The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford
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Instead he’d chosen a grueling cattle drive. Some men just weren’t made for retirement.
John’s horse sidestepped and he carefully balanced the hot liquid over the ground.
The older man poured another. “What’s the story on them girls?”
“Hard to say,” John replied. “Looks like the deputy sheriff was rounding them up. Searching for pickpockets. Put ’em up in a sportin’ house while he sorted out the details.”
Pops scoffed. “Why’d he take them to a sportin’ house?”
John sipped his coffee and winced against the heat. “Didn’t ask.”
“What do you think?”
“I think something doesn’t feel right.”
They’d dropped out of the sky onto his head. Literally. Then Moira had inadvertently knocked the sheriff’s deputy senseless. It’s fitting you’ll die in fire, the deputy had said. That threat felt personal. Had they encountered each other before? Had Moira had a previous brush with the law?
The girls were still sleeping which gave John time for thinking. Too much time. The law in town was rounding up pickpockets. And not just any pickpockets. They were specifically looking for young girls.
While Moira was definitely a woman, she could be mistaken for an adolescent with her girlish skirts, petite stature and fresh-faced smile. The gang he’d encountered in Buffalo Gap had worked as a team. One member distracted a fellow while another lifted his belongings.
Was one of his unlikely charges in possession of Mr. Grey’s watch? John’s thoughts immediately lit on Darcy. Of all the girls, she had the hardest edge. While John was tempted to speculate, he shook off any supposition. All he could do was place them in someone else’s safekeeping.
Pops stood and stretched his fisted hands toward the sky. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll go into town this morning. See if I can get the lay of the land while I’m posting a notice for a new crew.” See if I’m a wanted man. John didn’t suppose assaulting the sheriff’s deputy was a crime without punishment.
In the crisp light of dawn he couldn’t easily dismiss the way Moira had looked at him last evening. As though he’d already disappointed her. Ruth Ann had looked at him that way once, when he’d playfully asked her to marry him and she’d declared him unfit. At least he’d given Ruth Ann a reason. What reason did Moira have for doubting him? Though her opinion shouldn’t matter, it did. He didn’t like her looking at him as if she’d sized him up and was waiting for him to show weakness. To fail.
John shook his head. It was better this way. He didn’t need the distraction. And Miss Moira O’Mara was definitely a distraction.
“I’ll watch the girls while you’re gone,” Pops spoke, interrupting John’s reverie.
“Suit yourself.” His head pounding, John gulped the last of his cooled coffee. “Be sure and hide the valuables.”
There was a good chance he’d brought a gaggle of half-size pickpockets into camp. They couldn’t get away with much, but better safe than sorry.
Pops didn’t appear concerned at the prospect. “I’ll take my chances.”
“What would the boys do?” John asked, knowing Pops would understand the question better than anyone.
The older man considered his answer as he hooked the handle of his Dutch oven with an iron rod and hoisted it over the flames. “I don’t suppose it matters what your brothers would do. They’re not here, are they?”
“The one time I wouldn’t mind a little help, and they’re not around.”
Pops grinned. “Never say God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
John stifled a sigh. If Moira was guilty of a crime, then she’d have to answer to a higher power than him. No matter what the outcome, he needed some distance between them. He had an uneasy sensation the feelings stirring in his chest wouldn’t change based on the outcome of her guilt or innocence. According to Ruth Ann, he wasn’t the sort of man people pinned their hopes on.
John’s horse sidestepped and he glanced up. Two riders appeared on the horizon. Judging by the dirt clods they kicked up in their wake, the men were coming fast. The one on the right was lanky and tall. Familiar. John groaned. Even from a distance he recognized the deputy sheriff.
He tightened his fist around the reins. “Pops, why don’t you round up the girls. We’ve got trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
John nodded toward the approaching riders. “The law has caught up with us. Looks like I don’t need to go into town after all.”
Pops threw up his arms. “What in the name of Sam Hill happened last night?” He eyed John, his speculation manifest in his watery gray eyes. “I’m guessing there’s more to the story than what you told me.”
“I might have assaulted the sheriff’s deputy.”
“Might have or did?”
“I hit him.” John shot his cook a quelling glance. He’d hoped to avoid admitting that particular transgression. “It’s a long story and I don’t have time to tell it right now. I’ll meet our company. Let the girls know we have visitors.”
Pops shook his head. “I’ll round ’em up. But you’re on your own after that. I’ve got a stew to finish.”
John glanced behind him at the quiet tent. One thing was for certain, he sure hoped Miss O’Mara unraveled knots as well as she tied them.
Moira stumbled into the early morning light and held the tent flap aside for the other girls. She stretched and yawned, then pressed her hands into the small of her back and arched.
Tony rubbed her eyes, blinked and blinked again.
Following her gaze, Moira bolted upright. The kidnapper and another man stood before them.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the orphan bunch,” the kidnapper said with a smirk.
“Stay away from us or I’ll fetch the sheriff,” Moira said.
The second man rubbed the back of his neck. “That would be me.”
Nausea rose in the back of her throat. Both men wore stars on their lapels. Though one was tarnished and dull; the other twinkled in the morning sunlight.
“Some of you have met already,” the second man continued. “Perhaps more formal introductions are in order. My name is Sheriff Taylor. This is my deputy, Wendell Ervin.”
Moira glared at the deputy sheriff. One shirttail hung loose from his sagging, brown trousers while greasy stains from a long-forgotten meal interrupted the black-and-gray satin stripes lining his vest like jailhouse bars. He’d removed his hat revealing a crown of thinning, sandy-colored hair pressed into place by layers of dirt and grime. A goose-egg bruise stood out between his shaggy eyebrows and purple half moons flared from the inside corners of his eyes.
He leered at her, showing a yellowed nightmare of a gap-toothed smile. Suppressing a delicate shudder, Moira leaned away. His close proximity revealed the bloodshot whites of his faded blue eyes. He pointed a crooked finger at her. “You’ll be spending the rest of your life in jail.”
She might have felt a modicum of satisfaction from his self-inflicted injury if she wasn’t terrified of his threat. Moira figured the situation could only degrade from there.
While the deputy swaggered and postulated, it was clear he wasn’t in charge. The man who’d introduced himself as the sheriff managed to overshadow his deputy with nothing more than a dismissive glare. Unlike Wendell, there wasn’t a speck