Emma and the Outlaw Page 19

  While he was carefully composing his message to Big John, Joellen happily went through a rack of dresses with her grubby hands.

  Doing his best to ignore her, Steven turned back to the counter and the attentive spinster behind it. Her hair was pulled back tight as the skin of an onion, and her two front teeth overlapped. “There is a hotel in Rileyton, isn’t there?”

  Color rose in her cheeks, as though Steven had asked her to dance naked on the ribbon counter. “Sort of. My mama takes in boarders.”

  Steven was developing a headache. Besides that, he was hungry and his muscles throbbed. “Where might I find your mama,” he asked patiently, “and what’s her name?”

  By the time he’d garnered enough details to put in the wire to Big John, Joellen had selected a frothy white dress with lots of lace and ruffles.

  “I could wear this to our wedding,” she said, beaming at him from behind a layer of dirt.

  The spinster winced when she saw those dirty fingers grasping that snow-white dress.

  “There isn’t going to be any wedding, dammit,” Steven bit out.

  Huge tears blossomed in her eyes. “He’s such a rounder,” she told the old maid. “Dragging me off into the countryside, making me cry out again and again with passion—then saying he won’t marry me.”

  The clerk gave a little gasp and laid one hand to her flat bosom. Her eyes swung wildly to Steven’s face.

  He shook a finger at Joellen. “One more word, you little hellcat. Just one more word.”

  Joellen shrank back, still clutching the dress, and Steven turned to his message to Big John. In the end he simply said Joellen was all right and staying in the only boarding house in Rileyton. He made a point of adding that he was going on with the herd.

  “Just charge this to my daddy,” Joellen said brightly, laying the white dress on the counter top. “His name is Big John Lenahan.”

  Steven ignored her and shoved the telegraph message toward the clerk, along with the coins to pay for it. “I’ll be obliged if you’ll see that Miss Lenahan gets to the boardinghouse safely.”

  The spinster swallowed and nodded.

  “Don’t you leave me after what you did to me out there in the dark!” Joellen cried, when Steven walked toward the door.

  He froze for a moment, then turned to stare at her in amazement. Two portly matrons gathered behind her like an armed guard. Then he smiled and spoke in a soft voice. “All right, sweetheart,” he said, holding out one hand. “Come along, and we’ll be married.”

  Joellen tossed the dress onto the counter and dashed toward him. He took hold of her hand, paying no mind to the spinster and the old women, and dragged her outside.

  “There’s one thing you’ll have to learn, if you’re going to be my wife,” he said. “I’m the boss, and I give the orders.”

  She blinked vapidly and sighed. “Yes, dear.”

  There was a bench nearby, sitting back against the wall of the land office, and Steven edged toward it. “Did you see the fight yesterday, when Lem Johnson didn’t want to cross the river?”

  Joellen nodded. “I was hiding in the supply wagon, and I watched t this le thing. You were masterful.”

  “If you saw what happened, you know nobody defies my orders and gets away with it. And I don’t let people tell lies about me, either.”

  Joellen swallowed, but she still looked besotted. Steven was about to cure her of that.

  He sat down on the bench, clasped Joellen by the wrist, and flung her down across his lap. She was so startled that, for a moment, she just lay there with her fanny upended.

  But when she looked back over her shoulder, she saw Steven’s hand descending and yelped in anticipation of the pain.

  His palm made a satisfying thwack, so Steven gave her another swat. Joellen squirmed and shrieked, more in anger than suffering, but he kept her legs scissored between his thighs and went right on spanking her.

  In the street, wagons rolled past, their occupants staring at Joellen and Steven, but he didn’t give a damn. In fact, he gave Joellen five more solid swats before letting her up.

  He felt guilty looking at the tear streaks on her dirty cheeks, but only a little.

  “Monster! Fiend! I wouldn’t marry you if you could buy and sell my daddy five times over!” Joellen screamed, her hands knotted into fists at her sides. In a few years, when she was of age, she was going to make somebody a fine and spirited wife.

