Loe raamatut: «Wed To The Texas Outlaw»

Chapter One

Buffalo Bend, Texas, October, 1883

In the courthouse of the Honorable Harlan J. Mathers, located at the rear of the Golden Buffalo Saloon

“Mr. Walker, do I have at least your partial attention?”

The edge of impatience in the judge’s voice snapped Boone Walker back to the here and now. He shifted his gaze from the woman seated beside his lawyer to the matter at hand.

“Beg pardon, Your Honor.” From his seat on the elevated defendant’s chair, Boone tried to direct his full attention to the proceedings but it wasn’t easy with the piano player on the other side of the thin wall practicing the tunes he, no doubt, intended to perform this evening.

To Boone’s mind it sounded jarring and cheap. Even though he’d lived a tawdry life on the run from the law, he didn’t care for the irritating sound.

“Keep in mind that we are determining your future,” the judge declared, glaring at him from under bushy gray brows. “The decisions made here might grant you your freedom.”

He doubted that. Even if Judge Mathers personally handed him the keys to his prison cell, he couldn’t imagine that he would ever really be free.

Public opinion had branded him an outlaw and that stigma would follow him forever; a dirty shadow that the brightest day would not diminish.

A gust of October wind blew a hail of yellow and red leaves past the courthouse window. Public opinion or not, he wouldn’t mind having these cuffs off his wrists so that he could gather a pile of autumn’s glory, toss it up and watch the leaves fly where they might and land where they pleased.

In spite of the judge’s admonition, his attention returned to the woman. The public at large had not been admitted to this hearing. Other than a few curious faces peeking through the dust-smeared window, there was only him, an armed guard, his tenderfoot lawyer and the lady.

And she was clearly a lady, as pretty as they came. She leaned forward in her chair, watching intently while Stanley Smythe paced and presented his case. Her eyes crinkled in concentration, a fine line creased her forehead nearly to her hairline. But it was the slight parting of her lips that intrigued him and kept his attention returning to her when it should be on the outcome of these proceedings.

Why was she here? He was certain he didn’t know her. The women he had been acquainted with his whole life had not been ladies—beginning with the wife of the man he had shot all those years ago.

“Let me present to you a boy, Your Honor.” His lawyer, Stanley Smythe, swept his arm dramatically toward Boone. The little man stood as proudly as his five-foot-and-about-three-inch frame would allow. “Imagine, if you will, the boy Boone Lantree used to be before he crossed paths with a certain kind of woman. What chance did he have against that cunning taker of innocence? A scarlet woman to the core? And she, along with a vagrant known to be intoxicated at the time, the only witnesses to the presumed crime, other than the defendant’s brother.”

“I’ve read your letter, Mr. Smythe, and might I point out that Mr. Walker is no longer a defendant but a convicted murderer?”

“Wrongly convicted, as you will see once I have presented the facts.”

The woman bobbed her head vigorously in agreement. A dislodged curl at her temple bounced with her nodding. Apparently the pretty stranger was aware of Smythe’s facts. He couldn’t imagine why she would be, though.

Couldn’t imagine why the young lawyer had taken a shine to his case, either.

He’d never even met the man until yesterday. But five months ago, the one-year anniversary of his conviction, he’d received a letter from Smythe asking to represent him in having his verdict overturned.

Since then they had corresponded by mail and he’d learned that the fellow wanted to make a name for himself.

Didn’t explain who the woman was, though. The lawyer’s wife maybe, but trying to picture them together...well, it didn’t seem likely.

“Let’s get on with it, then.” Judge Mathers waived his hand to the empty room. “I’ve got a jury trial coming up at one o’clock and I could use my noon meal before I get into it.”

“Yes, indeed,” Smythe agreed with curt a nod. “Picture, then, our young innocent, his pockets full of earnings from his first payday working as a janitor for the general store. A meager amount to be sure, but the boy’s own for the spending. Now imagine a grown woman with her rouged cheeks and swaying hips seeing the boy and figuring him for an easy mark. She flirts with him, his eager young heart takes a tumble.”

As he recalled the event, it wasn’t his heart that reacted so much as his—but after a few moments of Martha Mantry’s flirting, it was true that he had fallen under her spell. And it had to be said that he had not known Martha was married.

“Our boy believes the woman has taken a shine to him just as he has to her. So he follows her to her room, full of eager innocence—a lamb to the slaughter, if you will—unaware that Elliot Mantry, the deceiver’s husband and partner in crime is hiding in the closet, waiting to steal every cent the boy worked so hard to earn.”

