Outlaw’s Bride (30 page)

“I ain’t aba—abik—dicktated—I ain’t done nothing wrong!”

The door slammed open, and Gilley stood there with his eyes bugged wide. “Ethan Hawk just rode into town. He brought Chester Felber in with him. Chester’s been shot!”

“Is he dead?” Careless asked.

“Naw. But he’s hurt bad. Doc Carter’s looking at him now.”

Careless pulled his pants up under his belly, rearranged his gunbelt on his leg, and marched toward the door. He stopped before a stunned Patch long enough to say, “You wanted a sheriff. Well, now you got one.”

Patch hurried after the sheriff.

“Make way! Make way!” Careless forced his way through the crowd that surrounded Ethan.

The moment Careless reached Ethan’s side he said, “You’re under arrest.”

Ethan’s lip curled sarcastically. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

Careless caught sight of Patch’s arched brow and scowled. “All right. What happened?”

Ethan started to reach beneath his leather vest, and Careless pulled his gun. “Hold it right there.”

Ethan held both hands up. “There’s a pouch in my shirt pocket.”

“Gilley, you reach in there and see if he’s telling the truth,” Careless said.

Gilley did as he was told. “Here it is.”

“Look inside,” Ethan said. “You’ll find a white powder. Arsenic.”

Gilley looked. “It’s a white powder, all right. Don’t know about it being arsenic.”

“I had it checked by a chemist in San Antonio,” Ethan said.

“So what does this have to do with Chester gettin’ shot?” Careless asked.

“I went looking for Chester because I found out he was putting arsenic in the milk Gilley delivered to my mother and the whiskey he delivered to my father—whiskey that poisoned him to death.”

The crowd gave a collective gasp as they became aware for the first time that Alex Hawk had been murdered.

“Ethan did ask me about poisoned milk,” Gilley confirmed for the crowd.

“And he asked me where I got my whiskey,” Slim volunteered.

“Chester found out that I suspected him and ran off,” Ethan said. “I got word that he was in Three Rivers, and that’s where I found him. We were riding back to Oakville when we were ambushed. Someone—whoever gave Chester the poison—didn’t want him telling any tales.”

“You tryin’ to tell me you didn’t shoot Chester?”

“You’re damn right I am!” Ethan said heatedly. “Why would I want him dead? He’s the only one who knows for sure who wanted my parents dead.”

“Maybe Chester told you, and then you shot him,” Careless suggested.

“If I knew who the culprit was, I would have delivered you his corpse,” Ethan said in a deadly voice.

“Who—” Careless cut himself off. The answer to his question was obvious. Ethan Hawk meant to kill the man who had poisoned his father. That didn’t mean he hadn’t also taken advantage of the opportunity to shoot Chester.

“Yeah, well, how do I know you’re not lyin’?” Careless demanded of Ethan.

“You’ll just have to take my word for it—unless and until Chester comes to and can tell you himself.”

Careless pulled on his chin hairs. He sneaked a peek at Patch and looked back at Ethan. “Guess you wouldn’t’ve brung him in alive if you’d’a been the one who shot him. You got any ideas who
did
shoot him?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Ethan said grimly.

Mrs. Felber had been visiting a friend at the other end of town, so it had taken a few minutes for word of Chester’s fate to reach her. Then her shrieking wails could be heard as she made her way through the crowd.

“Chester! Oh, my God! Chester! What happened to my son?”

“He’s with Doc Carter right now, Miz Felber,” the sheriff informed her.

Her ululating cries sent chills down Patch’s spine as several ladies ushered her to the doctor’s office.

Then Horace Felber arrived. He looked right at Ethan and demanded, “What happened?”

“I was bringing Chester back to Oakville. Someone shot at us from cover, and he was hit.”

“Why?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me something about that.” Ethan watched the blood drain from Horace Felber’s face.
He knew! He knew about the poison!
“I think we need to talk.”

