Outlaw Wife

Willow stiffened. The stark words sent a chill right through her middle. They might actually hang her father? It was unthinkable. She looked out again at the stranger who held such power over their fate. “What if he doesn’t testify?” she asked softly.

Seth shrugged. “Not much hope in that. You see what Jake’s boots did to him. Wouldn’t you testify if you were him?”

Her spell of self-pity over, Willow felt her mind beginning to work again. This battle was not lost. As he himself had pointed out, she’d saved their victim’s life. And there’d been a look in his eyes when he’d said it. She’d come to know that look in the year she’d been riding with the band. It meant that a man was interested, as her aunt Maud used to say. She’d never been the least bit interested in return, and she wasn’t now. But if keeping Mr. Grant interested would mean he wouldn’t testify against her and her father, she’d be willing to give it a try.

“Now what’s going through that busy little head of yours?” her father asked.

“Maybe we can convince him not to testify against us.”

Her father pulled his arm away from her. “You can stop that line of thinking right now, Winifred Lou Davis. You just keep your mouth shut and don’t admit anything. It’ll be fine. They can’t keep a young girl locked up like a hardened criminal.”

“Mmm.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on his leathery cheek. Not even Aunt Maud had ever called her by her real name. She’d been Willow since she was a baby, and the only time her father ever called her Winifred Lou was when he was angry or very, very serious.

Seth Davis shook his head and stood. “I’m going to get some shut-eye myself. I can’t even think straight. If the sheriff ever gets back here with that food he promised, wake me up.”

He went over to the other cot and lay down.

Within seconds, Willow could hear his light snores. A life on the run had taught Seth Davis to sleep when he could—anytime, anywhere. But even though they’d been up all night, Willow was wide-awake. She was going over again the brief conversation she and her father had had with the man whose testimony could cost her father his life. She was more and more certain that she hadn’t been mistaken about the way he’d looked at her. Now all she had to do was figure out a way to take advantage of it.

Simon felt as if he’d slept through another entire day, but it couldn’t have been long at all. John was just walking in the door of his office with a tray heaped with food. For the first time since his beating, Simon was hungry. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

He sat up, feeling almost normal. His horse was back. The marshal had recovered his money belt with almost the entire bankroll intact. He could move again without wanting to puke. Things weren’t so bad after all.

He looked over at the cell. The old outlaw had evidently been sleeping, but he sat up as John walked into the room. The girl was still on the other cot, leaning back against the wall. Her eyes were fixed on him. He ventured a smile.

She smiled back. Lord, she was a beauty. Grimy male clothes and all.

“Sorry it took me so long,” John said, placing the heavy tray on his desk. “Mrs. Harris insisted that I sit myself down for a hot meal before I came back. Land sakes, but the woman’s a pain in the posterior.”

“And you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you didn’t have her yappin’ at you,” Simon agreed with a grin that didn’t even hurt.

“How’ve my prisoners been behaving?” John asked, ignoring his friend’s comment.

“I’m afraid I’m not such a good watchman, John. I fell sound asleep again. Sorry. I feel like a tuckeredout two-year-old.”

John busied himself with the tray of food, filling three plates with sausages and beans. “That would be the laudanum. I laced your coffee this morning.”

“The hell you did.”

John shrugged. “Cissy’s orders.” And that was that.

Simon let in enough air to qualify as a sigh. He had to admit that whatever John had given him had eased the pain. But it seemed…cowardly, somehow. His father had never allowed himself to be medicated, no matter what he was suffering. He glanced at the cell. The girl was still watching him. “A shot of whiskey would’ve worked just as well,” he said under his breath.

John didn’t appear the least affected by Simon’s grumbling. “Help yourself,” he said indifferently. “It’s in the desk drawer.” He reached over and thrust a plate at Simon. “I’d eat something first, though.”

Simon took the food and watched as the sheriff picked up the other two plates. “Do you want me to…ah…cover you while you hand that in to them?” he asked, glancing uncertainly toward the two prisoners.

John chuckled. “I think I can handle it, son. They don’t look that fierce.”

In fact, at the moment, the pair in the cell looked rather forlorn. The old man was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his chest moving rhythmically in a silent cough. The daughter sat with her arms clutching her hunched knees. She had shifted her gaze from Simon to her father, and her eyes had clouded with worry.

“Ready for some lunch?” John asked, balancing the two plates on one arm as he turned the key in the cell door.

The girl unfurled herself and stood. She moved with the grace of a mountain cat. Simon felt a rumble in his stomach that did not come from the odor of Francine Harris’s baked beans. He watched as she crossed the cell and took the plates from John. “Thank you, Sheriff,” she said. “I can tell that, unlike the marshal and that awful deputy, you are a real gentleman. And I am sorry I kicked you.”

