Outlaw Love. Judith Stacy
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stomach twisted into a knot at the sound of that name. “Kelsey Rodgers at the hotel?”
“Pa put a shoe on her mare this morning,” Deuce patted the horse, and it. nuzzled his shirt, knocking him back a step.
Clay patted the big mare. “What about Kelsey? Has she been out of town having babies?”
“Kelsey? Shoot, no. She’s nothing like Holly. Fact is, she and Holly don’t even speak.”
He didn’t know why he’d asked about her in the first place, but now he had to know more. “Why’s that?”
The mare pulled back. Deuce grabbed the halter with both hands. “Bad blood between their families. Emmet Rodgers—that’s Kelsey’s father—founded the town, along with Mr. Morgan. They’ve been partners since they were both young. They got rich together. The way I hear it, Nate Duncan thought Mr. Rodgers had done him wrong in a business deal, and they’ve been feuding ever since.”
Clay took hold of the mare to keep it from dragging Deuce across the street. “So Kelsey’s family is wealthy? Why is she running the hotel?”
“Her pa’s busy running other businesses, or something. I can’t remember the last time he even came into town.” He shrugged. “I expect that suits the Duncans just fine. Too bad, though. Kelsey and Holly used to be good friends. But since her brother—”
The mare tossed its head, pulling Deuce off his feet. Clay held the horse with a firm grip until Deuce got a hand on the halter again.
Deuce gave the horse a wary look. “I’ve got to go.”
“You’d better get back to the livery before your pa comes after both of us.”
Deuce’s stomach turned over, and headed off down the street leading the mare. It seemed nervous with the other horses around, so Deuce cut through the alley.
“Hey, boy! Deuce! Get yourself over here!”
He turned and saw Luther’s face wedged between the bars of the jail house window. He froze in place.
“What’s the gol-darn matter, boy? You think you’re too good to talk to me now?” Luther taunted him.
Reluctantly Deuce led the mare to the window. He glanced up and down the alley. “I could get in big trouble for talking to you again.”
Luther’s eyes bulged. “Well, what about me? I’m sitting here in the gol-darn jail cell, fixin’ to go to prison. How’s that for trouble?”
“I know, but—”
“And you don’t even have a howdy-do to say to me? After all I done for you? After the way I took you in when your own pa wouldn’t even pay you no mind whatsoever?”
Deuce’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“’Course I’m right.” Luther pressed his face closer to the bars. “What have you been up to?”
Deuce jangled the lead rope. “Helping at the livery.
Luther squinted, then pointed and snapped his fingers. “Where’d you get that horse, boy?”
“I’m taking it back to Miss Kelsey at the hotel.”
His eyes widened. “Kelsey? That Rodgers girl at the hotel? Is it hers?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t you know where that there horse come from, boy? It’s the one that went down with them dang-fool Schoolyard Boys. Don’t you recognize it?”
Deuce looked at the mare, then at Luther. “No. I guess with all the commotion, I didn’t pay much attention.”
“That’s ‘cause you were puking your guts out while I was getting shot up,” Luther barked. He stroked his chin. “Now why would a nice little lady like that Rodgers gal have a horse that was used by a bunch of outlaws?”
“I don’t know.”
Luther’s brows drew together. “I’ll have to study on that a spell.”
“Look, Luther, I’ve got to go. If my pa finds out—”
“I’m stuck in this hole until the circuit judge gets around again, and all you’re worried about is your pa.” Luther waved him closer. “Get over here, boy.”
He glanced up and down the alley again, then ventured closer to the window. “What?”
“I’m getting powerful thirsty in this here cell,” Luther whispered. “How ‘bout you bring me a bottle?”
“No. I can’t do that.” Deuce backed up a step.
“You owe me, boy.” Luther pointed an accusing finger at him. “On account of you, I got shot, arrested and thrown in this here jail. I coulda got you in with the biggest gang in the state. Scully would have taught you everything he knowed about outlawing. You’d have been somebody, boy. And look at you now, shoveling up after horses in your pa’s livery. What kind of life is that?”
Deuce shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know, Luther.”
“Come back here after dark and bring me a bottle.”
“I’ve got to go.” Deuce pulled the mare down the alley.
“You better be back here! You owe me!”
He didn’t answer, didn’t even look back, just hurried through the alley and over to the Eldon Hotel. Deuce put the mare in the small paddock, then stuck his head inside the open kitchen door. It smelled of freshly baked bread.
Etta Mae turned from the stove, dripping water. “Hmm? Yes? What is it, dear?”
Aware now of how long he’d been away from the livery, Deuce bounced anxiously on his toes. “Is Miss Kelsey here?”
“Oh, no, dear.” Etta Mae turned back to the stove. “She went out to visit her pa this afternoon. Seems he’s not feeling well. And she was just out there yesterday, too.”
“When will she be back?”
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t expect her back. She took her carpetbag with her. Left some time ago.”
“Just tell her the mare is in the paddock.”
Deuce went down the alley, but in the opposite direction, away from the jail. He ran all the way back to the livery.
Clay ducked into the express office and walked up to the counter. The sheriff had told him—three times—when the stage would be through Eldon, but he wanted to check the schedule himself, as well as some other facts.
Otis Bean, the senior agent, looked up from his neatly arranged desk. A green visor crowned his bald head, and black armbands fit loosely around his crisp white shirtsleeves. In the corner, at a much smaller desk, sat a young man, his dark head bend forward, diligently shuffling through several stacks of papers; junior agents worked hard on their way up.
Otis Bean peered over the top of his spectacles. “Yes?”
Clay braced his hands against the counter. “I’m Marshal Chandler. I need to talk to you about the stage robberies.”
Otis looked Clay up and down, and his expression soured. “Well, you can be sure it had nothing to do with my stagecoaches—I don’t care what Jack Morgan says. He might own everything in this town, but he doesn’t own this office.”
“Seems a mite peculiar, don’t you think?” Clay hung his thumbs in his gun belt. “The only time the stage is robbed, Jack Morgan’s payroll is on it.”
“Hoodlums.” Otis tossed his head. “Don’t blame me if you law people can’t keep the stage lines safe for decent folk to travel.”
Clay inclined his head. “Makes me wonder who else knew the payroll would be on the