The lawyer did put a nice spin on things. Boone’s money had been hard-earned—it was just that he’d meant to give it to Martha after she had relieved him of his virginity. He wouldn’t have minded his empty pocket in that event, but having the money stolen rankled even after all these years.

Harlan Mathers yawned while glancing at the clock. This was not a good sign. Boone would feel more encouraged had the judge appeared to be interested in his case.

“Put yourself in young Boone’s place, Your Honor. We have all been that age at one time.”

This line of argument seemed to intrigue the woman. Her lips parted another half inch while her blue eyes blinked wide. She glanced back and forth between Smythe and Mathers.

“Let’s get to the hammer and nails of the subject, shall we?” Mathers drummed his fingers on his desk. “My noon meal won’t stay warm forever.”

Lunch didn’t seem a half-bad idea to Boone, either.

“I’m merely setting the scene.” Stanley Smythe smoothed his tweed vest with trim, slender fingers and squared his shoulders. “So the events that followed will be in perspective.”

“It’s clear enough, Mr. Smythe. A boy who had no business bringing his money to town lost it to a pair of con artists, got drunk and challenged one of them to a gun fight. Elliot Mantry, who was also drunk, may or may not have been reaching for his gun. His widow, watching from the window, says that he was not. The facts were confirmed by a fellow who could barely stand or speak.”

“That is the story that convicted my client. But as you know, the woman did not testify to this in court because she was serving time for continuing her treachery against other children. Boys who ought to have grown to be the pillars of society, the rocks upon which law and order depend. But instead, because of Mrs. Mantry, they were led down the path of depravity. Like young Boone, here, they have been forced into a life they would not have chosen.”

Being caught up in Smythe’s story, some of it true and some far-fetched, he nearly forgot the woman with Smythe until she sniffled and dashed a tear from her eye.

“May I speak, Your Honor?” she asked.

All of a sudden the judge didn’t look so bored. His face lit up and he was all smiles, and she, pretty dimples flashing, smiled back.

With a rustle of feminine-sounding cloth, she stood then folded her dainty gloved hands demurely in front of her.

He’d like to see the man who didn’t swallow every word the enticing creature had to say.

Boone would decide later if he believed her or not. Years ago he had believed everything Martha Mantry had told him and look where that had gotten him. Over time he had discovered that women could be skilled at getting what they wanted by flashing a comely smile or a swishing a pair of rounded hips.

Just what was it that this one wanted?

“I would simply like to ask that you look at your own past, Your Honor, or at your own grandchildren, if you are blessed.” Miss Every Man’s Dream wrung her fingers. “Even little girls are born with a spoonful of mischief. The only difference between Mr. Walker and myself is a bit of good luck.”

That and the fact that she had not likely ever put her lips to a bottle of whiskey or carried a gun on her hip thinking the world was as easily conquered as the dust under her boots.

“And here is something to consider...did you realize that Boone Walker has a twin brother?” She arched a pair of prettily shaped brows. “At first, this might not seem to relate to Mr. Walker’s situation, but upon reflection you will see that it does. The boys’ parents named them the same name. Boone Lantree and Lantree Boone. I ask you, sir, what kind of parents name their children the same name? Lazy ones, I say, and uncaring—the boys were doomed from the start by the very people who were supposed to nurture them.”

She sure as shooting wasn’t describing his folks. They were not lazy or uncaring. Ma and Pa had named them for their grandfathers. By giving him and his brother both of the names, no one got offended.

Since he didn’t know what the woman was up to, and she seemed to be on his side, he didn’t correct her. Probably should, though. It wasn’t right to let Ma and Pa’s memory be sullied. Every day it ate at him; how he’d caused them grief over the years. They had gone to their rewards many years back from fevers, he’d come to find out. He always wondered if they died believing the things said about him.

“A twin, you say?” The judge leaned forward on his elbows. “If the parents were so neglectful, what became of Lantree Boone Walker? What has he done with his life?”

The woman sighed, looking sorrowful.

Did she know Lantree? His brother had always been a square shooter, always the responsible one.

He ought to have asked his lawyer about Lantree, but never had. Too much of a coward, he guessed, to come face-to-face with what his running must have cost his twin. Even given their opposite personalities, he and his brother had been close growing up. Right up until the day Boone had run, leaving Lantree cradling the body of a dead man.

Smythe did mention that it was Lantree who was paying his fees. He did know that little bit.

“He’s a hardscrabble cowboy, branding, roping, cussing.” She shook her head in what he saw as exaggerated sorrow but the judge seemed too smitten with her pretty pout to notice the insincerity.

