Sundown, p.7
Sundown, page 7
The man's words weren’t merely an invitation; they were a veiled warning in the guise of opportunity. The mayor had just delivered a clear message: stay in line, play by the rules, his rules, and prosper. Or else.
“Like I said, I’m only going to be here until the trial is over.”
The mayor rose and set his hat on his head with the flare of a stage actor. “Think about it. That’s all I ask.”
The mayor shook Wyatt’s hand, then disappeared out the door like a rat scurrying back to the shadows.
With a quick check that the man hadn't made off with his wallet, Wyatt made his way toward the bar. He needed a drink now more than ever.
He studied the faces of the customers as he passed between the tables, hoping to recognize a familiar face that might help shed light on his brother’s plight.
A gnarled bartender with a walrus mustache looked up as he polished a beer stein, his eyes scanning Wyatt as if he knew him.
Wyatt slapped the bar. “Whiskey, Gabe.”
When the man didn’t react, Wyatt tossed a silver dollar on the bar.
The bartender grabbed the coin and slipped it beneath the counter. “You old enough for whiskey, young man?”
“Gabe, I’m Wyatt McCrea. I almost didn’t recognize you with your mustache, but I haven't changed that much, have I?”
The bartender leaned closer. “Wyatt McCrea? That really you? You’re all growed up.”
“Old enough for hard liquor.”
Gabe chuckled, poured a drink and set the glass in front of Wyatt. He handed the silver dollar back. “You want to run a tab?”
He shook his head and picked up the glass. He'd never drunk enough to justify running a tab.
“Just the same, I’ll open one. You’re good for it.”
“Much obliged.” Wyatt sipped the whiskey and took out the list of volunteers who’d helped the sheriff search for Travis the night of the murder. He showed the names to Gabe.
The bartender read the list. “People have clammed up about that night, but whiskey loosens a man's tongue.” He gazed around, “Tom, Shorty and Sam are playing poker.” He pointed them out. “Slim and Fred are at the end of the bar.
Wyatt made his way down the bar and shook hands with the two men who hadn’t changed all that much. He bought each a drink, and they chatted about the night they searched for Travis. They offered little that Wyatt didn’t already know.
Fred pointed to the stairs. “Reckon, your brother was upstairs with one of the gals the whole time.”
Slim slapped his friend upside the head. “That’s the first place we searched.”
Wyatt chuckled. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”
Wyatt made his way to the poker table and watched a dealer shuffle the cards. Shorty looked up. “You going to watch or play?” He took a closer look. “Wyatt?”
Wyatt explained why he’d stopped by. They offered him a chair and a drink later; they were describing in detail where they’d searched and their speculation that some woman might have been hiding Travis all night. He found it difficult to believe his brother had eluded a search that lasted all night without help.
“Much obliged, fellas.” Wyatt carried his glass to an empty table and pulled out his notebook. He made notes about what each man said, though their accounts provided little help. He scanned what he’d written after talking to the sheriff and Travis.
Wyatt didn’t believe his brother’s story about eluding searchers for almost nine hours. Knowing Travis, plenty of women would have put him up for the night, especially most of the saloon girls who worked at the Purple Sage.
Shorty McDonald left the bar and stopped by Wyatt’s table. His brow furrowed with a mix of guilt and sadness. “I looked for Travis that night, but I don’t think for a minute your brother killed that bounty hunter. I've known Travis since you boys moved here. He wouldn’t kill anyone. Not sure if that helps, but I had to say it.”
“Obliged, Shorty. I appreciate that.”
When Shorty returned to the bar, Emma entered the saloon carrying a stack of newspapers. The newswoman set a dozen newspapers in front of the bartender. She kept one.
Wyatt rose as she approached his table and slid the paper in front of him. Her hands were smeared with ink, and more occupied places on her smooth face and neck. Still, when she smiled, even in trousers and a plaid shirt, she looked as intriguing as ever. “Mind if I sit down?”
He gestured toward an empty chair beside him, and they both sat. He picked up the paper and scanned the headline. “Prodigal Son Returns.”
