Outlaw Wife

Simon smiled. “Help me up.”

“Cissy says you’re not supposed to move from that bed for three days.”

Simon lifted an eyebrow. “Listen, old man, unless you’re planning to take up nursing in your old age, I need to get up and take a trip out back.”

John looked embarrassed. “Oh.”

“I suppose you could call Cissy back to help me out with a bedpan. That might be interesting.”

“Not likely, you randy bastard.” There was the faintest trace of humor in the sheriffs voice and it felt good to both of them. When Simon had decided that his feelings for Cissy were never going to be more than those for a beloved sister, it had been almost as hard for him to tell her father as it had been to tell her. This was the first time he and John had been able to make any reference to the breakup without the hurt feelings surfacing.

“Well, give me a hand, then.”

Together they managed to get him to the outhouse and back again, but the trip convinced Simon that Cissy had been right, as usual. There was no way he’d be riding for at least a couple of days. Fortunately he’d finished his business in Laramie quickly, not liking to be away from home for long these days. His father wouldn’t start looking for him until the end of the week.

“So what did you find out about the bunch who waylaid me?” he asked as the sheriff helped him settle back into bed.

“Sounds like the Davis gang. Old Seth Davis has been keeping himself and his boys one step ahead of the law for years now.”

“Seth!” In his haze yesterday, Simon had forgotten that he’d heard a couple of the outlaws’ names. “They called the leader of the group Seth. And there was another man named Jake.”

“That’d be Jake Patton. A real mean sidewinder from down South somewheres. Has a reputation for being fast with guns and charming with women.”

“Somehow I missed the charming part.”

“Is he the one who kicked you?”

Simon nodded.

John’s eyes went from Simon’s mangled face to his bandaged ribs. “We’re going to get them, Simon,” he said grimly.

“I thought you said you were too old for chasing criminals.”

“I am. But we’re going to get them just the same.”

He looked out the window at the sound of a commotion out on the street. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?” Simon knew better than to try turning his head that far.

“If my eyes weren’t too old to depend on, I’d say that looks an awful lot like Marshal Torrance.”

“Did you send him a wire?”

John ignored the question. “And the horse with him looks an awful lot like your Rain Cloud.”

Simon rolled over on to his hands to boost himself up enough to see out the window. Sure enough. A man he didn’t know was tying Rain Cloud to the hitching rail out front. She looked none the worse for wear, he saw with relief.

“And I think they’ve got at least some of your outlaws,” the sheriff continued jubilantly. He raced to the door, flung it open and disappeared out into the street.

Simon groaned as he heaved his legs over the side of the bed and straightened up. His side screamed in protest, but he ignored it as he swiftly calculated the number of steps it would take him to reach the door. Six. Seven, maybe. He could do that. And then another two across the sidewalk to Rain Cloud.

He held one hand tightly against his bandage and put the other out to balance himself. He didn’t even want to think about how much it would hurt to fall. As it turned out, they were more shuffles than steps, and it took about ten. Finally he reached the door and leaned heavily against one side of the frame.

When he looked outside, the first sight to greet him was Rain Cloud, lifting her head with a soft nicker of recognition. Then he turned his head and saw her. His vision. The heavenly features and glorious hair. She was real. And John Walker had the barrel of his revolver pressed tight against her head.

“She kicked me,” he explained as he saw Simon’s expression.

“She’s a hellion, all right,” agreed the man standing next to John. He had a double-holstered gun belt on and a tin badge displayed prominently on his black shirt. Simon supposed that he must be Marshal Torrance.

The scrawny outlaw he had thought was a boy was a girl dressed in male clothing. But she didn’t look like a hellion to Simon. She looked young and scared. “Just keep your hands off me,” the girl muttered into her oversize neckerchief. Simon shook his head. He must have been half-asleep not to have seen it. Even in jeans and a heavy wool jacket she was obviously female. The jeans molded around legs that were long and slender. The jacket filled out at just the right places. And then there was that face. He’d been blind not to have realized.

He tore his gaze away from her and held on to the door frame for support as John and the marshal ushered their prisoners past him into the jail.

“I’d rather keep this as quiet as possible,” Marshal Torrance was saying. “The rest of the gang’s still out there, and they might decide to spring these two.”

His back pressed against the door, Simon surveyed the scene. The other man with the marshal was evidently a deputy. They’d caught only two of the outlaws—the old man and the girl. That left the four most dangerous still on the loose. He leaned out the door to look up and down the street. Everything seemed normal.

“They probably think we’re heading back to the territorial jail in Cheyenne,” the marshal continued. “Which is exactly where we’ll have to take them after Tom and I have had some sleep.” He nodded at his companion. “This is Tom Sneed. Deputy marshal.”

John was opening the cell with a big iron key. “We’ll keep them safe for you, Marshal. You and Mr. Sneed can get yourselves a nice rest over at the hotel. Take your time.”

Simon’s eyes were fastened once again on the girl. She saw him looking at her and turned away. “What about the others?” he asked the marshal.

“I don’t know. It was pure dumb luck that we got these two. I’d just gotten Walker’s wire at the stage depot in Prescott when they rode up trying to sell your pinto. We rode most of the night to get here so’s you could identify them. I’ve been trying to get something pinned on Seth Davis for a good long time.” His voice was rich with satisfaction.

The old outlaw shook his head. “Most danged fool thing I ever done,” he said. He looked from the marshal to the girl. “I guess I kind of knew that I’d just about run my course. But my daughter had nothing to do with any of it.”

“Daughter!” Simon and the sheriff exclaimed in unison.

Seth Davis nodded and wagged a bony finger at the papers covering the sheriff’s desk. “Just write down there that it was co-er-shun or whatever fancy legal terms you need. She’s no outlaw.”

The marshal tiredly wiped the back of his hands across his eyes. “The last three robberies attributed to the Davis gang have reported six outlaws, not five. And Simon Grant here can testify that your daughter was riding with them at the time that he was robbed and beaten.”

The old outlaw and his daughter both turned toward Simon. Her eyes were blue and enormous. “Well, I…” he began.

“So, as far as I’m concerned,” the marshal continued, “I’m taking her in. We’ll leave it up to the courts after that.”

“You heard the marshal,” John said. His gaze was also on the girl, and Simon recognized a hint of sympathy in his expression. But when neither outlaw made a move toward the cell, the sheriff took her arm and pushed her inside.

Deputy Sneed shoved the tip of his gun barrel into the old man’s back. “Get on in there, Davis,” he barked. He waited while the outlaw went in the cell, then shut the iron door with a clang.

“We’ll take you up on your offer, Sheriff,” the marshal said, holstering his gun. “I don’t think they can give you any trouble locked away like that. Just be sure you don’t get too close to that spitfire.” He nodded toward the girl, who stood stiffly just behind the bars, her eyes down, arms folded.

“How about grub?” the sheriff asked. “Have they been fed?”

“Nope. But I wouldn’t worry about it much. It won’t hurt them to go hungry for a while.” The marshal craned his neck tiredly. “Do whatever you like. I’m heading for bed.”

Without another word he turned and went out the door, his deputy following closely behind.