Linda Miller - The Rustler

For all that, she was an old maid, too plainspoken and too smart to suit most men. Most likely, Mr. Yarbro was merely dallying with her.

“My looks are in no way remarkable, Mr. Yarbro,” she said, “and we both know it.” She paused. Then, ever the banker’s daughter, started adding things up in her brain. “Are you an outlaw, like your brother was?” she inquired bluntly.

“I used to be,” he said, surprising her.

She’d expected another answer, she realized. A lie, falling easily from those expressive lips of his. Faced with the stark truth, she didn’t know what to say.

Wyatt laughed and resettled his hat.

“What did you do?” Sarah asked, once she’d found her voice. They’d entered Stone Creek proper by then, passing Rowdy’s office first, strolling along the sidewalk past the mercantile and her father’s bank. The sun was setting, and old Mr. Shaefer was lighting the gas streetlamps, one by one.

“Robbed a train or two,” Wyatt said.

“My goodness,” Sarah remarked.

“You’re safe with me, Miss Tamlin,” he assured her, grinning again. “I’ve seen the error of my ways and I’m determined to take the high road, like my brother did. Are you planning to head back to the creek for the dancing and the fireworks?”

Sarah shook her head, bemused.

“Then I reckon I won’t bother to, either.”

So he hadn’t been taken with Fiona, then. Inwardly, Sarah gave a deep sigh.

All too soon, and not nearly soon enough, they’d reached the gate in front of Sarah’s house.

He opened the gate for her, stood back politely while she passed through it. When she looked over her shoulder, he touched the brim of his hat.

“Good night, Sarah Tamlin,” he said. The glow of a nearby streetlamp cast his fine features into shadow. The paint horse waited politely on the sidewalk, nibbling at the leaves of Sarah’s favorite peony bush.

Sarah swallowed, rattled again. “Good night, Mr. Yarbro,” she replied. Then she turned and hurried along the walk, up the porch steps, into the house. When she pulled aside a lace curtain to peer out, the train robber was gone, and so was his horse.

* * *

WYATT ATE TWO PLATES full of supper, admired Lark, who was pretty, made the acquaintance of the other younger brother, Gideon, he’d nearly forgotten he had, and dandled the baby on his knee for a while. The little kid was cute, if a mite fractious in temperament. His name was Hank, and he looked just like Rowdy.

The big kid, Gideon, gave Wyatt a suspicious once-over and took off for the festivities down by the creek. It was full dark by then, and fireworks spread like chrysanthemums against the sky. Wyatt, Rowdy and the baby sat on the porch steps in front of Rowdy’s small house, conveniently located in back of the jail, listening to the crickets, the sound of distant merriment, and the tinny tune of some saloon piano. Lark was inside, doing the things women did after they’d served a meal.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Rob,” Wyatt said quietly, using his brother’s given name. “A fine woman, a steady job, a son. I envy you a little.”

Rowdy leaned back on the porch step, resting on his elbows. Silvery light from the fireworks caught in his fair hair. “No reason you can’t have the same,” he said.

“No reason except two years in a Texas prison,” Wyatt replied. He’d told Sarah straight out that he’d robbed trains, but he hadn’t mentioned the stretch behind bars. With a woman, a little honesty went a long way.

“Everybody’s done things they’re not proud of, Wyatt.” Rowdy shifted, looked reluctant. “About Sarah—”

“What about her?” Wyatt asked, too quickly.

Rowdy considered a little longer before answering. “She works in her father’s bank,” he said. “Every cowpoke between here and Tucson has tried to court her, but she’s having none of it. I think she’s one of those—well—career women.”

“Career women?” Wyatt echoed. During supper, he’d learned that Lark had inherited a whole railroad from her first husband, and she ran it from Stone Creek, by mail and telegram, with a baby balanced on one hip. “You mean, like your wife?”

Rowdy colored up a little. “Lark’s different,” he said. “Womanly.”

Wyatt considered the fire he’d glimpsed in Sarah’s blue eyes, her slender waist, her delectable breasts, ripe for holding in a man’s hands. He imagined taking the pins from her ebony-colored hair and watching it fall to her hips in heavy, silken waves. She was “womanly” enough for him, and then some.

“I might as well tell you,” he told Rowdy, “that I intend to marry Sarah Tamlin as soon as I’ve got steady wages coming in.”

Rowdy’s mouth fell open. “Wyatt, you just met her. She’s got a temper, and she plays poker.”

Wyatt chuckled. “Poker? Even better!”

“She smokes cigars,” Rowdy said.

“I might have to break her of that,” Wyatt replied, enjoying the image of delicate little Sarah puffing on a stogy.

Rowdy thrust out a sigh. “Wyatt, what I’m trying to tell you is, she won’t have you. You’re an outlaw. She’s a blue-blooded banker’s daughter with a college education.”

“And I’m not good enough for her?”

Rowdy started to protest.

“Hold on,” Wyatt said, handing Hank over, since he felt a little soggy around the posterior region. “I know I’m not good enough for Sarah. Pappy wasn’t good enough for Ma, either, but she loved him until the day she died.”

Sadness flickered in Rowdy’s eyes. He’d been Miranda’s favorite, her boy Rob, and he was younger than Wyatt. He couldn’t be expected to remember the early days, how she’d laughed and sung under her breath whenever Pappy came home from his travels.

“She wasn’t happy,” Rowdy said.

“She bore Pappy six sons,” Wyatt reminded him. “Ma had plenty of chances to leave, Rowdy. She was a good-looking woman. Even after we were old enough to take care of ourselves, she stayed right on that farm. Why do you think she did that?”

Rowdy relaxed a little. “Ma was Ma. Sarah is Sarah. She’d never throw in with an outlaw, Wyatt. She’d figure you were after her papa’s money, or out to rob his bank.”

Wyatt stood, stretched. Rowdy and Lark’s house was small, so he’d be sharing an empty jail cell with Gideon until he found a bunk someplace. “Where can a man get a bath in this town?” he asked.

Rowdy laughed. “We’ve got a real fancy tub right here in the house—hot running water, the whole works. Talk of the town. You can use that.”

Wyatt didn’t want to disrupt the household, and he felt shy about stripping down under the same roof with a married woman. It was an unfamiliar compunction. “I’d rather not do that,” he said.

“Then I’ll drag a washtub into the jailhouse and you can heat water on the stove,” Rowdy said, rising to his feet, the baby in the curve of his arm. “I’ve got some extra clothes you can wear until we get you some duds.”

“Pump water will do,” Wyatt said. “If it wasn’t for that revival, I’d go down to the creek to bathe.” He swallowed a good-size portion of his pride. “And I’ll pay you back for the new rigging, Rowdy.”

“I know,” Rowdy answered.

An hour later, alone in the jailhouse, Wyatt poured the last bucket of water into an old tin washtub, dented and spotted with rust, peeled off his clothes, and sank into it.

It wasn’t the Blood of the Lamb, but for the time being, it would do.

CHAPTER TWO

GIDEON ALMOST GOT HIMSELF SHOT, banging into the jail like he did, in the middle of the night, with Wyatt sleep-flummoxed and in the altogether and all. He had the .45 cocked and aimed before he realized where he was, and who he was dealing with.