Wyatt took a sip of whiskey and began to read. The story was accurate since it contained most of the information Emma managed to pry from Wyatt a day earlier. He finished and took another sip of whiskey. “You’re some writer.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No really. It’s written all over your face.”
She glanced in the long mirror behind the bar and wiped the ink from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Very funny.”
“Let me buy you a drink. I’m running a tab.”
“I really shouldn’t. I have papers in the buckboard. They're not going to deliver themselves.”
Wyatt caught Gabe’s attention and pointed to Emma.
He groaned as Jeb Colfield sauntered into the saloon wearing a gun belt slug low and a look of trouble that could curdle milk. To Wyatt's relief, the man moseyed up to the bar and slipped his arm around a pretty young saloon girl in a red satin dress, high heels and makeup. He bought her a drink, and she placed a hand on Jeb’s shoulder and moved closer to him as saloon girls do.
Gabe brought a glass and set the whiskey in front of the newspaper publisher. “Miss Emma.”
The bartender winked at Wyatt and returned to the bar.
Emma took a swallow and smiled. “Why did Gabe wink at you?”
“I think he had something in his eye.”
“Mischief, maybe.”
A shriek, like someone stepped on a coyote’s tail, came from the pretty saloon girl. She ran toward Wyatt, her blonde hair flowing behind her as she weaved through the tables, collecting stares as she went.
Wyatt stood and tried to place the girl but came up empty.
Misty-eyed, she reached the table, threw both arms around Wyatt and planted a lingering kiss on his lips.
Emma chuckled. “You make friends as fast as your brother.” When the kiss ended, she pulled the bandana from his neck and wiped lipstick from his face.
The saloon girl's identity came into focus. “Grace, Grace Parker. Emma, this is Grace, my friend from school.”
Grace cocked her head. “Friend? I was your first damn girlfriend! I taught you how to kiss behind the schoolhouse.”
Wyatt remembered the moment well.
Emma smiled. “I know Grace, Wyatt. This isn’t my first time inside the Purple Sage.”
As a schoolgirl, Grace had caught his attention, but she’d blossomed like a rose, a well-rounded one for sure. “You were the prettiest girl in school and the smartest. I thought you’d be married by now.”
“Married? Why would I want to do that?” Her gaze shifted between Wyatt and Emma. “I’m sorry…Are you two…”
Emma sputtered out a laugh and slapped the table.
“Wyatt shook his head. “I’ve got a girl, in Sacramento.”
Grace winked. “I bet you do.”
A flicker in Emma’s eyes and a tightening of her lips suggested disappointment on hearing he had a girl. But that was crazy. They’d just met. “Didn’t I mention that?”
“If you had, it would be in the paper.” Emma finished her whiskey. “Thanks for the drink.”
Jeb Colfield advanced toward their table, his face red with anger. “You said you’d be a minute. Time’s up.”
Emma stayed as if there might be a story about to take place.
Grace remained seated. “I’m chatting with an old friend from school.”
“I’m an old friend from school, too.” Jeb, his face a mask of fury, grabbed her hand and yanked Grace to her feet.
Wyatt jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. The man was half a foot taller than he was, and outweighed him by forty pounds, but Wyatt didn’t tolerate men treating women like possessions. “Get your filthy hands off her.”
Jeb held onto Grace, reached over and shoved Wyatt in the chest.
Wyatt stumbled backward. He’d never be able to investigate Silas Thornton and free his brother as long as Jeb was around to stick his nose in Wyatt’s business. Time to set the thug straight. Wyatt flexed his fingers. “This is your last warning, Colfield.”
The man spun Grace toward Emma where the two women and the rest of the saloon stood watching the confrontation.
Emma cleared her throat, distress sweeping across her face. “Wyatt.”
Wyatt held up one hand. “Just step back. Something might get broken. I’m going to teach this chicken-livered bastard a lesson.”
Facing Wyatt, Jeb’s fingers fluttered over his gun. “You need to get you a pistol, Wyatt, so you and me can settle this once and for all, but for now, this’ll do.” He dropped his gun belt to the floor.
