Authors: Beth Williamson
The severe woman came back with two plates heaped with ham and some kind of sauce, green beans and biscuits.
“Many thanks, ma’am.” John remembered his manners even if the waitress didn’t. The woman turned and walked back through the door to the kitchen without a word. This town was proving to be as odd as he suspected.
John’s stomach growled at the same time a feminine growl sounded from Frankie’s side of the table. She flashed him a lopsided grin, then picked up her fork and dug in.
He wasn’t the type of man to have patience with silly women, ones who would faint form hunger rather than eat in front of a man. Vapid, useless behavior. Frankie was obviously not one of those girls. She ate like she meant it.
They each focused on their plates, enjoying the hot, if bland, food. It was better than anything he could’ve made, but obviously their dour cook didn’t believe in using salt or pepper. The biscuits were heavenly, though, light and fluffy, melt-in-his-mouth good. He didn’t want to waste one sopping up the unexciting sauce, but it would be foolish not to eat every scrap of food. They didn’t know how long it would be until they found the wagon train. Better to eat now than starve later.
John usually kept an eye on his surroundings, made sure things were safe. Part of the reason he was good at working wagon trains. Today, however, he must have been distracted by either the woman or the food, or both.
When the snick of a gun cocking sounded in his ear, he dropped his fork with a clatter and reached for his weapon.
“Don’t do it, mister. It ain’t worth ruining Miss Eunice’s table with your brains.” The cold snub of the pistol pressed into his neck. “Now put your hands flat on the table where I can see them.”
Frankie watched, wide-eyed. She didn’t look panicked, which was lucky, but she clenched the fork with whitened knuckles. “What do you think you are doing,
monsieur
?” She bit off her words like ice chips.
“I’m arresting this man for murder.”
Frankie told herself to focus on the problem, not on the fact this slovenly man with food stuck in his beard had a gun to John’s head. He had accused John of murder. Impossible.
“You have the wrong man,
monsieur
. My husband has not murdered anyone.” She met the man’s gaze without blinking. “Please remove the gun from his head this instant.”
“Ain’t you a pert little thing?” His grin was full of yellowed and missing teeth.
“You have no call to accuse him of murder or hold a gun to his head.” She got to her feet, not that she had a lot of height to throw at him, but she stood straight as an arrow and looked down her nose at the man. “I am only going to say this one more time. Remove the gun from his head. This. Instant.”
Whatever he saw in Frankie’s eyes must have given him pause because he pulled the pistol away, but still kept it trained on John. “I got a wanted poster that says different. Your name John Malloy?”
Frankie’s stomach flipped at the mention of John’s name. She now had to make a choice. Either lie for him or let him get arrested for a murder he may or may not have committed. There really was no choice. No matter what, she didn’t believe him capable of murder.
“His name is Gaston Chastain and I am Francesca Chastain. We are part of a wagon train heading for Oregon and were separated from everyone.” She clenched her hands together to stop them from shaking. “We are part of Buck Avery’s group and we will be rejoining them tomorrow.”
She was proud of how firm her voice was considering her knees had the consistency of the gravy on her plate.
The filthy man scratched his equally filthy hair. “I heard of Buck Avery, but this here man looks like the poster I saw for John Malloy. Sheriff said I get five dollars if’n I find someone on a wanted poster.”
“I can assure you, you have the wrong man.” Frankie tensed, waiting to see if she’d convinced the man.
Luck, however, was a fickle mistress.
“Who’ve you got there, Bert?” The man at the corner table, the one wearing the silver star, had walked over while Frankie’s attention was averted.
“This here fella looks like a poster on the wall in the jail, Sheriff. I saw him walking in, so I checked the posters like you told me to.” The filthy Bert stepped back, which was when Frankie realized the stench she had been ignoring was him. She breathed through her mouth. “He says he ain’t John Malloy, though.”
The sheriff was clean, but as dark as the shadows dancing around outside. He was dressed all in black, with piercing blue eyes surrounded by silvery hair. His sharp gaze assessed both of them in an instant.
“Why don’t we head over to the jail and clear things up?” He held out his hand to Frankie, but she merely stared at him. This man was not so easily swayed by her brave words.
“And you are,
monsieur?
