Wed to the Texas Outlaw Page 6

  At least there were trees to soften the dreariness of the place. Dozens of them grew around town, their fall colors bright and beautiful. What a satisfaction to know that the outlaws did not control everything.

  Melinda adjusted her drab bonnet and tried to fluff her brown dress. Sadly, no amount of encouraging could make the homespun fluff.

  She reminded herself that she was not here to look her best but to pose as a homesteader’s wife. To appear dutiful, hardworking and, most of all, vulnerable.

  That is what her new husband must believe she is, if his hesitation to let her read about the Kings was any indication.

  “Humph!” He would need to learn that she would not wither at the first sign of trouble.

  Stanley, sitting beside her, the team’s reins gripped in his smooth, lawyer-like hands, looked at her in question.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, even though it was. If a man was going to rely upon a woman’s help, he had to respect that she could actually help.

  Boone rode in front of the wagon, sitting tall on Weaver the mule. A rifle lay square across his thighs. To her mind, he looked far too commanding to be a meek farmer, even given his humble mount.

  Far too handsome, as well.

  As if reading her thoughts, her admiration of the masculine image he presented, Boone twisted in the saddle.

  It felt as if he looked past her eyes and into her mind, saw himself the way she saw him: bold, well formed, commanding. A smile tweaked one side of his mouth. He arched an eyebrow.

  She held his gaze for an instant then quickly glanced away. For all the good it did now. No doubt he felt the heat of her blush all the way from here.

  Deputy Billbro kept pace with the mule, sniffing the air and learning things about the place that mere humans were unable to perceive.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked softly. It was too quiet. A muttered voice might be heard for a block. “It’s midday. You’d think folks would be about.”

  All of a sudden Weaver brayed. The sound echoed all over town. A curtain swayed at the window of the bank but then fell back into place. A baby cried but was quickly silenced.

  Jasper Springs was not deserted, after all; it only seemed so.

  Boone reined in the mule. Stanley halted the wagon beside him.

  “We’ll visit the mercantile for supplies,” Boone said. “Make our arrival known.”

  Melinda wiped a spot of dirt from the wagon bench and smeared it on her cheek to make herself look weary, which she was not.

  “Slump your shoulders, Boone. No one will believe that a man of your size is a weakling.”

  He arched a brow but did as she asked, but really, it didn’t help much. He was a fine, strapping man and there was no hiding it.

  Stanley slumped his shoulders, too, but it didn’t make a difference, not that she would ever point that out.

  The dog didn’t need to act dusty and matted, he was naturally that way.

  Early this morning they had discussed Mather’s plan, how they would give the appearance of easy victims to attract the interest of the Kings. This would not be easy for Boone. She had noticed him chafing at the idea even from the first mention of it.

  Stopping in front of the mercantile, Boone hid his rifle in the back of the wagon, then helped her down. His big hands cupping her waist did not feel anything but strong.

  No, and neither did his arms as he set her effortlessly on the ground. It would take some doing to make him appear vulnerable.

  “I’ll need to act the nag,” she whispered in his ear. “Will anyone recognize you?”

  She worried that someone might have seen his Wanted poster. If they did, the scheme would be exposed.

  He shrugged. “Probably not. It’s been some time since that broadsheet’s been spread about. Folks forget.”

  Chances were, that would be true of most men, but Boone was quite tall, his face striking in its handsomeness and, to her mind, unforgettable. Her cousin, Rebecca, liked to call Lantree her big blond Viking. Naturally the same could be said of Boone.

  “Come along, brother Stanley,” she said with a wink at her pretend sibling. “Let the theatrics begin.”

  “I wish you’d take this more earnestly, Miss Winston,” he chided.

  “That’s ‘Mrs. Walker.’ I know you’re worried about me, but between you, my husband and the deputy, I could not be safer if I were locked in a vault.”

  Boone led her up the stairs of the boardwalk. She gazed down at her scuffed boots, at the sad sag of her faded brown skirt while she gathered the inspiration to play her part.

  The painted sign beside the mercantile door indicated that they had come during business hours but the door was locked.

  Boone rapped on the wood.

  “You’ll have to pound harder than that,” Melinda said in a raised voice while she rolled her eyes.

  Her homesteader husband frowned. She hoped that he remembered that she was only acting at being a nag. “I declare, you’ve grown weak from all that alcohol. Soon as we settle into our homestead, I’m burying the bottle.”

  Boone actually gasped.

  “Here, let me do it.” She nudged him aside then pounded her fist on the door. Maybe she ought not to have flashed him a smile.

  All at once the door opened and they were greeted by a scowling man with a drooping mustache that hid his lips.

  “Don’t you know to stay off the streets, today of all days?”

  He hustled them inside, cast a cautious glance at Billbro, then shut the door and shoved the bolt closed.

  “Looks like rain by sundown, but I can’t see why that should keep us off the street now,” Boone commented.

  “Take off your hat indoors, Mr. Witherleaf.” Melinda cast her husband a scowl then turned it on Stanley. “And you, too, brother. Don’t behave like a heathen.”