Jeb’s upper lip curled into a sneer. He lunged as the patrons cheered, taking up sides.
Wyatt sidestepped the charge, then landed two punches to the man’s face, cracking his nose.
Blood spurted down Jeb’s weathered face. He charged again and shoved Wyatt against the wall.
Wyatt’s head hit the wood wall with a crack. He reached behind his head and saw blood on his fingers. “Now you’ve really done it, neighbor.”
He headbutted the man and began to circle to Jeb’s left.
Jeb’s lips were drawn in a snarl, revealing teeth stained yellow from years of chew and whiskey.
Wyatt landed two more punches to Jeb’s cheek, wiping the sneer from his face.
Jeb spit out a tooth.
From the corner of his eye, Wyatt could see the stunned looks on the faces of Grace and Emma.
A punch to Jeb’s soft gut caused a stench of air to burst from his mouth. The man groaned then bent over. Blood and snot dripped from his nose and landed on his dusty boots.
Wyatt stepped back. Their fight was over. “Your nose is broken, you know.”
Sucking in gulps of air, Jeb touched his nose and winced. His eyes narrowed with fury, and he lunged for his gun.
Something whistled past Wyatt’s ear. The knife landed on Jeb’s sleeve, pinning his hand to the floor. When he reached for the gun with his left hand, Deputy Stone kicked it from Jeb’s hand, then drew her Colt. She pulled her knife from the floor and held it in her other hand. “Get up.”
Her efforts were met by applause.
“Thanks, Deputy,” Wyatt couldn’t help but smile at Emma. “Law wasn’t the only thing I studied in college. I was on the boxing team.”
Stone gave Jeb a shove in the back. “What’s the matter with you? I gotta take you to Doc Wilson to fix your nose. Gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, too.”
Jeb glared at Wyatt. “This ain’t over, tinhorn. You won’t always have a half-breed woman watching your back.”
Stone drew her knife and held it against Jeb’s neck. “What’d you call me?”
He swallowed hard, and sweat dripped down his face. “A woman.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m Deputy Stone, moron.” She winked at Wyatt and then shoved the man until they were out the door.
Wyatt grinned at Emma. “You sure were right about Stone.” He straightened his shirt, then signaled to Gabe for another drink.
“Oh, you’re hurt.” Grace pulled a hanky from the cleavage of her dress and pressed it against the back of Wyatt’s head, moving her chest closer to his face.
Emma shook her head with amusement dancing in her eyes. She seemed unfazed by Grace’s brazen advances. Sadie would have made Wyatt pay dearly.
Gabe set the drink in front of him. “On the house.” Wyatt took a long swallow and began to feel a buzz from the liquor.
Grace slid closer to Wyatt and pressed against his arm. “Thank you, brave hero. The bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring.”
Emma rolled her eyes, then turned and headed for the door.
Wyatt fought the urge to go after her and finished his drink. Maybe he’d misread Emma from the start. He was beginning to think the spark between the two existed only in his imagination.
CHAPTER 10
Wyatt lay on his back, staring out the open window. A welcome breeze stirred the lace curtains and the smell of a snuffed oil lamp. The fresh air had cleared his head of the effects of the whiskey he’d consumed with reckless abandon, but his head pounded with each breath he took. Too much liquor and a fetching former girlfriend made a treacherous combination, and now he was paying the price with a throbbing head and heavy guilt.
He’d barely slept and now couldn’t. He pictured his brother on a cot in his jail cell, facing a murder trial he'd hardly prepared for.
He had less than two weeks to find answers to questions that might free his brother. Where had he really been the night of the shooting? An even bigger mystery was why he wouldn’t share the information with Wyatt.
A real defense attorney would have found out more about the victim. Who was Silas Thornton and what had driven a bounty hunter from New Orleans to Sundown? Did it have anything to do with the legend of Confederate gold? If Wyatt knew more about Thornton, he might find out who in town wanted the stranger dead and why.
