Tatiana March - The Outlaw And The Runaway

“All right,” he finally said with a glance at Saldana. “But don’t draw attention to yourself. Keep your guns hidden.”

They dismounted and adjusted their heavy canvas dusters to make sure their pistols remained out of sight. Instead of tying their horses to the hitching rail outside the church, they picketed them at the edge of the grassy meadow beyond the clearing and walked over to join the crowd.

A few people darted curious looks in their direction as they came to stand on the outskirts of the throng, but most had their attention on a portly man with muttonchop sideburns and a bowler hat, who had taken up position behind one of the trestle tables.

The man banged a gavel against the timber top to demand silence. “Welcome all, friends and strangers alike,” he boomed. “I’ll just remind you of the rules. Each lady will hold up her luncheon basket and describe the contents. Gentlemen will bid, and the winner gets to share the luncheon with the lady. Bidding starts at twenty-five cents. No bidding over five dollars. All funds go to the church maintenance fund.”

A box lunch.

Roy had heard of those, but he’d never attended one. Another wave of regret washed over him. Living in the isolation of an outlaw camp since the age of fourteen, he’d never had a chance to court a girl. Apart from prostitutes, the only females he knew were Big Kate and Miss Gabriela who belonged to the men in the Red Bluff Gang.

Curious, Roy watched as the portly gentleman behind the trestle table gestured toward a gaggle of blushing young females who stood behind him, fluttering like a flock of brightly colored birds. A slender blonde in a frilly pink dress stepped forward, picked up a basket from the table and held it up. “Meat and potato pie and raspberry crumble.”

A short man in a brown suit instantly bid five dollars. Beaming with pride, the girl moved aside and another one took her place. Mostly, the picnic baskets went for a couple of dollars. An odd restlessness settled over Roy as he watched Celia Courtwood. She was standing slightly apart from the others, looking increasingly fraught as the auction progressed and the group of girls thinned out.

Finally, only one basket remained on the table. The auctioneer glanced around, preparing to wrap up the proceedings and put his gavel down, but a gaunt man with pale skin called for him to wait and hurried over to Celia. With an agitated whisper, he ushered the girl toward the trestle table.

Attempting a smile, she picked up the last remaining basket and held it up. “Fried chicken and apple pie.”

The man with muttonchop sideburns squirmed. Like water rippling across a pond, the entire crowd turned to stare at a tall man dressed in black. The preacher, Roy assumed, and for whatever reason the reverend ignored the questioning glances of his congregation. Silence fell, so thick Roy could hear the crunching of gravel beneath two dozen pairs of boots and shoes as people shifted nervously on their feet.

At the front of the crowd, Celia stood forlorn, her head turned aside. Beneath the brim of her bonnet Roy could see a smear of rouge on her cheeks, evidence of a clumsy effort to appear more attractive. She blinked to hold back the tears but Roy feared they would soon start falling. A slow burn of anger flickered into flame in his gut.

What was wrong with everyone? Why didn’t anyone bid?

He craned his neck, peering over the forest of hats and bonnets in front of him for a better view, planning to call out twenty-five cents to get the bidding started. Surely, someone would follow his lead? Surely, one of the others would be gentlemanly enough to put the poor girl out of her misery?

Roy raised his hand, opened his mouth. “Five dollars!”

It came out of nowhere, through no conscious thought. Beside him, Saldana muttered a curse. A hush went through the crowd. Celia looked up from beneath the brim of her bonnet. Her eyes were tear-bright, but she straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

“Sir, do not seek amusement at my expense.”

“I’m not seeking amusement,” Roy replied calmly. “I’m seeking to eat, and I’m partial to fried chicken and apple pie.”

“Stranger, what’s your name?” the auctioneer called out.

“That’s for the lady to know,” Roy replied. He shouldered his way through the throng, came to a halt in front of Celia and held out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, she lowered the wicker basket to the crook of her elbow to free one hand and slipped her fingers into his. Roy could tell her hand was shaking. He tightened his hold, seeking to reassure her as he escorted her to the grassy meadow where the other girls and their suitors had already spread out their picnic blankets.

“Wait here,” he told her.

He strode off, waving for Saldana to follow. The tall Mexican was grinning and shaking his head, making tut-tut noises, like an old woman. When they reached their horses, Roy gave his buckskin, Dagur, a reassuring pat on the neck and took down a blanket from his bedroll.

“Don’t draw attention,” Saldana complained.

“All right,” Roy admitted. “It was a stupid mistake.”

And yet he couldn’t regret what he had done. The girl was a puzzle he wanted to solve. And witnessing her misery had tugged at something inside him, some faint remnant of sentimentality and compassion. He knew what it felt like to be ostracized, to be treated like an outcast. Whatever transgressions the girl might have committed, she didn’t deserve such a public humiliation.

“What do you want me to do?” Saldana asked.

Roy hesitated. The sensible thing would be to escort the girl home and ride away before the townspeople had a chance to get a closer look at him, but doing the sensible thing seemed to be eluding him today. “Take the horses to the water trough by the saloon and make sure they drink their fill. I won’t be long. Half an hour at the most. Then we’ll leave, head north toward Prescott.”

Saldana’s narrow face puckered in dismay. “No dancing?”

“No dancing,” Roy replied, and tried to mollify the Mexican by appealing to his vanity. “You’re too handsome. The ladies would remember you.”

Saldana smirked, tapped his eyebrow to indicate the black patch Roy wore over his left eye—a feature far more memorable than a neatly trimmed moustache or a seductive smile.

“My eye patch don’t matter,” Roy told him. “You’ll understand later.”

He left Saldana to deal with the horses and returned to the girl. She was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her upraised knees, watching him stride over. Roy spread out the blanket beside her, gestured for the girl to move onto it and settled opposite her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, the hems of his long duster flaring about him.

“Thank you,” the girl said. She started to unpack the contents of her basket. “It was a gallant thing to do, to rescue me from standing out there like a convict in front of a firing squad.” She kept her face averted, the words spoken barely loud enough for Roy to hear.

Not wasting any time, he got on with solving the puzzle she presented. “Why didn’t anyone else bid? What do the townsfolk have against you?”

The girl didn’t reply. She merely handed him a piece of fried chicken wrapped in a linen napkin and refused to meet his gaze. At her reticence, Roy let his irritation show. “Wipe that red muck from your face,” he told her curtly. “You don’t need it.”

Still she didn’t speak. Not acting insulted or angry, she pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt, uncapped the bottle of lemonade she had lifted out of the basket and tilted the bottle to dampen the scrap of cotton. With movements that were slow and deliberate, she lifted the handkerchief to her face and rubbed her cheek clean of the rouge, finally turning to face him squarely.