  Her “relatives” looked startled by her bossiness when they ought to be acting as though her bitter tongue was commonplace. Later on, some lessons in role-playing would be in order.

  Still, she would have to allow the men some leeway. Clearly, they had not grown up as she and Rebecca had, always trying to keep one step ahead of Mama’s restrictions and at the same time avoid undue punishment.

  “You’re new to town.” The storekeeper wagged his head long and slow.

  “I’m Boone Witherleaf. This is my wife, Melinda, and Melinda’s brother, Stanley.”

  The name Witherleaf had been assigned by Mathers and could not have been more absurd. In Melinda’s opinion, calling Boone “Witherleaf” did nothing to diminish his natural aura of power.

  Perhaps her nagging would seem more effective if he would hang his head lower.

  “You always neglect to introduce the dog.” She knelt down and snuggled the big hairy head against her bosom. “Billbro is as much a part of the family as you are.”

  Boone coughed.

  “We’re taking over the old Ramsey place,” he said to the merchant.

  “The Ramsey place? If you want my advice, you’ll turn tail and run.”

  “Why would we?” he asked. “And why should we stay off the streets?”

  “I reckon you’ll find that out soon enough. I’m Edward Spears, by the way. This is my store, for what it’s worth anymore.”

  “A pleasure.” Boone extended his hand in greeting, so did Stanley. “Might you be the brother of the livery owner in Buffallo Bend?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Oh, he’s a fine man.” Boone nodded his head. “Well, I reckon we’ll need dry goods and a few tools, grain for planting.”

  “This time of year?” Spears asked. Melinda suspected that he was smirking under his massive mustache.

  “Please excuse my husband. He’s a greenhorn through and through.” She stood. Hand
s on hips, she faced Boone. “I told you, planting is done in the spring.”

  “You’ll need firewood, though. Trees are scarce out that way. And a gun. I notice you aren’t carrying, but if you’re set on staying you’ll need one.”

  “If you really think it necessary.” Boone shrugged. “I reckon I’ll purchase that, as well.”

  Actually there were a dozen weapons packed at the bottom of the wagon.

  It was good to see Boone handle the weapon Spears placed in his hand as though it were a live snake.

  Mr. Spears had yet to say why they should be off the streets today more than any other day. Clearly, everyone else in Jasper Springs was of the same mind.

  Boone withdrew a large roll of money from his pocket, making sure the storeowner got a good look at it.

  “I’ll take the dog outside for a moment,” she announced.

  Naturally, she would be forbidden to do so, but her intention was to find out why.

  “I wouldn’t, ma’am. Not without protection.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Olfin King was buried today.”

  “I’m sure that’s very sad.” She touched her throat, pretending that it was. But, really, that meant one less outlaw to be a threat to Boone. What a shame that according to the notes, Olfin King was the least villainous of them all.

  “I reckon not so sad. You can bet the folks of Jasper Springs are celebrating behind their bolted doors. After you’ve been here a while, you’ll understand why.”

  “That seems coldhearted,” Stanley observed.

  “What happened to Olfin King?” Boone asked.

  Yes, to her mind, that was an important bit of information.

  “He got himself shot in the leg a few weeks ago. The doc tried to heal it but infection set in. The Kings buried Olfin this morning. Hate to say so, but I reckon it won’t be long before we’ll be burying the doc.”

  Melinda felt her stomach turn. She slid closer to Boone; the need to be near him natural and not a bit of show in it.

  The danger involved in what they had undertaken hit her fresh. Boone’s big, solid presence helped to sooth the jitters skittering along her spine.

  With an arm around her shoulders, he tugged her close. He squeezed his fingers, sending a message. No matter what, he would be here to keep her safe.

  While she was, in most instances, able to see to her own safety, she leaned into him, took comfort in his large, Viking-like presence.

  For all that she felt heartened. She knew that Boone felt the pressure of the situation. This close, she could see his jaw grinding with tension.

  “We’ll be on our way, then, just as soon as we’ve loaded the wagon,” he stated.

  “I wouldn’t settle on that land if I were you. The Kings see it as their own. Won’t be pleased that you’ve taken it over.”

  “Pleased or not, they have no legal right to it,” Stanley pointed out.

  “Well, you’ll find that they do what they want to whenever they want to do it. And a sorry day, too, for anyone who stands in their way.”

  She felt Boone’s muscles tense. Glancing up, she saw his expression harden.

  Boone dropped his gaze, stooped his back. Clearly he was striving hard to hold on to the character of Witherleaf. Behind the playacting, she suspected he was smoldering not withering. Just now, on the inside, Boone was probably as meek as the outlaw portrayed in his Wanted poster.

  “My family and I—we’ll keep this gun handy.” He turned it over in is hand. “Once we learn to fire the blamed thing.”

  One could only guess how much force of will it took for Boone to frown over the gun in puzzlement.

  Leaning closer to him, she was grateful that she knew the truth. That he was bigger and stronger than any man she had ever met, and that he held her safely under the protection of his well-muscled arm.

  * * *

  Boone shut the door of the mercantile behind him and straightened to his natural posture since no one was on the streets to see. The bolt on the far side of the door slammed into place, but so far, the only threat seemed to be from the purple-black clouds roiling on the western horizon.