He felt certain Travis had spent the night with a woman in Sundown, and for some reason, he didn’t want to share her identity with anyone. The only logical explanation was the woman was married.
That would explain why Travis didn’t want to cause trouble for her and why she hadn’t come forward on her own to clear him. Was the woman’s reputation worth more than Travis’s life?
Wyatt had to interview Preacher Taylor, who’d seen someone resembling Travis run from the alley behind the hotel.
He needed to come up with a list of likely women, but he knew so few in Sundown. Grace was familiar with a lot of the men, but probably not many women.
In addition to Wyatt and Sheriff Black, Emma probably knew more about the murder than anyone in town, except for the killer. She must have wondered where Travis had spent the night. He had to talk to her about it.
He had a lot of work ahead of him, but as he gazed out the window at a sliver of moon shining through the windowpane, his thoughts drifted from murder and alibis to thoughts of three women.
First on his list was Sadie, his beautiful but unofficial fiancée, the daughter of the man who held Wyatt’s future in his powerful hand. She was waiting for him to successfully defend his brother and return to the life they had laid out for each other.
Second was enigmatic Emma, smart, funny, tenacious and hard-working. She’d been an important help to what work he had done on the case, but was he just a newspaper story to her, or was there something else, something behind the frequent twinkle of her blue eyes?
Last was Grace, a former classmate in Sundown. She was the first girl he cared about, a scrawny thing with unkempt hair. Now she was flashy, attractive and ambitious, the girl who’d given Wyatt his first real kiss. Even knowing about Sadie, Grace hadn’t hidden her interest in or her desire for Wyatt.
Grace vowed to help him any way she could. A popular saloon girl like her likely knew every man in the town of Sundown, including Silas Thornton’s killer. In the crowded saloon they hadn’t had a chance to talk about Thornton, the upcoming trial, or the men who might have a motive and guts enough to kill the stranger.
Wyatt's Stetson was hanging on a coatrack in the corner. His clothes lay scattered at the foot of the bed. With the stealth of a cat stalking a mouse, he quietly slid from beneath the crimson silk sheets, gathered up his hastily abandoned clothes, and dressed. He set his hat on his head and looked back at the slumbering form of the lovely young woman lost in her dreams like a boat adrift on a tranquil river.
How had he let this happen? Instead of working to learn who killed Silas Thornton he’d found comfort in the arms of Grace. His former classmate was still a sweet girl. But Sadie was his fiancée, someone to whom he’d promised to be faithful, someone he’d soon promise to love, honor and cherish forever. Instead, he’d carry the night’s guilt forever.
Wyatt carried his boots to the door in the room above the saloon. He glanced at the dresser and wondered if he should leave a few bills for the plea‐ sure of her company, but that would make her something he felt certain she was not.
Nevertheless, setting down his boots, Wyatt fished in his pocket for two Alexander Hamilton five-dollar bills. He reached to lay them on the dresser, then paused. She could use the money, but leaving money would cheapen their encounter.
Wyatt froze and held his breath when Grace stirred on the bed. Her eyes snapped open; the sleepiness quickly replaced by cold, hard fury as she stared at the bills in his hand.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I thought…”
“I know what you thought!” She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. “I get paid when men buy me drinks, nothing more.”
“I can explain.”
“Save your speech. I thought our night was a precious moment, something that started when we were kids. I thought it meant something to you, too, but I can see from the cash in your hand just how much I mean to you, ten bucks!”
She threw a pillow at him. “You’re not special. You’re not brave; you’re like all the other bastards I’ve known, a liar, a cheat and a coward.”
Wyatt was racked with guilt over cheating on his fiancée. Now, Grace’s words stuck like daggers piercing his already wounded conscience.
He opened his mouth to explain, but his words caught in his throat. There was no explanation.
Grace threw back the covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips. Her nakedness a stark contrast to her harsh glare. “Get out,” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper. “And don’t come back, ever!”