She was truthful about the cussing, though. His brother did cuss. “Hell and damn” as he remembered it. The phrase was his brother’s one claim to wildness.

He doubted that Lantree had changed that much over the years. Must be that the woman was trying to show that because of Ma and Pa, neither of them had had a chance at growing up respectable.

Hell, being a cowpoke wasn’t so unrespectable, not like being an outlaw was.

“Lantree Walker was the only other reliable witness to the shooting,” Smythe declared. “His testimony at the time was that it was a fair fight, maybe even favored Mantry since he was a man coming against a boy, but the widow’s words held sway. Young Boone, fearful to his bones, had run away, as children will do.

“I could not help but be appalled that, at my client’s trial, Lantree Walker’s original testimony was not presented. All we heard were the written lies of a convicted thief and child exploiter along with the deranged memory of an inebriate. Clearly, Lady Justice wept on the day that Boone Walker was convicted.”

“Just so,” the woman added with a quick glance in his direction.

Boone didn’t know who this “innocent child” was they kept talking about. It sure hadn’t been him. He’d been born wild and only become more unruly over the years. On that long-ago day that he’d taken his money to town, Lantree had taken his, too. But his brother had put his in the bank.

While they’d been born twins, identical to look at, they had never been peas in a pod.

“I’ll need some time to sleep on what’s fact and what’s not.” The judge stood, stretching his back. “We’ll meet tomorrow, ten o’clock sharp.”

The woman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She gazed at Boone as though his fate was of some importance to her.

She nodded and then turned with a swish of that fancy womanly fabric. The scent of roses followed her. That was pleasant, given that he hadn’t smelled a rose in some time.

He watched her bustle twitch to and fro while she walked toward the big set of doors that led to the street behind the saloon. When she pulled the door open, a flurry of leaves blew inside.

Who in tarnation was she?

* * *

Stanley Smythe waived his fork as he spoke to Melinda Winston across the table in the dining room of the Inn of the Golden Buffalo. She could not truthfully say that she knew what the lawyer was going on about...in fact, she could not even say that she actually saw him.

While she did a fair job at stabbing her lunch with her fork, even chewing a bite now and again, she was fairly consumed by her first impression of the black sheep of the family.

No matter how she tried, she could not get Boone off her mind. How could she when she had spent the better part of the two-week journey to Buffalo Bend wondering what he would be like?

Would a condemned man seem different than any other? Would evil intent glint from his eyes? Or would he have the same demeanor as an innocent man?

And, having listened to Lantree’s recollections of what had happened that long-ago night, and having been spellbound by the lawyer’s presentation of an innocent boy wronged, she did believe that he ought not to have been convicted. While there was no denying that he had killed a man, it was clear as raindrops that it had not been in cold blood.

Still, it wasn’t the first murder that had folks shivering in their beds at night. There were reports of many other heartless crimes, each one more wicked than the next.

This morning in the courthouse, she had studied Boone long and hard. During that time, she did not feel evil lurking behind his eyes.

Melinda, having a well-favored face and figure, had, of necessity, developed a keen sense of male integrity. She had come to read men as easily as she read books. She’d had to. If she succumbed to every sweet talker who presented his suit, she would be in sorry shape.

Yes, within Boone she did see a troubled soul, one who carried a great deal of guilt. But she had to agree with Lantree, and with Stanley, when they insisted that Boone was not who the tabloids portrayed him to be.

Seeing Boone earlier, cuffed at the wrists and chained at the ankle, had been disconcerting.

Boone looked like her cousin by marriage...identical in every way. She’d had to blink several times to remind herself that it was not Lantree sitting on the defendant’s chair.

After all the years the brothers had spent separated, one would expect some differences but as hard as she had stared, she hadn’t been able to spot them.

One would think that the brother who spent his life as a healer and a protector would look vastly different from the one who spent his life, if the stories were to be believed, in crime and debauchery.

They did not, and this confused her.

Both men wore their blond hair long, just grazing the shoulder. Identically, they peered out at the world from under slightly lowered brows.

Upon deeper inspection, though, she had been able to see the difference in the souls of the men looking out of those lake-blue eyes.

Until recently Lantree’s expression had seemed slightly haunted by an unkind past. Not anymore, though, since he had married her cousin, Rebecca.

Boone’s expression did not seem haunted so much as jaded, as would be expected having lived his life among the seedy and corrupt.

“You are my responsibility, after all.”

“I b-beg your pardon?” Melinda stuttered, ashamed that her attention had wandered so completely from what Stanley Smythe was saying.

“I promised your cousin that I would take care of you. While you’ve done a fair job of pushing your food about your plate, you’ve eaten only four bites.”

