a small sound of protest but I’d already heeled the mare and was beyond hearing him; I heard only a furious buzzing in my ears.

  The marshal sat astride a beautiful gelding. I had, in fact, never seen such a gorgeous horse, observing this as I rode near as though once-removed from myself. His mount was taller at the withers than mine by a good three inches and its auburn mane and tail glinted richly in the slanting afternoon sunlight; by contrast, its hide was a bright, silvered gray. At the lower joints of its legs, the color shifted to rust-red.

  “Marshal Rawley?” I inquired sharply, bringing the mare to a halt just off his horse’s right flank.

  The marshal, with a long cigar held between his lips, had been engaged in reading a small piece of paper (I could see, now that I was close to him), his booted left foot out of the stirrup and braced casually on the iron endcap of the hitching post, and turned now to regard me with an insulting lack of urgency.

  Time lurched to a halt as I studied this man I had never met. The daily sights and sounds of Howardsville snapped outward and away, as if stretched on long, taut cords. I heard only the rushing of my blood, the way it would sound if my hands were clamped over both ears.

  And my heart. Furious and hot, it wanted to beat through my chest.

  The marshal had a long, straight nose and a thick black mustache which obscured his top lip, leaving only the lower in sight. He was dressed in a gray leather vest, much worn, over a collared white shirt, open at the throat and with sleeves rolled back. His eyes were in the shadow of a wide-brimmed black hat but they held steady on mine with irises almost as dark as his hat.

  He blinked once and seemed to draw himself together, removing the cigar from his mouth to inquire, “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  His silver horse snorted as if to contradict this polite question.

  I summoned a confrontational tone. “Never mind who I am! I’m here to bring your attention to a woman who –” And then I faltered, my bravado leaking away as I second-guessed my actions. Celia would kill me. She would despise this potential scene I was causing, though no one seemed to be paying much attention.

  The marshal’s black eyebrows arched, but in an amused way, I could tell. He prompted, “A woman who…”

  He was younger than I’d imagined him but still probably a good five years older than me. There was something maddening about him and I felt tricked, terribly disoriented, as I stared in frustration at his face. He was possessed of a capable, self-assured aura I could tell women found disarming; he was also unreasonably handsome and it was not difficult to see why Celia had been willing to save herself for him the last time he was in town, fat lot of good that did her now. His marshal’s badge, attached to his gray vest, winked in the sun.

  “A woman who needs you,” I said at last; unfortunately, this was too indirect.

  A half-smile lifted the right side of his mustache; he took a deliberate moment to tuck the paper within a vest pocket and draw on his cigar. I battled the urge to knock it out of his hand. Releasing a stream of smoke, he drawled, “Ma’am, I’m on business at the moment. But later, if you’d allow me, I’d be downright pleased to attend to your needs.”

  “You two-bit asshole,” I sputtered, hardly able to choke the words past the lump of rage in my throat. I felt a small spurt of satisfaction to see the way his expression changed, registering surprise. Sensing my mood, my new horse danced sideways and I tugged her back in line, tightening my thighs around her sides. I glared at the marshal.

  “A woman in men’s trousers, with an unsaddled horse, calling me names?” he asked, retaining an air of calm, but I could sense a certain level of astonishment. He looked a little more closely and commented, “Isn’t that Doc Turn’s horse?” That half-smile again as his gaze flickered briefly over my breasts and hips. Returning his eyes to my face, he commented wryly, “Well, you’re by far the loveliest horse thief I’ve ever laid eyes upon, that’s God’s truth. Though, you won’t get far without a saddle, I feel I must tell you.”

  Fuming little volcanoes erupted across my midsection. Was he…did he actually think he could flirt with me?

  “This is my horse. And don’t change the subject!” I hissed, gripping the mare’s reins. She was agitated by my rising voice and what was surely my resultant body language.

  “I am not changing the subject.” He appeared deeply amused, his dark eyes holding fast to mine.