  Steven rose from the bench and sighed as he pulled his gloves back on. “Good-bye, Joellen,” he said. Taking his wallet from the inside pocket of his leather vest, he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “This will keep you until Big John gets here.”

  For a moment, she looked as if she was going to spit in his face. But then, at the last second, Joellen snatched the money from his hand. “I hate you!” she cried.

  Steven grinned as he walked away. In six months Joellen Lenahan not only wouldn’t hate him, she wouldn’t remember his name.

  Wearily, Emma walked along between the two shelves of books the library boasted, plucking out a volume here and there. It had been a surprisingly busy day, and she was eager to get home. Her feet burned; she wanted to pull off her shoes and stockings and wade in the lake.

  She was returning to the desk for another armful of books when she noticed old Marshal Woodridge hesitating outside the library window. He peered in at her in a befuddled way and scratched the back of his head.

  With a smile, Emma went to the door and opened it, even though the library was closed for the day. “Hello, Marshal. Did you want to borrow a book?”

  “Seems like there was somethin’ I wanted to tell you,” he answered, with a shake of his head. “Things slip my mind somethin’ fierce these days.”

  Emma sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be a major crime in Whitneyville before the marshal’s upcoming retirement. She shrugged and turned away to close the door again, and as she walked toward the desk, it occurred to her that the old man might have seen a wanted poster with Steven’s name on it. Or even a sketch of his face.

  She swallowed and glanced nervously toward the street, but Marshal Woodridge was gone.

  Resolutely, Emma hoisted another stack of books into her arms and went back to the shelves.

  A thrill passed over her when she heard the library door open again, because she’d been thinking about Steven. She couldn’t help remembering his vow to make love to her wherever she happened to be when he came back.

  But it was much too soon for Steven to be home. And she knew she was right when she rounded one of the shelves and practically collided with Fulton.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve spent the last three days in bed,” he informed her, straightening his fashionable waistcoat, “with ice packs on my—with ice packs on.”

  Emma lowered her eyes and bit down hard on her lower lip for a moment, so he wouldn’t see her trying not to smile. “I’m sorry you were injured, Fulton,” she said, when she could trust herself, “but you shouldn’t have behaved so badly.”

  She went on filing books away, with Fulton moving along behind her.

  “It will be all your fault if we don’t have any children,” he continued somewhat huffily.

  Emma glanced at him as she put another book in its place. “We won’t have children, anyway,” she reminded him. “We’re not going to be married.”

  “I think you’re being hasty about this, Emma.”

  She went on putting books away, averting her eyes this time. “Why do you want me, Fulton, when you know about Steven?”

  “As I said before, Fairfax is nothing but a drifter. He’ll break your heart if you give him the chance, Emma.”

  Out of books to file, she turned to him, her hands resting on her hips. “Fulton, you haven’t been listening. I gave myself to him. Steven and I made love.”

  Fulton closed his eyes tightly for a moment. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true,” Emma insisted softly, and she couldn’t help touching Fulton’s arm be
cause he looked so crushed. “I’m sorry,” she added, “but it is.”

  “I don’t care,” Fulton insisted. His eyes were too bright and he was talking too quickly. “I can make you forget him. If you’ll just let me hold you, let me kiss you, let me do the things he did—”

  Emma retreated a step, but there was a wall of books at her back. She flinched when Fulton gripped her shoulders, remembering how frightened she’d been when he’d tried to take advantage of her the night before.

  “I wouldn’t hurt you for anything,” he said brokenly.

  “Please,” Emma whispered.

  Reluctantly, he let her go, but he was still standing too close. He drew a deep breath and let it out again. “Are you almost through here? I’ll walk you home. It’ll be like old times, before he came along—you’ll see.”

  “I don̵t think that would be a very good idea,” Emma said, turning to walk away.

  Fulton caught her by the arm and wrenched her around. “Maybe you want me to play rough,” he drawled. “Is that how it is, Emma? Does the cowboy take what he wants, instead of asking for it like a gentleman?”