Simon couldn’t tell if the well-modulated tone of her voice and her shy smile were calculated. If so, her calculations were right on the mark as far as Simon was concerned. If he’d been John, he’d have flung open the cell door and let her walk right on out of there. John, it appeared, was made of sterner stuff.

“Well, I’m sorry you kicked me, too, miss. I’ll carry that mark awhile, I reckon. Now, if you’d just move back out of the way, I’ll be locking this door up again.”

The girl’s mouth gave a little twist of annoyance. But then she smiled again and stepped back. “Whatever you say, Sheriff.” Her eyes went once again to Simon, and her smile was not quite so shy.

Seth Davis stood to take his plate from his daughter. “We aren’t about to give you any trouble, Sheriff,” he said. “But I can’t say as much for the rest of my men if they find out you’re holding us here.”

John went to sit heavily in his chair. “We’ll just have to hope they won’t find out then, won’t we?”

“Myself, I wouldn’t mind meeting up with them again, as long as the odds are slightly better than the last time,” Simon put in. He set his plate alongside him on the cot and held a hand against his sore side as he settled into a comfortable position against the wall.

“Right,” John snorted. “You look like you’re in great shape for a showdown with a pack of gunmen.”

“I’d rather it wouldn’t be today,” Simon agreed with a faint smile.

“If you’d let us go, there would be no showdown,” the girl interrupted. “My father would take his men and ride clear out of the territory. I’d see to it.”

John leaned back and swiveled back and forth in his new chair. He chuckled. “I don’t mean any insult, miss, but it’s a little hard to picture you ordering around the likes of Jake Patton.”

“Jake’ll do anything I tell him to.” There was absolute conviction in her voice.

“Is Jake your man or something?” John asked.

Simon felt himself holding a breath on the girl’s answer. It was none of his business, but the thought of the man who had kicked him with such viciousness being involved with this girl, putting his hands on her, made him want to toss back the greasy sausage that had just slid down his throat.

She gave a chilly smile. “I don’t have a man. Don’t intend to, either. Not ever.”

There was a finality to the way she said it that seemed just a little sad to Simon. Of course, he’d said the same thing himself about not intending to hitch himself up with a woman, but his circumstances were far different from this outlaw daughter. He had a ranch to run and an invalid father to care for. That was all the future he needed. But what did this girl have ahead of her? Prison, perhaps. Then back to a life on the run. Would she end up after all with some unscrupulous bastard like Patton?

John’s kindly gray eyes held a touch of sympathy as he chuckled and said, “It’s the kind of thing that usually just happens, whether we intend it or not. You’re young yet. But I’m glad to hear that you’re not mixed up with Patton.” He straightened his chair and his expression sobered. “’Cause if he’s the one who messed with Simon, here, I wouldn’t count on him having much of a future.”

Willow paced the length of the cell for what must have been the thousandth time. The afternoon had seemed one of the longest in her life. Her father had spent most of it dozing fitfully, waking only to cough in that quiet, ominous way that seemed to reverberate through his entire body. She’d been urging him to see a doctor for weeks, but he’d brushed her off.

“I don’t need any damned sawbones poking at me” had been his standard reply. “Don’t you worry that pretty head, Weepy Willow.”

Now, if his dire predictions were true, the cough would be the least of his problems. She stopped walking for a minute and shrugged the tenseness out of her shoulders. Her father had been uncharacteristically passive since the arrest. Except for his protest over her involvement, he’d seemed almost resigned to his fate. It was just one more indication that things were not right with him. Which meant it was up to her to do something about the situation.

The sheriff had discouraged all her attempts to draw him into conversation. He’d been polite enough, and had agreed to accompany her out to the privy in back instead of making her use the jar in the cell. But when she’d tried batting her eyes at him, the way Aunt Maud had said girls did when they wanted a man’s attention, he’d appeared not to notice.

Which left the other man: Simon Grant. He, too, had been dozing most of the afternoon, sleeping off the effects of the laudanum, the sheriff had said. She went over to the bars to look at him. He wore no shirt over the wide swath of bandages around his middle. Her eyes were fixed on the even rise and fall of his chest with its sprinkling of dark hair. It was darker than the wavy hair on his head where there were highlights, no doubt from long days in the sun. She’d spent the past year riding with men, but she couldn’t remember ever studying one who was half-naked. Her father had been real fussy about how his men dressed and behaved in her presence.

With a half-conscious groan, the man on the cot moved, his hand clutching his side. Then his eyes opened, focused directly on her.