  I straightened my spine. “I would like to talk with you, if you have a moment.”

  “Regarding what, exactly?” he asked, and I found myself too flustered to respond. To my further irritation, when I continued to sit in stubborn silence he finally said, “Suit yourself,” and dismounted as gracefully as a dancer, proceeding to tie his beautiful horse to the post, turning his back on me.

  I leaped from the mare; she nickered and snorted, but I clutched her lead line and stalked directly to the marshal’s side. He looked down at me with no small amount of surprise; he was much taller than I was, broad through the shoulder but otherwise very lean. He gave me two seconds of attention before finishing his task. He then expertly tamped out his cigar and tucked it into yet another vest pocket.

  “Regarding a private matter,” I said, looping my horse’s reins about the hitching post.

  “Ma’am, I don’t believe we’ve ever met before this very afternoon.” He stood with fists planted on hips, a large pistol strapped around his waist, but despite this masculine and rather intimidating pose, I did not step aside or away. I remained in the sunlight while he stood in the shade afforded by the overhang. I shielded my eyes with one hand and continued to glare as he said, “Forgive me for wondering just what private matter you and I may share.”

  “It’s not about me.” I lowered my voice. “It’s about Celia Baker.”

  “The whore?” he asked, though not maliciously. His tone indicated he simply wanted clarification. “What about her?”

  “How dare you call her that?”

  He opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to think better, and shifted his weight to the opposite hip. He finally said, “For such a lovely little thing, you have a fair amount of fire in you. And besides, Celia is a whore. I’m doubtful she’d be upset with me for the saying so.”

  “Men,” I raged, nearly vibrating with emotion. He probably thought I would let it drop if he piled on the compliments. I seethed, “You’re all the same.”

  “Ma’am, I admit I’m downright confused by all of this.” He offered his right hand and invited, “Why don’t we begin afresh? My name is Miles William Rawley, marshal to these parts. May I have the pleasure of your name?”

  Before I knew what I was doing I reached up and flicked my middle finger against his chin, as hard as I could. He yelped in surprise. I whirled away in a hurry and was planning to climb atop my horse and flee, but he grabbed my elbow and forcibly kept me from forward motion. I struggled, attempting without success to yank my elbow from his firm grasp. I whirled around, venomous, and kicked his shin.

  You idiot. You didn’t want to make a scene and now look.

  “Dammit, would you stop?” he all but growled, releasing my arm.

  Axton was suddenly there, flying from Ranger and hurrying to my side. He tucked his arm around my elbow and tipped his hat at the marshal, saying apologetically, “Marshal, please excuse Ruthann.”

  “Ruthann,” the marshal repeated, with a subtle air of triumph. “Well, that’s somet
hing, at least.”

  “Let go of me,” I grumbled at Axton, from whose gentle grip I easily tugged free.

  I tucked loose curls behind my ears, feeling more like an idiot (not to mention a sloppy, tangled-hair idiot) than ever, as the marshal straightened to his full height and stared right back at me; confusion and disquiet radiated from him. His chest expanded with a breath; he demanded, “Ruthann, what?”

  “This is Miss Ruthann Rawley,” Axton answered, and the marshal’s eyebrows drew together.

  “Who is your father?” he asked next. “Have you kin in this area?”

  “She doesn’t know,” Axton, ever helpful, supplied. “She can’t remember a thing but her name. She was injured real bad when Uncle Branch and me found her earlier this summer.”

  “Found her?” the marshal repeated. His frown deepened and a horizontal crease appeared at the bridge of his nose. “Injured?”

  “Stop talking about me like I’m not standing here!”

  “I’m sorry, Ruthie, I was just trying to help.”

  I ignored Ax for the moment and glared fiercely at Miles Rawley. “Don’t bother asking because I don’t have any answers.”

  “My brother homesteads west of town,” the marshal said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Grantley Rawley is his name. The rest of our family resides in Iowa. We’ve no relatives in this area, that I am aware.”