  Emma felt color surge into her face. She shrugged free of Fulton’s grasp and managed only by the greatest effort not to slap him across the face. “I don’t think we have anything more to discuss,” she said tightly. “Please leave before I summon the marshal.”

  Fulton laughed at that. “Come on, Emma. Can’t you come up with a better threat than old man Woodridge?”

  She backed away. “You’re scaring me.”

  Instantly, Fulton’s face changed. He was all tenderness and indulgence. “I would never hurt you. I love you. Now, get your things and lock this place up. I want to walk you home.”

  Being outside where there were other people seemed safer to Emma than staying in the library. “All right,” she said, and when she turned away this time, he let her go-She fetched her handbag and shawl from underneath the desk, along with a book that had come in with a new shipment on that morning’s train. As usual, Emma had been there with her posters, and as usual, there was no word of Caroline or Lily.

  She was feeling a little discouraged as she and Fulton left the library. He stood by patiently while she locked the door and tucked the key into her handbag.

  “We could have supper at the hotel,” Fulton suggested. Emma shook her head.

  “Then at least take my arm,” he said, bending his elbow.

  She pretended not to hear. “Have you heard from your mother?” she asked, to keep the discussion on safe ground.

  Fulton sighed. “She’s not entirely well, I’m afraid,” he answered. “She and Father have decided to delay their trip home from Europe.”

  They walked in silence for a while, and Fulton paused at Chloe’s gate, after opening it for Emma and stepping aside so she could sweep past him.

  She smiled gratefully at Daisy, who was on the step, shaking out a rug. The housekeeper gave Fulton an ominous look as Emma ducked inside the house. There, Emma dashed up the front stairs to her room and threw down her shawl, book, and handbag. After changing into an old calico dress, she went down to the kitchen and left the house by the back way.

  The sun was still shining brightly, though it was fairly late in the day, and Emma’s feet burned more than ever. In the shade of the trees that sheltered Chloe’s part of the lake shore from the street, she sat down on the grass and unlaced her shoes. Once she’d pulled them off and tossed them aside, she rolled down her stockings and disposed of them, too.

  She was about to head for the water when it occurred to her that the rest of her body was as warm as her feet. On impulse she took off her dress, too, and waded into the water in her drawers and camisole.

  The sound of a man clearing his throat made her whirl around, her hands crossed or her breasts, which showed through the thin muslin. He was a stranger, a wiry, well-dressed man with dark hair. There was something very familiar about his brown eyes.

  “Miss Emma Chalmers, I presume,” he said easily, tugging at the creases on his trousers as he sat down on Emma’s favorite fallen log.

  Emma could only nod slightly, her face bright with embarrassment. She was afraid, too, but not just for herself. In this man she sensed an all-encompassing threat of a kind she’d never faced before.

  The stranger took a cheroot from his suit pocket and lit it with a wooden match. A dazzling diamond ring glinted on the small finger of his left hand, catching the afternoon light. “I’ve been told you might be able to help me find the man I’m looking for. His name is Steven Fairfax.”

  Emma was growing numb with cold, standing there in her underthings. Purposefully—she ignored the stranger as best she could—she made for her calico dress, which was spread out on a blackberry bush, and pulled it on over her head.

  She was bolder, now that she was decently covered. And with narrowed eyes she studied the man who’d come upon her so unexpectedly. He might be a U.S. Marshal, or a bounty hunter, come to find Steven and see him hanged. Or he might mean to do the killing himself.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He looked amused, and when he spoke she noticed a slight Southern drawl. “I’ve already told you. I’m just a poor wayfarer, looking for a lost friend.”

  Emma didn’t believe a word of it. There was nothing poor about this man, and Steven wasn’t his friend. Since she would have had to walk right up to him to get her shoes and stockings, she remained barefoot. “What gives you the idea that I know Mr. Fairfax?”

  He smiled indulgently and tossed her shoes and stockings to her. “There’s a lot of talk around town about the two of you.”