CHAPTER 11
Outside, Wyatt leaned both hands against the hitching post in front of the saloon. He splashed water from the horse through on his face. Drunkenness was no excuse for his behavior. How had he let this happen?
“Like I said, I’m only going to be here until the trial is over.”
The mayor rose and set his hat on his head with the flare of a stage actor. “Think about it. That’s all I ask.”
The mayor shook Wyatt’s hand, then disappeared out the door like a rat scurrying back to the shadows.
With a quick check that the man hadn't made off with his wallet, Wyatt made his way toward the bar. He needed a drink now more than ever.
He studied the faces of the customers as he passed between the tables, hoping to recognize a familiar face that might help shed light on his brother’s plight.
A gnarled bartender with a walrus mustache looked up as he polished a beer stein, his eyes scanning Wyatt as if he knew him.
Wyatt slapped the bar. “Whiskey, Gabe.”
When the man didn’t react, Wyatt tossed a silver dollar on the bar.
The bartender grabbed the coin and slipped it beneath the counter. “You old enough for whiskey, young man?”
“Gabe, I’m Wyatt McCrea. I almost didn’t recognize you with your mustache, but I haven't changed that much, have I?”
The bartender leaned closer. “Wyatt McCrea? That really you? You’re all growed up.”
“Old enough for hard liquor.”
Gabe chuckled, poured a drink and set the glass in front of Wyatt. He handed the silver dollar back. “You want to run a tab?”
He shook his head and picked up the glass. He'd never drunk enough to justify running a tab.
“Just the same, I’ll open one. You’re good for it.”
“Much obliged.” Wyatt sipped the whiskey and took out the list of volunteers who’d helped the sheriff search for Travis the night of the murder. He showed the names to Gabe.
The bartender read the list. “People have clammed up about that night, but whiskey loosens a man's tongue.” He gazed around, “Tom, Shorty and Sam are playing poker.” He pointed them out. “Slim and Fred are at the end of the bar.
Wyatt made his way down the bar and shook hands with the two men who hadn’t changed all that much. He bought each a drink, and they chatted about the night they searched for Travis. They offered little that Wyatt didn’t already know.
Fred pointed to the stairs. “Reckon, your brother was upstairs with one of the gals the whole time.”
Slim slapped his friend upside the head. “That’s the first place we searched.”
Wyatt chuckled. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”
Wyatt made his way to the poker table and watched a dealer shuffle the cards. Shorty looked up. “You going to watch or play?” He took a closer look. “Wyatt?”
Wyatt explained why he’d stopped by. They offered him a chair and a drink later; they were describing in detail where they’d searched and their speculation that some woman might have been hiding Travis all night. He found it difficult to believe his brother had eluded a search that lasted all night without help.
“Much obliged, fellas.” Wyatt carried his glass to an empty table and pulled out his notebook. He made notes about what each man said, though their accounts provided little help. He scanned what he’d written after talking to the sheriff and Travis.
Wyatt didn’t believe his brother’s story about eluding searchers for almost nine hours. Knowing Travis, plenty of women would have put him up for the night, especially most of the saloon girls who worked at the Purple Sage.
Shorty McDonald left the bar and stopped by Wyatt’s table. His brow furrowed with a mix of guilt and sadness. “I looked for Travis that night, but I don’t think for a minute your brother killed that bounty hunter. I've known Travis since you boys moved here. He wouldn’t kill anyone. Not sure if that helps, but I had to say it.”
“Obliged, Shorty. I appreciate that.”
When Shorty returned to the bar, Emma entered the saloon carrying a stack of newspapers. The newswoman set a dozen newspapers in front of the bartender. She kept one.
Wyatt rose as she approached his table and slid the paper in front of him. Her hands were smeared with ink, and more occupied places on her smooth face and neck. Still, when she smiled, even in trousers and a plaid shirt, she looked as intriguing as ever. “Mind if I sit down?”
He gestured toward an empty chair beside him, and they both sat. He picked up the paper and scanned the headline. “Prodigal Son Returns.”