Horace shook his head vigorously. “No! I can’t help you. I don’t know anything. Not a thing. Nothing.” Horace fled.

For a man who knew nothing. Horace Felber had protested too long and too loudly. Ethan felt a surge of excitement. When he first realized Chester had been shot, he had felt as though he would be forever thwarted in his search for the truth. He had reached the bottom of a sinkhole with no hope of climbing out.

Even though Chester was still alive, Ethan had his doubts whether the big, simple man would survive. Now he suddenly felt hope again. Horace might not know everything. But he knew something.

Ethan had been so wrapped up in his confrontation with Careless and his excitement over confronting Horace that he hadn’t focused on the crowd. But as he started after Horace, he found himself facing Patch.

“What are you doing in town? I told you it’s too damned dangerous—”

Patch’s fingertip poked him before he could evade it. “Look who’s talking! You were supposed to be rounding up cattle. What on earth possessed you to go after Chester Felber on your own? You could have been killed! You could have been shot! You could have—”

Ethan grabbed Patch by the hand and dragged
her away from the avidly watching crowd. “Let’s finish this discussion without an audience.”

He headed into the lobby of the Oakville Hotel, but that wasn’t empty, either. He grabbed a key from the shelf behind the unattended desk and headed up the stairs, seeking a place where he could be alone with Patch, where he could vent the fury and frustration he had suffered when Chester was shot.

Patch realized she could either walk on her own two feet or get dragged. Walking seemed more dignified.

When they were in the hotel room alone with the door locked behind them, Patch opened her mouth to continue her tirade and found it covered by Ethan’s.

Anger gave way to passion. Without Patch knowing quite how it happened, the two of them landed on the four-poster bed. She wasn’t sure who undressed whom, only that they had removed the necessary clothing in less time than it took for the sounds of the crowd to die down in the street.

Patch clutched Ethan close and sighed as with a single thrust he joined their bodies. Her fingernails made crescents in his shoulders as he moved inside her. His hand slipped between them, and she gasped as her body responded with a speed and intensity she wouldn’t have believed possible.

It wasn’t lovemaking, exactly. It was an affirmation of their need for each other, a quick, spontaneous release of the anger and fear and dread they had both recently experienced.

When it was over, they lay half-dressed on the
bed and let the breeze from the open window cool their musky bodies.

“Do you think we’ll ever find out the truth about who poisoned your father without Chester’s help?” Patch asked.

Ethan sighed. “I don’t know, Patch. I just don’t know.”

Patch rolled over with her back to Ethan. “I’ll never be able to hold up my head in front of these people again,” she said. “They’ll know exactly what we were doing up here.”

“No, they won’t,” Ethan said. “You’ll leave here looking about as warm as an icicle, with your hair in that tight little bun and your nose tilted up in the air, and they’ll know a lady like you wouldn’t let an outlaw like me within forty feet of her drawers.”

Patch laughed. The laugh was cut short when Ethan’s hand roamed across her belly and into the still-damp curls below. “Again?”

He answered by slipping a finger inside her. He edged her onto her back, and his mouth found hers, his tongue tasting the edges of her lips before slipping between them. He ran his tongue along the inside of her upper lip, then sucked on her lower lip and teased it with his teeth.

Patch learned quickly how to please Ethan, where to touch, where she could taste to wrench groans of pleasure from him. She loved the feel of his skin, the textures of his body, the strength and the softness of him.

Their second joining was slower, and Patch surrendered like a willow in the wind. She was
arched off the bed with need before Ethan finally released her from the throes of passion. Afterward, Patch was embarrassed at the noises she had made, at the scratch marks she had left on Ethan’s shoulders and buttocks. When she tried to apologize, Ethan laughed.

“You’re in worse shape than I am,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You may want to knot that bow on your shirtwaist a little higher when you leave,” he said.

“Why?”

“To hide the marks I left on your neck.”

Patch ran to the mirror over the dry sink and looked at her neck. “Goodness.” She turned and smiled coyly at him. “How would you like one of these?”

