“Argh.”
Trixianna whirled at the sound. Her companion rose from his bed and stretched his arms above his head. His eyes widened when he caught her staring, but otherwise he showed no other reaction. He simply removed his over-large hat and sketched her a bow. A smile played upon his lips. He seemed not at all embarrassed about his casual state of undress—that is, his red-flannel drawers and drooping gray socks. His silver hair stood up in spiked clumps all over his head. She was so astonished by his appearance and demeanor, she stared openmouthed at the man.
He looked at the hat in his hands and held it away from his body, a look of utter disgust on his face. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it on his cot.
He cleared his throat. “Madam, what brings you to our humble abode?” He spoke in an eloquent baritone, a sharp contrast to his bedraggled appearance. His very proper British accent tickled Trixianna no end. She’d heard that the English were interesting people and often infectiously eccentric.
“I shot the sheriff,” she admitted.
“You killed him?” His tone of voice betrayed obvious astonishment.
“Oh, n-no,” Trixianna stammered, taken aback. She pressed a hand to her heart. “I just wounded him. It was a near thing. Actually, I didn’t want to hurt him, just scare him away.”
He coughed, covering his mouth with one hand. Although it was an obvious ploy to cover his laughter, she found the attempt endearing.
He stepped forward, gripping the bars that separated them. A mischievous gleam came into his eyes. “And what did our fine sheriff do then, my dear?”
“He fainted.”
This was apparently more than the man could stand. He backed up, roaring with laughter. He fell onto the cot, pounding the mattress with his fists as tears coursed down his face. “He fainted,” he repeated, gasping for air. “Sheriff Magrane fainted. Oh, that’s delicious. Simply delicious.”
He suddenly jumped to his feet, then crossed the expanse between them. He gripped the bars once more. “Then what happened?”
“He arrested me.”
“What for?” His avid gaze never left her face.
“For robbing a bank…b-but I didn’t do it.”
“You jolly well did not.”
Astonished, she asked, “But how would you know that, sir?”
He tossed his head with a flourish, pomposity discernible in his every move. His eyes flashed with outrage on her behalf. “Why, you are obviously a woman of breeding and refinement. Why, that galoose—no, what is that word you people use over here…?”
“Galoot?” she suggested. Several others, none as complimentary, came to mind.
“That isn’t what I was looking for, but it will do. That galoot wouldn’t know a fox’s brush from a hairbrush.”
Trixianna wasn’t sure she knew the difference either, but she knew it wasn’t complimentary to the sheriff. She liked that.
The man’s expressive face changed, turning somber. “I have been somewhat remiss, madam.”
“Oh?”
“We haven’t been properly introduced.” He bowed again. Reaching through the bars he took her hand in his. “May I?”
Taking her silence for acquiescence, he continued. “Alistair Burns, the sixth Viscount of Huxford.”
“Oh, my, are you a lord then?”
“Yes, well…” he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. “I know you Americans hate titles, and when you try to use them you muddle them ever so badly. Although I’m sure you are that rare exception, madam.”
She grinned at the compliment.
“Forget the lordship nonsense. My friends call me Burnsey.”
“How nice to meet you, Burnsey. These circumstances aren’t what I would prefer, however.”
“I fully agree.”
“I’m Trixianna Lawless.”
He still held her fingers through the bars. He brought them to his lips and gave her a whisper of a kiss across the back of her chilled hand. “Charmed.”
Trixianna felt an unwelcome blush creep into her cheeks. “So why are you in here, Burnsey?”
He leaned her way, his face mere inches from hers, and whispered, “I have been known to indulge a bit.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, it’s a fact. When I drink, I get this urge to gamble, and when I gamble, I always lose my shirt.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And my trousers, and my waistcoat, and my boots apparently.” He frowned at his stockinged feet. “Whatever I’m wearing. It’s all so terribly dull, you see. Someone usually informs Sheriff Magrane when I go on one of my benders, so before I bare myself to the whole of Grand Fork, he escorts me here, where I get the chance to sober up without embarrassing myself further. This time, somewhere along the way, I misplaced my bowler and ended up with that monstrosity.” He gestured at the cowboy hat on the cot. “I’m sure that is some cowpoke’s idea of a joke.”