Wyatt took a sip of whiskey and began to read. The story was accurate since it contained most of the information Emma managed to pry from Wyatt a day earlier. He finished and took another sip of whiskey. “You’re some writer.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No really. It’s written all over your face.”
She glanced in the long mirror behind the bar and wiped the ink from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Very funny.”
“Let me buy you a drink. I’m running a tab.”
“I really shouldn’t. I have papers in the buckboard. They're not going to deliver themselves.”
Wyatt caught Gabe’s attention and pointed to Emma.
He groaned as Jeb Colfield sauntered into the saloon wearing a gun belt slug low and a look of trouble that could curdle milk. To Wyatt's relief, the man moseyed up to the bar and slipped his arm around a pretty young saloon girl in a red satin dress, high heels and makeup. He bought her a drink, and she placed a hand on Jeb’s shoulder and moved closer to him as saloon girls do.
Gabe brought a glass and set the whiskey in front of the newspaper publisher. “Miss Emma.”
The bartender winked at Wyatt and returned to the bar.
Emma took a swallow and smiled. “Why did Gabe wink at you?”
“I think he had something in his eye.”
“Mischief, maybe.”
A shriek, like someone stepped on a coyote’s tail, came from the pretty saloon girl. She ran toward Wyatt, her blonde hair flowing behind her as she weaved through the tables, collecting stares as she went.
Wyatt stood and tried to place the girl but came up empty.
Misty-eyed, she reached the table, threw both arms around Wyatt and planted a lingering kiss on his lips.
Emma chuckled. “You make friends as fast as your brother.” When the kiss ended, she pulled the bandana from his neck and wiped lipstick from his face.
The saloon girl's identity came into focus. “Grace, Grace Parker. Emma, this is Grace, my friend from school.”
Grace cocked her head. “Friend? I was your first damn girlfriend! I taught you how to kiss behind the schoolhouse.”
Wyatt remembered the moment well.
Emma smiled. “I know Grace, Wyatt. This isn’t my first time inside the Purple Sage.”
As a schoolgirl, Grace had caught his attention, but she’d blossomed like a rose, a well-rounded one for sure. “You were the prettiest girl in school and the smartest. I thought you’d be married by now.”
“Married? Why would I want to do that?” Her gaze shifted between Wyatt and Emma. “I’m sorry…Are you two…”
Emma sputtered out a laugh and slapped the table.
“Wyatt shook his head. “I’ve got a girl, in Sacramento.”
Grace winked. “I bet you do.”
A flicker in Emma’s eyes and a tightening of her lips suggested disappointment on hearing he had a girl. But that was crazy. They’d just met. “Didn’t I mention that?”
“If you had, it would be in the paper.” Emma finished her whiskey. “Thanks for the drink.”
Jeb Colfield advanced toward their table, his face red with anger. “You said you’d be a minute. Time’s up.”
Emma stayed as if there might be a story about to take place.
Grace remained seated. “I’m chatting with an old friend from school.”
“I’m an old friend from school, too.” Jeb, his face a mask of fury, grabbed her hand and yanked Grace to her feet.
Wyatt jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. The man was half a foot taller than he was, and outweighed him by forty pounds, but Wyatt didn’t tolerate men treating women like possessions. “Get your filthy hands off her.”
Jeb held onto Grace, reached over and shoved Wyatt in the chest.
Wyatt stumbled backward. He’d never be able to investigate Silas Thornton and free his brother as long as Jeb was around to stick his nose in Wyatt’s business. Time to set the thug straight. Wyatt flexed his fingers. “This is your last warning, Colfield.”
The man spun Grace toward Emma where the two women and the rest of the saloon stood watching the confrontation.
Emma cleared her throat, distress sweeping across her face. “Wyatt.”
Wyatt held up one hand. “Just step back. Something might get broken. I’m going to teach this chicken-livered bastard a lesson.”
Facing Wyatt, Jeb’s fingers fluttered over his gun. “You need to get you a pistol, Wyatt, so you and me can settle this once and for all, but for now, this’ll do.” He dropped his gun belt to the floor.