“Have I?” He’d counted them and knew there were four? She didn’t even know that. It was hard to decide whether that was a comfort or an intrusion of her privacy. Not that dining in a public restaurant was private, but still, what she did or did not eat was her own business.

“You have. And before you decide that it is none of my concern, may I remind you that I argued against you coming to Buffalo Bend?”

“You did, Mr. Smythe. Quite vehemently.” She took a bite to appease him and, because now that she was paying attention, the food was quite good. “I was nearly forbidden to come.”

The wide, fancy doors of the dining room swung open and Judge Mathers charged through them. His expression looked stormy. Perhaps he was one of those men who turned grumpy if their meal was delayed. She and Smythe had left the courthouse after the judge and were now nearly halfway through their meal.

“After acting as your guardian these past weeks,” Smythe declared, returning her attention to him once again. “I’ve got to say that forbidden is not a word that you hold in high esteem.”

It was true. As a word forbidden was akin to a bull’s red flag. Once the bright temptation was waived, all one could do is charge after it.

It had been this way ever since Mama had changed. A mischievous adventure now and then helped Melinda forget for a moment that it used to be Mama who laughed at unreasonable rules, Mama who led her girls in lifting their skirts and dancing a playful, half-scandalous jig.

Sometimes, a half-scandalous jig made Melinda forget that it had been Papa who’d stolen Mama’s joy and left her bitter.

He had always claimed that Mama was the prettiest wife of them all...that Melinda was the prettiest little girl. Clearly, that had not been enough to guarantee his love.

Watching Stanley stab an innocent piece of steak repeatedly with his fork, she could only smile and do her best to appreciate the lawyer’s efforts on behalf of her family. He really was a dedicated fledgling lawyer.

“Well, someone needed to represent the family.” She paused to thoroughly chew two bites so that Smythe need not fear that she would starve. “With baby Caroline only five months old, Rebecca would not consider taking her on a long trip...and Lantree would never consider leaving them without medical care...so here I am.”

“Indeed.” He sighed, his slim shoulders sagging in his finely tailored suit. “But I’d like to say again that I am perfectly capable of presenting Mr. Walker’s case on my own. That it would be an easier task if you had remained safely at home.”

“None of us doubt your ability, Mr. Smythe, or your dedication to our Boone.”

“‘Our Boone’? You only just set eyes on him a couple of hours ago.”

“As true as that may be, family is family and that is precisely why I’m here.”

And it was. Grandfather Moreland had taken her to his heart as though she was one of his own. And she was Rebecca’s own, who was Lantree’s own. This made Boone Melinda’s own as much as anyone else’s. For all that he was a stranger, family stood by family.

“A quest for adventure is the more likely reason,” Smythe pointed out, “but here you are. I ask that you not make it difficult for me to return you safely to the waiting arms of your kin.”

While she considered a way to rebut that statement, which was difficult because it was partly true, a young woman crossed the dining room then sat in a chair across the table from the judge.

She looked as thunderous as he did.

“I’m quite family oriented,” Melinda said to the lawyer, but she couldn’t help casting a sidelong gaze toward the judge and the woman. “My cousin’s husband’s brother’s future is far too important to leave to strangers.”

“You are more of a stranger to him than the woman who cleans his chamber pot. It was evident that Boone spent the better part of our hearing wondering who you were.”

“I’d like to meet him, put his mind at rest, let him know his family cares.”

“Pregnant! How could you make such a blunder?” the judge snapped a little too loudly. Several heads swiveled toward the table where the pair glared at each other.

“Is she his wife, do you think?” Melinda whispered to Smythe.

Smythe shrugged. “He looks like he blames her for it. If she was his wife, he’d be taking some of the responsibility. Judging by her age, I’d guess she’s his daughter, poor girl.”

Melinda did not openly gawk, as many were doing, but from the corner of her eye, she noticed the judge glare at his cooling meal.

For all that she resisted staring, her ears were not so discriminating. They heard what they heard, and that was the judge saying something about counting both her and her husband out and wanting the advance money back.

“That’s good news,” Smythe murmured. “At least the girl is married, so whatever the trouble, it can be dealt with.”

They ate in silence for a moment, as did the rest of the diners.

“I want to meet my cousin.” She reminded Stanley Smythe, setting her fork down on her plate.

Her guardian’s expression hardened. He slid his glasses up his nose. If he’d had more hair, she guessed it would be standing on end.

“I’ll tell him who you are but I will not have you associating with criminals.”

“Once you’ve worked your magic, he’ll no longer be a criminal.”