  “You’re soon to have a child in this area,” I said then, a low blow. All thoughts of what Celia might think about me blathering her news flew right out of my head.

  “Come again?” the marshal demanded.

  “You made Celia Baker pregnant. She is going to have your baby, come winter.”

  His eyes drove heatedly into mine. “How do you come to know this?”

  “Because she told me,” I said, spurred on by angry righteousness. “And you should do right by her.”

  I watched him struggle for, and find, composure. He said quietly, “There’s no way of knowing whose child Celia might be carrying. I shared her bed last spring, that is God’s truth, but so did countless others.”

  “Oh, easy for you to say!” I cried, riled up all over again; I’d felt a fleeting pang of sympathy. “This way you don’t have to claim a shred of responsibility, do you?”

  “She is a whore.” He appeared incensed, eyes and voice ablaze.

  “She is a woman who is pregnant with your baby!” I yelled.

  Poor Axton was as red as his hair. Other people in our midst sounded like nothing more than chickens, clucking with gossip.

  “I’ll not entertain that notion another moment.” The marshal made an abrupt about-face and headed for the entrance of the building I’d failed to realize we stood near – the jailhouse.

  I heard Axton murmur, “Ruthie, c’mon…” but that didn’t stop me from darting after the marshal and clutching the back of his vest, curling my fingers along the bottom edge to gain a handhold on the smooth leather. His back was hard and very warm against my knuckles, even with the material of his shirt between us, and just like that my knees went weak. It took everything I had to keep my gaze steady on Miles Rawley’s face as he turned with deliberate and distinctly angry movements. My hand slipped free from his vest and slid around his waist before I snatched it away.

  “I’ll thank you to leave me be regarding this matter.” His voice was low and rough.

  “That would be so convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” I was failing miserably to disguise my agitation.

  “This is absolutely none of your affair.” He bent closer and pointed his index finger at my chest, not touching me; more to emphasize his point. And in the space of several hot, frantic heartbeats I swore I saw him in a hundred different incarnations –

  But not exactly him…

  What in the hell…

  Clean-shaven and grinning, laughing and teasing me, making me laugh in return; his eyelids just slightly lowered, as though in extreme pleasure, his forearms braced on either side of my head and my thighs curving around his hips; my hands buried in his thick hair as he licked a hot path downward along my belly…

  I blinked, gasping a hard, painful breath. I had to step away.

  He reached to prevent this and caught my upper arms in an unforgiving grip. His eyes narrowed, his brows lowered – his expression could only be described as staggered. Had he also experienced the same unexpected blast of images? My heart was flaying me from the inside out. He shook me just a little, his confusion as palpable as my own.

  “Let go.” My words emerged as a pathetic huff of air. I shrugged free of his grip and he allowed it. I could hardly manage the steadiness required to put one foot before the other and did not look back as I unwound the reins, climbed up the hitching post fence so I was able to mount my unsaddled horse, and then heeled her; I only knew I needed to get away.

  I cantered my mare far into the countryside, out into the foothills, where the air was tangy with the scent of sagebrush. I let the sun touch my face, trying desperately to recapture other touches, other sensations, unsettled to such a degree I felt ill. I halted the mare and limped down from her back, my heart aching so severely I hunched around my midsection. I crouched near the mare’s front legs; she nosed the part in my loose, messy hair. I curled both arms around my head and rocked back and forth.

  “Who am I?” I moaned, over and over. I shifted, sliding both hands over my belly and then lower, shuddering at the strength and urgency of my need.

  “I was happy,” I whispered. Agony bit into me, hard enough that my chest would not expand. I crossed my forearms over my breasts and clutched my shoulders. I felt like I might come apart if I didn’t hold as tightly as I was able. “Once, I was happy.”

  Chapter Six

  “BILL LITTLE’S BEEN DEAD A GOOD FOUR YEARS,” SAID THE man leaning over Rilla’s bar. “So why the hell is he being named in them killings out near Yankton? And what about the cattle rustling?”