Jeb’s upper lip curled into a sneer. He lunged as the patrons cheered, taking up sides.
Wyatt sidestepped the charge, then landed two punches to the man’s face, cracking his nose.
Blood spurted down Jeb’s weathered face. He charged again and shoved Wyatt against the wall.
Wyatt’s head hit the wood wall with a crack. He reached behind his head and saw blood on his fingers. “Now you’ve really done it, neighbor.”
He headbutted the man and began to circle to Jeb’s left.
Jeb’s lips were drawn in a snarl, revealing teeth stained yellow from years of chew and whiskey.
Wyatt landed two more punches to Jeb’s cheek, wiping the sneer from his face.
Jeb spit out a tooth.
From the corner of his eye, Wyatt could see the stunned looks on the faces of Grace and Emma.
A punch to Jeb’s soft gut caused a stench of air to burst from his mouth. The man groaned then bent over. Blood and snot dripped from his nose and landed on his dusty boots.
Wyatt stepped back. Their fight was over. “Your nose is broken, you know.”
Sucking in gulps of air, Jeb touched his nose and winced. His eyes narrowed with fury, and he lunged for his gun.
Something whistled past Wyatt’s ear. The knife landed on Jeb’s sleeve, pinning his hand to the floor. When he reached for the gun with his left hand, Deputy Stone kicked it from Jeb’s hand, then drew her Colt. She pulled her knife from the floor and held it in her other hand. “Get up.”
Her efforts were met by applause.
“Thanks, Deputy,” Wyatt couldn’t help but smile at Emma. “Law wasn’t the only thing I studied in college. I was on the boxing team.”
Stone gave Jeb a shove in the back. “What’s the matter with you? I gotta take you to Doc Wilson to fix your nose. Gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, too.”
Jeb glared at Wyatt. “This ain’t over, tinhorn. You won’t always have a half-breed woman watching your back.”
Stone drew her knife and held it against Jeb’s neck. “What’d you call me?”
He swallowed hard, and sweat dripped down his face. “A woman.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m Deputy Stone, moron.” She winked at Wyatt and then shoved the man until they were out the door.
Wyatt grinned at Emma. “You sure were right about Stone.” He straightened his shirt, then signaled to Gabe for another drink.
“Oh, you’re hurt.” Grace pulled a hanky from the cleavage of her dress and pressed it against the back of Wyatt’s head, moving her chest closer to his face.
Emma shook her head with amusement dancing in her eyes. She seemed unfazed by Grace’s brazen advances. Sadie would have made Wyatt pay dearly.
Gabe set the drink in front of him. “On the house.” Wyatt took a long swallow and began to feel a buzz from the liquor.
Grace slid closer to Wyatt and pressed against his arm. “Thank you, brave hero. The bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring.”
Emma rolled her eyes, then turned and headed for the door.
Wyatt fought the urge to go after her and finished his drink. Maybe he’d misread Emma from the start. He was beginning to think the spark between the two existed only in his imagination.
CHAPTER 10
Wyatt lay on his back, staring out the open window. A welcome breeze stirred the lace curtains and the smell of a snuffed oil lamp. The fresh air had cleared his head of the effects of the whiskey he’d consumed with reckless abandon, but his head pounded with each breath he took. Too much liquor and a fetching former girlfriend made a treacherous combination, and now he was paying the price with a throbbing head and heavy guilt.
He’d barely slept and now couldn’t. He pictured his brother on a cot in his jail cell, facing a murder trial he'd hardly prepared for.
He had less than two weeks to find answers to questions that might free his brother. Where had he really been the night of the shooting? An even bigger mystery was why he wouldn’t share the information with Wyatt.
A real defense attorney would have found out more about the victim. Who was Silas Thornton and what had driven a bounty hunter from New Orleans to Sundown? Did it have anything to do with the legend of Confederate gold? If Wyatt knew more about Thornton, he might find out who in town wanted the stranger dead and why.
He felt certain Travis had spent the night with a woman in Sundown, and for some reason, he didn’t want to share her identity with anyone. The only logical explanation was the woman was married.