  As much as he wanted to get a look at these outlaws, to find out what he was up against, he wanted even more to get Melinda securely behind the four walls of the homestead house.

  He would have it out with the Kings, but not while Melinda was with him.

  No sooner had he lifted her onto the wagon bench than a volley of gunshots echoed at the edge of town. Whistles and shouted curses could be heard even above the din of galloping hooves.

  “Apparently the royal family has arrived,” Melinda stated.

  He would feel a hell of a lot more comfortable if her voice held at least the hint of a tremor.

  “You ready, Stanley?” she asked.

  “I am, as long as you stay in the wagon and act meek.”

  Melinda sighed. Boone cringed.

  He could only admire her courage, but it would make his job of protecting her a hell of a lot easier if she actually was a meek little thing, eager to abide by his rules.

  Of course, she wouldn’t fascinate him half as much if she were.

  “Whatever happens, don’t move from here.” He thought to remind her that this was an order from her husband but— “Please, Melinda. I’ve got to keep my attention on those men. I can’t do it if I’m worried about you.”

  “Be careful, Boone.” She squeezed his shoulder then slipped into her part. Covering her mouth with both hands, she managed to look instantly petrified.

  Five Kings circled their mounts around the fountain in the town square, looking like a swarm of angry, evil bees. One by one, they spurred their horses, each toward a different part of town, shouting curses and shooting bullets into the air.

  The rider cantering down Main Street seemed shorter than the others, with a portly belly and a spare chin.

  All at once a door opened and a tall, willow slip of a woman stepped onto the boardwalk. Without taking note of her surroundings, she locked the library door behind her.

  She must have been unaware of the arrival of the Kings because she spun around merrily singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  “Trudy Spears!” the rider cried out.

  Spurring his horse forward, the man raced toward the boardwalk. The young woman dropped the load of books she carried. Her key skittered across the wood planks.

  “Been thinking about you, girl!”

  Miss Spears dropped to her knees, scrambling across the pages of the open books and reaching for the key.

  Boone felt the weight of the new gun in his pocket. How careless of him to have not loaded it before he’d stepped out of the store.

  To complicate the matter, if he came to Miss Spears’s aid, laid flat the devil dismounting his horse, he would not be believable as a bumbling homesteader.

  From the looks of it, this King wouldn’t be much of a scrapper were he caught without his weapon.

  Not that he didn’t look menacing. He had an expression about him, as though the thoughts behind his eyes didn’t go too deep. It was as if he had lurid imaginings that he didn’t know to keep hidden. Even his drooping lower lip had a perverted smirk, although Boone was pretty sure he was not intentionally smirking.

  This one had to be Lump King, the simpleminded brother—the one with degenerate tastes.

  Melinda made a noise; a fearful keening. Boone suspected this was her attempt to draw King’s attention away from the girl. Melinda, or any of them for that matter, might not have existed for all the creep noticed.

  From a block to the north Boone heard one of the Kings shout something about gutting and filleting the doctor.

  “Trudy, you ripe little plum. Won’t no locked door keep ole Horny Toad from pokin
g around under your skirt.” The man’s eyes glistened. Drool dampened his disgusting mouth.

  Apparently, Lump King was so caught up in his lechery that he didn’t seem to notice the growl building in Deputy Billbro’s throat.

  There was nothing Boone wanted more than to slam the “King” to the ground and punch the daylights out of him.

  But, curse it! He was a helpless homesteader, a ripe victim.

  “Sir!” he said mildly, even though his temper was flaring hot. “I believe the lady wishes to be left alone.”

  Lump turned in surprise, as though the voice had suddenly vaporized out of the air.

  “Mind yer own business,” he said, walking toward the woman and scratching his crotch. He swiveled his gaze back to Trudy who had, at last, found her key but now could not open her door because her hand was shaking. “Me and Trudy, we got some—” he thrust his hips in an obscene gesture “—mating to do.”

  Melinda grew suddenly silent.

  Boone rushed the man.

  Stanley bolted across the road and up the steps. He snatched the key from Trudy Spears’s fingers, unlocked the door and pushed her inside ahead of him.

  Boone sensed more than saw the dog leap into the wagon and place his large body in front of Melinda, wolfish hackles raised.

  He slammed Lump square in the spine. The man fell belly-first into the dirt and let out a piggy-like squeal. Boone plucked the gun from his holster then tucked it into the waistband of his own pants.

  Smelling flowers, Boone glanced behind him. Melinda stood a few feet away holding a length of rope. She tossed it to him.

  He tied up Lump’s hands then yanked the kerchief from his fat, sweaty neck and bound his mouth with it. Jerking him up from the road, he shoved him over the horse’s saddle then secured the outlaw’s wrists to the saddle horn.

  It disgusted Boone that being bound and gagged didn’t keep Lump from staring at Melinda in a greasy, speculative way.

  “Look my wife’s way one more time and I’ll slice off your skin. Feed it to the wolf.” Maybe he ought to put on his badge, send at least this one to face justice, but there was a message that needed sending.

  Hell’s curses, he never had it in him to be timid in the first place.