“The sheriff locks you up just for drinking too much?”
“Oh, I’m not locked in.” He pushed open the door, and to her astonishment, strolled out of the cell. Then he sauntered back in, pulling the door shut behind him. He gave her a benign smile.
“You mean, I’m freezing to death and all this time, you could have started a fire in the stove.” She instantly felt appalled at her bad manners, but he didn’t even seem to notice.
His smile disappeared, and his face reddened. “I beg your pardon, Miss Lawless. I wasn’t aware of your condition. Let me remedy that straightaway.”
He hustled out of the cell, seemingly unconcerned that she could see his bare skin. He had the stove going in no time.
He walked around the desk, opened the middle drawer and removed a set of keys. As if he’d done it on several occasions before, he returned to her cell and unlocked the door. He gestured her out. “Come stand by the stove and warm up.”
Trixianna felt her jaw drop…for the second time since she’d arrived in the Grand Fork jail. She took an abrupt step, unsure if she should leave the cell.
“Come, come, Miss Lawless, I accept full responsibility.” He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Maybe we’ll even plan your escape.”
He took her elbow and escorted her across the room. Like a gentleman, he pulled both chairs near the stove and waited until she seated herself. The warmth of the stove helped dissipate the chill in her body.
He hustled around and started the coffee. When it bubbled, he rose to pour each of them a cup.
“It’s not tea, but you Americans seem to adore this stuff even when it’s thick enough to float a boat.” After handing a cup to Trixianna, he sat down and crossed one knee over the other in a casual pose. She tried to keep her eyes on his kind face instead of the gaps between the buttons of his drawers.
She nodded in agreement. “That’s true enough, Burnsey, but I myself drink a cup of chamomile tea every morning. I feel it’s good for ill humors.”
He nodded. “I just knew you were a woman of refinement. Now tell me, Miss Lawless, how did the sheriff think you of all people could rob a bank?”
She turned, pointing to the picture on the wall behind the desk.
Burnsey’s head swung around and his eyes widened. Coffee sloshed out of his cup and onto the wooden floor, where it left a widening brown stain. “God’s teeth,” he muttered as a strained expression spread across his face. His head swiveled back to her. “Why, it’s the spitting image of you.”
“I know.” The coffee churned in her empty stomach as the truth hit her. The drawing did look like her. What chance did she have of defending herself? No one in Grand Fork knew her. No one would come to her aid. She was alone.
Burnsey reached over and patted her hand in a fatherly fashion. “It may look like you, but I know it’s not.”
“Thank you, Burnsey, but the sheriff thinks it’s me. What can I possibly do?”
As if conjured up by their conversation, the door swung open and in he strolled. He’d washed up and changed into a clean shirt of forest green. He was still unshaven, but the shadow
of his beard didn’t mask the pale, strained expression. He walked with a stiff gait, the arm beneath his injured shoulder held close to his side.
His thick brows drew together in a frown as his gaze passed first over her, then over Burnsey. To her amazement, a flush started above his shirt collar and worked its way up his face, forming two crimson splotches on his cheeks. Trixianna watched in fascination as he waggled a finger between the collar of his shirt and his neck.
“Dammit, Burnsey, you could at least cover yourself with a blanket.”
“Good morning to you, too, Sheriff Magrane,” Burnsey replied. “Where’s your hat? I never realized you even had hair, but a fine head of hair it is.”
The sheriff rolled his eyes heavenward. “I lost it,” he grumbled. He slanted a grim look at Burnsey. “Just who the hell said you could release my prisoner?”
“How’s your shoulder, Sheriff?” Trixianna asked, worried about the drawn look on his features. She was afraid he might faint again.
“I’ll live,” he muttered.
He cleared his throat. She glanced up to find him staring hard at her. A muscle quivered at his darkened jaw. She had been rubbing her free hand up and down her arm to get warmth into it. Under his intense stare, she self-consciously stopped the motion.