That would explain why Travis didn’t want to cause trouble for her and why she hadn’t come forward on her own to clear him. Was the woman’s reputation worth more than Travis’s life?
Wyatt had to interview Preacher Taylor, who’d seen someone resembling Travis run from the alley behind the hotel.
He needed to come up with a list of likely women, but he knew so few in Sundown. Grace was familiar with a lot of the men, but probably not many women.
In addition to Wyatt and Sheriff Black, Emma probably knew more about the murder than anyone in town, except for the killer. She must have wondered where Travis had spent the night. He had to talk to her about it.
He had a lot of work ahead of him, but as he gazed out the window at a sliver of moon shining through the windowpane, his thoughts drifted from murder and alibis to thoughts of three women.
First on his list was Sadie, his beautiful but unofficial fiancée, the daughter of the man who held Wyatt’s future in his powerful hand. She was waiting for him to successfully defend his brother and return to the life they had laid out for each other.
Second was enigmatic Emma, smart, funny, tenacious and hard-working. She’d been an important help to what work he had done on the case, but was he just a newspaper story to her, or was there something else, something behind the frequent twinkle of her blue eyes?
Last was Grace, a former classmate in Sundown. She was the first girl he cared about, a scrawny thing with unkempt hair. Now she was flashy, attractive and ambitious, the girl who’d given Wyatt his first real kiss. Even knowing about Sadie, Grace hadn’t hidden her interest in or her desire for Wyatt.
Grace vowed to help him any way she could. A popular saloon girl like her likely knew every man in the town of Sundown, including Silas Thornton’s killer. In the crowded saloon they hadn’t had a chance to talk about Thornton, the upcoming trial, or the men who might have a motive and guts enough to kill the stranger.
Wyatt's Stetson was hanging on a coatrack in the corner. His clothes lay scattered at the foot of the bed. With the stealth of a cat stalking a mouse, he quietly slid from beneath the crimson silk sheets, gathered up his hastily abandoned clothes, and dressed. He set his hat on his head and looked back at the slumbering form of the lovely young woman lost in her dreams like a boat adrift on a tranquil river.
How had he let this happen? Instead of working to learn who killed Silas Thornton he’d found comfort in the arms of Grace. His former classmate was still a sweet girl. But Sadie was his fiancée, someone to whom he’d promised to be faithful, someone he’d soon promise to love, honor and cherish forever. Instead, he’d carry the night’s guilt forever.
Wyatt carried his boots to the door in the room above the saloon. He glanced at the dresser and wondered if he should leave a few bills for the plea‐ sure of her company, but that would make her something he felt certain she was not.
Nevertheless, setting down his boots, Wyatt fished in his pocket for two Alexander Hamilton five-dollar bills. He reached to lay them on the dresser, then paused. She could use the money, but leaving money would cheapen their encounter.
Wyatt froze and held his breath when Grace stirred on the bed. Her eyes snapped open; the sleepiness quickly replaced by cold, hard fury as she stared at the bills in his hand.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I thought…”
“I know what you thought!” She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. “I get paid when men buy me drinks, nothing more.”
“I can explain.”
“Save your speech. I thought our night was a precious moment, something that started when we were kids. I thought it meant something to you, too, but I can see from the cash in your hand just how much I mean to you, ten bucks!”
She threw a pillow at him. “You’re not special. You’re not brave; you’re like all the other bastards I’ve known, a liar, a cheat and a coward.”
Wyatt was racked with guilt over cheating on his fiancée. Now, Grace’s words stuck like daggers piercing his already wounded conscience.
He opened his mouth to explain, but his words caught in his throat. There was no explanation.
Grace threw back the covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips. Her nakedness a stark contrast to her harsh glare. “Get out,” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper. “And don’t come back, ever!”
CHAPTER 11
Outside, Wyatt leaned both hands against the hitching post in front of the saloon. He splashed water from the horse through on his face. Drunkenness was no excuse for his behavior. How had he let this happen?