“As your temporary guardian, I forbid it.”

She clenched her fingers around her fork.

“I understand,” she said with the most distracting smile she knew how to give. “I leave that to your judgment.”

“You do?”

“Of course.”

His gaze at her was less than believing and she couldn’t blame him for that. She did, indeed, have every intention of meeting Boone Walker.

She owed it to Rebecca to discover everything she could about their relative.

* * *

Boone reclined on a cot in a cell at the Buffalo Bend sheriff’s office, his head cradled in his arms and his elbows jutting out. The space, dimly illuminated by a lamp that shone under the crack of the deputy’s office door, was a sight better than his prison cell back in Omaha.

He watched a dusting of stars through the barred transom set high on the wall that faced the alley. Damned if they weren’t prettier than the finest jewels.

Wind whistled through the slats with a chilly moan. The cold that rushed in wasn’t comfortable but that was a small sacrifice for a breath of fresh air.

Because he’d spent much of his life living in the open and on the run, the thing he had missed the most over the past year of incarceration was fresh air.

Locked up, there had been days when the scent of a hundred prisoners’s sweat and stale pee permeated the prison walls like smoke trapped in a flue. Made a man want to puke.

If, somehow, his dandy little lawyer managed to get his sentence overturned, he’d never again so much as bend a rule that might jeopardize his freedom.

He placed one hand on his chest, over his heart.

“I vow it on my—” he nearly said “honor” but remembered he was short on that virtue. “Hell, I just vow it.”

He’d endeavor to be as reformed as any man could be. As righteous as Lantree had been on his best day. As good as Ma used to pray he would be.

Thoughts of his brother had haunted him over the years. One time he’d even snuck back to the home farm. From the look of things he’d been about five years too late. All that was left of the place was half of the barn and the outhouse minus its roof.

He would have visited the cemetery but it was near sunup and the protection of darkness had begun to fade. And in all truth, he hadn’t wanted to know if Ma and Pa were there. Hadn’t reckoned he could face the dawn if he saw his brother’s grave.

That would have meant that it was too late to beg his forgiveness, if there was any to be had. But now he knew that Lantree was not in that cemetery.

That meant he had lived years hearing the ugly stories about Boone Walker. Did he believe them?

Hell’s curses, even if he didn’t, how would he ever face Lantree given all he had done to break his brother’s heart? Maybe one day he would write, try to make amends, then again, maybe it would be better not to. It might be for the best if he just continued to be a memory, one that probably faded with each passing year.

Something hit the wall near the window. A mischievous kid tossing a rock, he reckoned. Getting a thrill out of riling a killer is something he, himself, might have done as a know-nothing youth.

Damn if that character flaw hadn’t helped get him where he was today.

Hell, he’d been drunk when he’d shot Mantry. And full of himself. He’d been sure as moonrise that he’d get his money back; have the fellow groveling at his feet in apology.

He’d learned a thing or two since then, not that it made him any less of an outlaw.

Over the years he’d done some things just to get by. Most of them he was ashamed of, but he’d never killed again. At least he didn’t have that sin on his conscience.

A pebble sailed between the bars of his cell window and landed on the floor with a thud. Best to ignore it until the kid got bored and went home. No doubt, tomorrow he would be bragging about how he riled the beast and gotten away with it.

With Halloween only a couple of weeks away, maybe Boone ought to leap up, holler and rattle the bars, give the kid a real story to tell his friends.

While he thought about it, the pelting quit, so he resumed his admiration of the stars.

A few moments later he heard scraping outside then a pause and then more scraping. It sounded as though something was being dragged across the dirt toward his window.

Quietly he scooted from his cot and crouched beside the wall below the transom. He’d heard stories of vigilantes delivering warped justice through unguarded windows.

“Mr. Walker?” a feminine voice whispered. “Mr. Walker, are you in there?”

Startled, he looked up. A pair of beautiful eyes blinked in the dim light. Even from down here he could see that they were as blue as daybreak.

He stood, slowly meeting her gaze.

“Oh, there you are.” Strands of wind whipped hair crossed her mouth. She puckered her lips to blow it away. “Why were you on the floor?”

He took a big step back. Had to. Because, stranger or not, the urge to reach his hands through the bars, cup her face and kiss that puckering mouth was strong.

It had been some time, a good long year, since he had lain with a woman, which might explain the feelings she stirred up, even with only her face in view.

“Who are you?”

Clearly she was the woman from the courthouse...the lady. But who was her guardian? What kind of man let a sweet-looking thing like her just slip out into the night?

“Who let you out?”