He contemplated her a moment, his eyes widening. He swiveled his head around, then grimaced at the sudden movement. He cast a brief look at the stove. His left hand absently clasped his right arm close to his side.
“Well, hell.” He strode over and awkwardly poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot warming on the stove. “Thanks for getting the fire and the coffee started, Burnsey, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
He moved around his desk, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He sat down, placed the cup on the desk in front of him and crossed his legs at the ankles. With a grimace on his face, he laced his hands across his flat stomach. His gaze stayed riveted on Trixianna, and he seemed to be studying her, his expression one of cynical amusement.
“God’s teeth, Sheriff, she’s not going anywhere.”
“Huh,” he said.
She noted his clenched jaw, and watched his narrow gaze fix on her. “When will I get out of here?” Trixianna asked. Her voice came out sounding shakier than she would have liked. The wanted poster had her more than a little worried. Terrified was more like it.
“When the federal marshal gets to town.”
“When will that be?”
“Well, let’s see,” he said. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I sent a telegram to the sheriff over in Dena Valley and to the one in Abilene.”
“Abilene?” Trixianna asked in a choked voice.
His eyes opened, the pale blue orbs searching her face. One corner of his mouth twisted upward. “I expect we’ll see him when he gets here.”
“I can’t stay here,” wailed Trixianna. Her voice broke with uncertainty.
“You should have thought of that before you robbed the bank over in Dena Valley. Folks just can’t abide bank robbers. Why, I remember back when I was just a boy, I heard tell that some rascal tried to rob the bank right here in Grand Fork. He was caught red-handed, and hauled off to jail. This very one, in fact.
“The sheriff—it was ole fiery-tempered Red Eubanks then—he didn’t put up with much of anything. He just took that fella out and hanged him from a tree right at the end of Main Street. There’s a big old cottonwood near the river just the right size for a hanging. By God, the criminal element stayed away from Grand Fork for quite a spell after that.”
Trixianna swallowed a lump in her throat that felt the size of a watermelon. “Oh, my stars,” she whispered.
“Quit trying to scare her, Chance. You know she didn’t rob any bank,” said Burnsey, coming to her defense. He stood up and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Besides I want to hear about your fainting spell.” He winked at Trixianna.
They both turned their heads in time to see Sheriff Chance Magrane blush like a schoolboy.
“Well, hell,” he muttered.
What one beholds of a woman is the least part of her.
– Ovid
CHAPTER TWO
CHANCE FOUND his hat.
He picked the black Stetson up off the porch where it had fallen off his head at the time of his incident. He pulled it low on his forehead and released a sigh of contentment. All morning he’d felt half-naked without it.
His shoulder ached like a kick in the…well, it hurt bad. He was hungry, tired and feeling downright surly. He rubbed his chin in thought as he debated the wisdom of crossing the threshold into Mad Maggie’s house. The scratchy growth beneath his fingertips reminded him why he’d risen early before he’d shaved or eaten. He’d wanted to get the jump on her. Instead, she’d gotten the jump on him.
Just yesterday he’d seen her as she walked ahead of him down Main Street pulling a child’s wagon behind her. A red-checked tablecloth had covered the contents so he’d been unable to tell what she’d carted around town. Dressed the same as any other Grand Fork woman, in a plain dress and poke bonnet of dove gray, she wouldn’t have drawn his attention except for one thing. Well, maybe two, he admitted to himself. The dress had done little to disguise the shapely curves beneath the fabric and he was, after all, a man. He couldn’t help but notice a young, good-looking woman.
In addition, she stopped outside Sinclair’s Restaurant to speak with Sinclair himself, who’d stood on the stoop frowning into the street. Bertram Sinclair was known as an incorrigible rascal, and he was known to speak only under duress. What had startled Chance into eavesdropping was hearing Bert actually chuckle when she stopped to chat.
“Why, ma’am, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you this morning.” His jowly cheeks crinkled in an honest-to-goodness smile.
