The Twin

The men started for the corner table, but Sunny stopped in her tracks. Outlaw? It was not a common name, but not that unusual, either. Although she rarely heard it. Was it possible…? Nah.

She followed them to the table as they sat down. Picking up two menus wedged between the sugar dispenser and a black minicaldron of saltine packets, she handed them to the Rangers. “Your server will be with you in a minute. May I get you something to drink?”

“Iced tea would be mighty nice,” the dark-haired one said. He was a charmer. A married charmer by the looks of his shiny gold ring.

“Iced tea for me, too,” said Green Eyes as he gave her the once-over.

His left hand was bare. Not that his marital state mattered to Sunny one way or another. She wasn’t in the market for a man. But she had to admit his slow perusal revved her motor just a little. Just her pesky hormones acting up, she decided as she hurried to the drink station. She ignored the ominous tingle rising along her spine, the one that usually warned of some momentous or unusual happening.

The Senator suddenly materialized behind the bar. “Mighty nice-looking young fellow,” he said.

“Which one?” she asked, being careful to keep her back to the room.

“Both of them, but I was thinking of the green-eyed one for you.”

She made a snort. “Forget that,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t meddle in my love life.”

He smiled. “What love life?”

When she headed back to the table with their tea, the one called Outlaw was staring at her and frowning.

“Is something wrong?” Sunny asked.

“No, no. Everything’s just fine, but I’m trying to remember where I know you from. Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” Sunny said.

“You sure look familiar.”

“Maybe I just have one of those faces.” She ought to let it drop and leave, but a funny little feeling tickled the back of her neck. She just had to ask. “Did I hear you’re called Outlaw?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Sam Bass Outlaw at your service.”

What felt like a five-pound rock hit her stomach and bounced. “Sam Bass Outlaw?”

“That’s me. My granddaddy was big on all his descendants having the names of famous outlaws. He claimed it was good name recognition for anyone in business or politics—or law enforcement. I’ve got three brothers and a sister all named for shady characters and all in some kind of law enforcement—except my sister, and she used to be an FBI agent before she quit and bought a newspaper. There’s Cole Younger Outlaw, Jesse James Outlaw, Frank James Outlaw, and Belle Starr Outlaw. My daddy was John Wesley Hardin Outlaw, and his brother was—”

“Butch Cassidy Outlaw,” Sunny finished before she could stop herself.

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “How’d you know that?”

She sighed. Had the Senator engineered this whole thing? “My name is Sunny Outlaw Payton—or more accurately, Sundance Outlaw Payton. Butch Cassidy Outlaw was my father.”

Sam looked puzzled. “But Uncle Butch and his—”

“I know. But he was my father.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

She turned and hurried away.

“WHAT WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?” Ben McKee asked Sam.

“I’m not quite sure, but I think I just met my cousin. Now I remember why she looks familiar. She reminds me of my sister, Belle. Both tall, brunette. Same eyes. Same nose. Well, I’ll be damned.”

“And you never knew you had a cousin?”

“Nope, not by Uncle Butch. I don’t even remember him, but I know he and Aunt Iris never had children.”

“Aunt Iris?”

“His wife in Naconiche. I never liked her much. She was a sour-faced old prune who put the fear of God into us kids if we so much as spilled a cookie crumb on her settee. I hated to go visit her.”

“I take it your uncle is dead,” Ben said.

Sam nodded. “Somebody shot him thirty years ago. Right on the steps of the capitol building. Be funny if it was Aunt Iris. Well, not funny, but ironic.”

“They didn’t catch his killer?”

“Nope. Never did.”

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Ben said.

“Who?”

“Your cousin.”

“You interested?” Sam asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Me, too,” Sam said. “But in a different way than you are. I’ve got to call my folks. They’re not going to believe this.”

“I don’t imagine your aunt Iris is going to be happy about it.”

“Aunt Iris is long gone.”

“Dead?”

“May be, for all I know. She married a preacher about fifteen or twenty years ago and moved to Des Moines. We haven’t heard from her since. Not even a Christmas card.”

Their chili came, served by the young man who was their waiter. He also delivered a cauldron of the oyster crackers they’d ordered along with chopped onions and a couple of kinds of grated cheese. They both dug in. This was good chili. No, it was great chili. But hot. Real hot.

“Are you sure we ordered the medium?” Ben asked.

“Hoo-wee,” Sam said, “this stuff is hotter than a three-dollar pistol. But good. I’ll bet the hottest kind would blister the paint off a butane tank. Dump some of those oyster crackers in it. And some of that cheese. Cuts down on the fire.”