Ethan grabbed his long johns and started yanking them on. “No thanks, young lady. Your reputation will be in tatters if I turn up with a love bruise after having spent half the afternoon up here with you.”

Patch looked out the window at the setting sun. “Good Lord! Look what time it is!” She scrambled around, tugging on clothes as quickly as she could, but was slowed down by Ethan’s insistence that she look as perfectly dressed and coifed as she had when they entered the room. Fortunately, Patch had a comb and some extra hairpins in her reticule. Ethan had lost her other pins somewhere in the bedding.

“Remember,” Ethan cautioned. “Cold as ice. You go down those stairs with that satin skirt
swishing like a high wind in tall grass. Won’t anybody dare say a word to you.”

Patch did as Ethan said. There were no smirks, no smiles, no snickering. She kept her chin up and exited the hotel with a smug smile, thinking,
No one suspects a thing!

Behind her, at the top of the stairs, Ethan eyed every manjack in the lobby, daring any one of them to look cross-eyed at Patch, making it plain that any man who insulted his woman was flirting with death.

When Ethan reached the lobby, he looked out the plate glass window, expecting to see Patch.

She wasn’t there.

He hurried outside onto the boardwalk and looked up and down both sides of the street.

Patch had disappeared.

Patch had realized that if she didn’t go immediately and offer her sympathy to Mr. and Mrs. Felber that the opportunity wouldn’t likely arise again anytime soon. She was afraid Ethan might try to stop her, so she took advantage of the fact he planned to remain awhile longer than she had in the hotel to make her escape.

She hurried down the street and into the Oakville Mercantile, hoping she would find the Felbers, or at least someone who could tell her where they lived. The store was empty. Patch waited a few moments after the bell over the door jangled to see if someone would come. No one did.

Patch headed for the muffled sounds she heard beyond the blanket that separated the front of the store from the back. She found Mrs. Felber sitting on a small barrel of salted pork, her face hidden in her hands. Patch sat down on a nearby barrel and put her arm around the sobbing woman. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know Ethan—”

Mrs. Felber’s head jerked up at the mention of Ethan’s name. Tears drenched her face, and she
wiped her dripping nose with the hem of her apron. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to say how sorry I am—”

“I’m glad it’s almost over!” Mrs. Felber said fiercely. “I’m glad my son will soon be laid to rest. I’ve been waiting seventeen years for the other shoe to drop. Now that it has, I’m
glad
!”

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

“Are you?” Mrs. Felber focused desolate eyes on Patch. “Now I don’t have to keep that
damnable
secret anymore. Seventeen long years I kept quiet. But no more! There’s no reason everyone shouldn’t know all about it once Chester is dead.”

“Know all about what?”

Mrs. Felber’s lip curled derisively. “Ask Ethan’s good friend, Boyd Stuckey. He could tell you.”

Patch was getting more concerned by the minute. All this talk of “seventeen years ago.” Could Mrs. Felber possibly know something about Merielle’s rape? The big woman’s face had flushed an alarming red. “Please, Mrs. Felber, don’t keep me in suspense. Do you know something about what really happened to Merielle Trahern seventeen years ago?”

Patch heard a sound behind her and looked up to find Ethan framed by the blankets in the doorway.

“Come in, Ethan,” Mrs. Felber said. “You’ll want to hear this, too.”

Patch and Ethan exchanged uneasy glances. Mrs. Felber was obviously agitated, her eyes wild-looking, her voice harsh and guttural.

Ethan came and stood at Patch’s side, his hand
on her shoulder. “You have something to say, Mrs. Felber?”

Lilian Felber gave a shuddering sigh. “Horace wanted to put Chester in an orphans’ home when he found out he was slow-witted. Did you know that? But I loved my boy too much to send him away. I think Horace learned to love him, too. Otherwise, he would never have done what he did.”

She remained silent for so long that Ethan asked, “What did Horace do, Mrs. Felber?”