  Emma’s cheeks burned when she sat down on a good-sized rock to wipe sand from the bottom of one foot before putting on a stocking. “He’s gone,” she said. “I believe he was headed east, in fact. Toward Chicago.” Emma was a lamentably bad liar, and saw immediately that the stranger didn’t believe her.

  All the same, his smile was friendly. “I’ve taken a room over at the hotel,” he said, throwing down his smoldering cheroot and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. “If you hear anything more about Steven, it would be smart to tell me.”

  Emma bristled. “Who are you?” she demanded again. “And what do you want?”

  He sighed, his compact frame dappled with sunlight and shadow. “My name is Macon Fairfax,” he answered reluctantly. “And I’m looking for Steven because he killed my son. The state of Louisiana wants a word with him, too—about the murder of a young woman named Mary McCall.”

  All the starch went out of Emma. She sagged back against the rock. “Murder? I dothis man,believe it!”

  “I don’t give a damn what you believe, Miss Chalmers,” Macon Fairfax said cordially. “All I want is to see justice done and, if you’re wise, you’ll assist me.” With that, he turned and climbed the bank, making no more noise than he had when he’d approached.

  A myriad of emotions raced through Emma’s system. She remembered Steven’s deftness with that Colt .45 of his and shuddered. Could he really have killed two people?

  Emma decided it wasn’t possible. Steven was a hard, determined man, but no murderer could have ignited the tender fire that had flared in her when they made love. The embers of it smoldered still.

  Catching her skirts up in her hands, Emma quickly climbed the bank and ran toward the back of the house.

  After tying her shoelaces and neatening her hair, she hastened to the marshal’s office. He was out, but Emma stepped through the little gate in the railing surrounding his desk and oak file cabinet anyway.

  There was a potbellied stove in one corner, and from where she stood, she could see the bars of the single jail cell Whitneyville boasted. No prisoner had been confined there in the whole of Emma’s memory.

  She stepped behind the desk to look at the posters pinned haphazardly to the wall. They were yellowed and old, their edges curling. Butch Cassidy. Black Jack Ketchum. Billy the Kid. But no mention of Steven Fairfax, and no sketch of the fa
ce she knew so well.

  Emma was not reassured, since she knew these posters had been around a long time. She glanced out through the window to see if anyone was approaching, then opened Marshal Woodridge’s desk drawer.

  There was a blue envelope—addressed anonymously to the marshal of Whitneyville—which she carefully put back, and a stack of wanted posters. Forgetting that she was trespassing, Emma sank into the marshal’s chair and read every one of the posters. Still, she found nothing she could link to Steven.

  Emma returned the posters to the drawer and closed it neatly. Steven was in real danger, and she had to do something to help him. But what?

  The moment he was alone in his hotel room, Macon Fairfax closed and locked the door and collapsed on the edge of the lumpy bed, his head bent, his hands in his hair. The hatred and bitterness chewed on his gut like rats. Steven had taken his pleasure with that beautiful redheaded woman, he’d seen it in her eyes, and the thought made Macon want to vomit. Dirk and Mary were moldering in their graves, while Cyrus Fairfax’s bastard grandson lived on, enjoying such tender delicacies as Miss Emma Chalmers.

  Macon comforted himself as he always did—he pictured his half-brother swinging at the end of a rope, that handsome face blue and swollen. God, how he wanted Steven dead.

  He drew a deep breath and rose to his feet. He was in his forties now; too old to be chasing all over the countryside after a criminal. No, sir, he should be at home, rolling in the sheets with his mistress, or even his wife, Lucy.

  He was desperate for a drink, and the silver flask he carried in his inside pocket was empty. Thinking of Emma Chalmers, and how she’d lied to him, he smiled and unlocked his door.

  d woman, height=“0em” width=“1em”>A few minutes later Macon stepped through the doors of the Stardust Saloon for the second time that day. On the first visit, he’d learned of Miss Chalmers’ association with Steven from a good-natured whore named Callie Visco. He’d paid extra for those few words of pillow talk after she’d turned him inside out.