That hadn’t sounded like the Bert Sinclair Chance knew. Chance had leaned against a storefront and lowered the brim of his Stetson to hide a grin. He’d never before seen anything on the man’s face besides a scowl.
“Mr. Sinclair, it’s a pleasure to see you, too.” Her husky voice had frozen Chance in place. She had looked a bit familiar, but she had to be new to Grand Fork. He could never have forgotten that sultry voice. Although her bonnet had concealed the upper half of her face, he’d detected a button nose and a decidedly determined chin.
The two had entered the restaurant together. Chance had been debating whether to follow when the woman suddenly exited, her wagon empty except for the folded table covering. She’d dropped several coins in her reticule and looked up. She caught him watching her, and gave him a tentative smile.
It was then that he recognized her from the wanted poster in his office. Shocked, he’d belatedly remembered to tip his hat. She’d given him a bewildered nod, and had taken off down the boardwalk, her skirts swishing. The wheels of her empty wagon had screeched until they became a faint echo as she turned the corner and disappeared. His head reeling with excitement, he’d sprinted after her, and watched her enter the Miller parsonage next to the Methodist church.
Pastor Miller had taken a six-month missionary assignment at the Kansa Indian reservation. Chance had thought his house was empty. Obviously not. He’d wondered who had gone and rented it to a wanted criminal.
Now, a day later, he’d found himself standing on the porch—the same one where she’d shot him.
He stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, a stain on the braided rag rug caught his attention. It was his own blood. His shoulder throbbed in recognition.
The Millers had left their own furnishings so from what he could tell the room wasn’t much changed. He stepped through the parlor and into the adjoining kitchen. He stopped, scanning the scene he found there.
All the available space overflowed with cooking equipment. Bowls, spices, measuring utensils and a sifter with bits of flour still clinging to its metallic sides covered the round, oilcloth-covered table. A half-dozen tin pie plates lined the
sideboard. A bowl of drying, brown apple slices stood in the sink. Chance grabbed a slice and tossed it in his mouth. His mouth puckered with the tart taste.
With a single finger, he pushed his hat to the crown of his head. He stuck his hands in his back pockets, his thoughts ajumble with possibilities.
She liked to bake?
She appeared to have a considerable sweet tooth…or a lover with one? Her accomplice? And if so, where was he?
“Where the hell are my pies?”
Chance spun at the angry voice and the sound of stomping boots on the front porch and across the parlor. His hand went to the gun at his hip. When he saw Bertram Sinclair enter the kitchen, he lowered his arm.
“Look at this!” Bert gestured wildly around the kitchen, his arms spinning like a child’s top. His squat body quivered all over with apparent indignation. “My pies aren’t even in the oven yet.”
Chance spoke calmly, even though his heart beat a strong tattoo against his chest. “Bert, what are you doing here?” He stared at the red-faced man, who looked mad enough to kick his own dog.
Bert shook his fist in Chance’s face and thundered, “What are you doing here and where the hell is that Lawless woman?”
“She’s not your concern.” Chance hung onto his temper by a slim thread. He stared at Bert until the man lowered his arm.
“The hell you say.” Bert scowled. His eyes scanned the kitchen. “What about my pies?”
“They aren’t going to get made today, so take yourself on back to the diner and save your misery for someone else.”
“Sheriff, I got a business to run.” His eyes burned still, but he’d dropped his threatening demeanor, maybe realizing that Chance’s tolerance was exceedingly low.
“Then do it, Sinclair,” he barked.
The sound of Bert’s retreating footsteps echoed in Chance’s ear as he took one last look around the kitchen. Other than the kitchen fixings, nothing looked out of place. He even checked inside every cupboard and container, be it a sack of potatoes or a tin of coffee. But there was no indication in this room that the woman incarcerated in the Grand Fork jail was a bank robber.
Well, what did he think he’d find?—sacks of money stashed under the sink, or maybe her accomplice hiding behind the stove? Annoyed with himself, he moved down the hall to the bedroom.