The Lawman's Bride

“I told him I had to work.”

Emma touched her fist to her forehead in a frustrated gesture. “Any girl here would give a month’s wages for that invitation. Why didn’t you say yes?”

“Because I don’t want to go with him.”

“Trade me tables.”

“What?”

“Trade me tables. Maybe he’ll ask me.”

“Mrs. Winters would have my hide,” Sophie objected.

“She’s gone for the evening. Come on, why not? Give someone else a chance. I won’t take your tip. Please, Sophie.”

She didn’t share Emma’s passionate need to endear herself to a man, but neither did she have the heart to stand in her way. Sophie waved her off. “Go. They’re ready for coffee refills.”

Emma kept her squeal discreet, composed herself and picked up the pot Sophie had just filled and set it on her tray. With a determined nod, she headed for the table where the cattlemen sat.

Sophie observed as Emma greeted the ranchers. The Barlow man said something to her, and she blushed and giggled.

Shaking her head, Sophie wiped her hands and glanced at the table she’d traded for. Marshal Connor had finished eating and was glancing around for his waitress. Darn it. She gathered herself and approached.

“Would you like more coffee?” she asked him.

He glanced up at her. “No thanks. I’ll be makin’ myself a pot when I get back to the jail. I have work to do tonight.”

“What kind of work keeps you busy in the evening?”

“I make a weekly report to the county court, one to the railroad, as well.” He took coins from inside his leather vest and laid them on the table. “I have a stack of papers this high on my desk that I never seem to get through.” He held his palm a foot above the tabletop.

“I’ll see that Emma gets her tip.” She stacked his plates and set the empty cup on top. She couldn’t help asking, “Get a lot of mail, do you?”

“Telegrams mostly. Why?”

“Well, you said you have so many papers on your desk.”

“If someone’s wanted by the law you say he has a paper out on ‘im.”

“I see. You mean wanted posters.”

He nodded.

“How much do those papers actually look like the criminals? I mean, can you actually recognize an outlaw from one of those drawings?”

“Depends mostly on the artist.” He stood and pushed in his chair. “Pinkertons have the best artists.”

They glanced at each other and she looked away.

“Have a good evening, Marshal.”

He picked up his hat from the seat of a chair and held the brim a moment before settling it on his head with a nod. “Evenin’, Miss Hollis.”

He turned and strode out the door.

For the rest of the dinner shift, Sophie thought of little else than that stack of “papers” on the marshal’s desk. She didn’t even taste her chestnut pudding as she sat in the employees’ dining room after her shift.

It was probable that her likeness was on one or more of those wanted posters. But she’d used so many disguises that even the most talented Pinkerton would have trouble capturing her true image, she assured herself. If there was a drawing, it was most likely a picture of a young woman with fair hair and a beauty spot. Or of a curly-haired redhead wearing wire-rimmed glasses. None of her personas resembled the way she looked and dressed today.

Here, she couldn’t disguise herself beyond her darkened hair. Mrs. Winters did periodic checks of their faces with a damp towel. No hussies allowed in the Harvey House.

Sophie added her dishes to a pile, thanked the kitchen workers and found the lad who carried wood and kept the stoves free of ashes. “Jimmy.”

“Miss Hollis.” He was stacking wood on a canvas sling.

“Did you run my errand for me?”

“Yes’m.” He reached into the bag that hung on his hip.

She placed her hand on his arm to halt him while she took a moment to glance around. “Okay. Where are they?”

“Right here.” He produced three cigars.

Sophie gave him four coins from her tip money and closed her fingers around the cigars with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, miss.”

She hid her stash in her skirt pocket and made her way up the back stairs to change clothing. She needed to get out and get some fresh air. Speculating was getting her nowhere.

It was unlikely that the marshal would connect any of the faces on those posters to her, but she couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Willard DeWeise snored loudly from his cell at the back of the building. His dinner tray, licked clean, still sat on the corner of Clay’s desk. Clay picked up a rib bone and whistled low.

Sam, his aged hound, made his ambling way to Clay and stuck his nose under his hand. “Here, fella. Can’t ya smell it?”

Clay stuck the bone between Sam’s yellowed teeth and scratched one scarred and floppy brown ear. Sam settled himself at Clay’s feet with a grunt and licked the bone.

“Why don’t you put that damned dog out of its misery?” Hershel Vidlak, the other marshal asked. “Thing cain’t see, cain’t smell, cain’t take a piss lessen you walk him out and hold it for him.”

“Why don’t you shut your yap before I put you out of your misery?” Clay volleyed back with his usual lack of humor. It was dark, but the confined office was still sweltering. If the lawmen were cranky, he couldn’t imagine what the rowdies in the saloons would be like.

He got up and grabbed his hat. “I’m gonna make rounds.”

“I’m leavin’, too,” Hershel told him. “The missus made a strawberry pie this mornin’.”

“See you tomorrow.” Clay walked out behind Hershel and locked the door. They walked along opposite sides of the street, Clay checking the stores he passed.

Discordant music blared from the open doors of the Side-Track Saloon, yellow light spilling across the boardwalk. He pushed open the batwing doors, peanut shells and grit crunching beneath his boots.