  “I asked the marshal hisself just today,” said the man lounging alongside him. “Rawley said it ain’t Bill Little, said he seen Little dead with his own eyes, but I dunno…”

  The speculation had been rolling endlessly the last two days, ever since the marshal’s return to Howardsville. Talk of criminal activity was on everyone’s lips. As afternoon bled to evening, I lingered on a stool at the extreme end of the bar, believing myself all but invisible, listening to the swirling gossip, which was only heightened by the never-ending supply of hard liquor. Rilla encouraged gossip; she said nervous customers were more easily persuaded to part with their money.

  “Some of it’s been stirred up since fancy-man Yancy sent his men to town,” said someone else. “That son of a bitch and his railroad interests. You recall Yancy was the one fronting the gold for Bill Little’s expenses. That was the talk, back in ’seventy-six…”

  “Some said Yancy was the one who raised a posse to go after Carter, back when.”

  “Marshal Rawley rode with Carter then, you’ll recall. Riding a fine line with the law.”

  “Rawley’s gotta obey the rules now,” said another, and they all chuckled.

  I put my forehead onto my arms atop the bar, feeling lower than I had since I’d been found in the prairie outside of Howardsville. I’d been unable to surface from the trench into which I’d fallen since my confrontation with the marshal; I could not explain why, even to myself. I’d avoided Branch and Axton for two days, the longest I’d been apart from them since they’d found me.

  I missed them so much it hurt; I hadn’t seen my new horse in as much time but knew Axton was taking care of her. I’d lied to him earlier, telling him my head ached too much to go for our usual ride. He was so concerned; he never considered the fact that I was lying. Now, having lied and been subsequently left at Rilla’s, I wallowed in my own depression, eavesdropping on conversations about the one man I wanted more than anything to avoid.

  For the first twenty-four hours after telling Miles Rawley the news that was not mine to tell I’d walked on needle
points, expecting him to stride through the swinging doors and demand an audience with Celia. I imagined Celia’s subsequent and justifiable fury, but as the entire next day passed and I spied neither hide nor hair of the marshal (neither did I gather enough courage to inform Celia what I’d done), I assumed he’d decided to ignore the entire situation. And for whatever reason, this caused me to sink even further into despair. I’d hardly spoken a word to anyone since the afternoon Axton presented me with my new horse.

  I wanted to be riding her over the prairie right at this very moment. I needed to pick up my sorry self and walk outside. I imagined Axton and Branch eating dinner and worrying about me, and the thought gifted me with strength to lift my head. I hadn’t even thanked Branch for the horse; I was behaving like a selfish, ungrateful child. I wished with sudden fervor I’d gone with Axton this afternoon. This wish inspired a flicker of determined ambition – I realized I could walk out to their claim shanty. It wasn’t more than a few minutes on horseback. I could walk out there in a quarter of an hour. Probably even less. But then doubts crept through my head.

  You can’t walk there alone. It’s dangerous after dark.

  But it’s not far. No more than a couple of miles. You can spend the night. You can give Branch and Ax a hug and sit near the fire. You can see your horse. You haven’t even named her yet.

  The prospect of thanking Branch in person and giving my horse a proper name filled me with a sense of purpose, scraping the sharpest edges from my sadness. I stood up and began snaking my way through the bar, jammed to full capacity as evening advanced. I recognized I needed to hurry if I wanted to reach Branch’s before the full onset of night.

  “Hold up, girl.” He issued the words in a commanding tone, catching me off guard; I was so accustomed to slipping around and between, unnoticed. But then again, I wasn’t normally on the main floor at this hour. Before I could sidestep he clamped a hand around my forearm, halting my progress, and with a sinking heart I realized it was the yellow-bearded man I tried my best to avoid. He eyed my breasts, applying pressure to my arm. “When you gonna start working the floor for Rilla? I been waiting for weeks now.”