”
“Name’s Sheriff George Everett.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his black hat. “Ma’am, if you and your, ah, husband will accompany me, we will sort this out.”
She met John’s gaze and saw what she didn’t want to see—guilt. Had he murdered someone? Frankie didn’t want to believe it. The man acted the part of a boorish jackass, but someone who helped an old lady in and out of her wagon every day and nearly ran his horse into the ground to save her couldn’t have murdered anyone.
“We are only passing through your fine town. My Gaston is not the man you seek. If you would simply let us pay for our meal, we will be on our way.” She knew there was a slim chance the sheriff would let them leave.
If he didn’t, they might never catch the wagon train or see her family again. Frankie straightened her shoulders and pulled herself up by the bootstraps. Whatever he did or didn’t do, John had helped her when she most needed it. She would not fail him or abandon him when he needed her.
She held out her hand to the man who had already taken a piece of her heart. He shook his head ever so slightly; she nearly missed it.
“
Cherie
, we must clear this up so we can be on our way.” Frankie begged him with her eyes. If he tried to resist, Bert’s gun was only six inches from his head. She would never forgive him if he died in front of her.
“
Oui
. Let’s go with Sheriff Everett.” John got to his feet and Bert jumped a foot in the air.
Good, they needed to be wary. Given the day she’d had, they were poking a stick at a hornet’s nest. She would, and intended to, sting them.
They started to walk away from table when John stopped. The sheriff’s expression turned glacial, allowing a glimpse into the man behind the polite mask. “Problem?”
“No problem. We haven’t paid for our meal.” John reached into his pocket for money and the sheriff pulled out his pistol. “Easy, Sheriff, I don’t have anything in my pocket but lint and a few bits.”
He moved deliberately and slowly, putting coins on the table for their meal. Frankie was embarrassed she’d forgotten to pay for the food they’d eaten. Of course, she had no money, nothing but the clothes on her back. She was lucky she had shoes since she’d been kidnapped while washing up for the day.
“Get moving, Malloy.” The sheriff obviously didn’t believe his name was Gaston Chastain.
“You have the wrong man,
monsieur
. If you continue to harass us, I will be forced to take further action.” Her day had gone from bad to worse to ridiculous.
The sheriff pushed John toward the door, ignoring her. Frankie counted to five before she followed, leaving the fork she had been clutching behind on the table. Although she wanted to keep it to protect herself, the severe woman would probably accuse her for stealing and then they could both end up in jail.
They tromped through the streets, a strange parade of people. The stray dog whined as they passed, but he stayed put with John’s horse. With a smidge of good luck, they could be riding away on said equine in no time.
However, she didn’t believe they would be on the receiving end of good luck. The day had not gone well, and the evening was proving to be going awry.
The jail was a squat building with no windows at the end of the street. It was made of some sort of mud she believed was sod, which she read about in a book before coming west. The interior was dark and dank, with a strange odor. It was surprisingly clean, though, with well-swept wooden floors and two cells at the back of the building secured with doors made of steel bars.
On the left side of the building was a rickety-looking desk with an equally rickety chair. Behind the desk the wall was covered in wanted posters. Gazing at the myriad of faces and names, Frankie realized Sheriff Everett was like a spider. He spun a web at the edge of nowhere, waiting for those who had a price on their head to get stuck in the tendrils of his creation.
There was nothing for them at the edge of nowhere except perhaps the occasional unsuspecting fly who may be caught in the sheriff’s trap. She shivered at the thought that they had no recourse, no family or assistance. It was up to her and John to find a way out of this spider’s web.
Sheriff Everett carefully unpinned a poster from the wall and handed it to John. “You sure do bear a likeness to this John Malloy fella.”
John took the paper with steady hands. She crowded close to look at it.
WANTED
JOHN MALLOY
FOR MURDER
$1,000 REWARD
DEAD OR ALIVE
The image of the man was similar to John, but it was not a portrait by any means. The idea of John murdering someone was something she would have to think about later. Right now, the important thing was convincing the sheriff John was not the man in the poster.
“This does not look like my husband other than the fact he is a man.” Frankie folded her arms, deliberately pushing up her breasts. Men were drawn to them since they were larger than normal for a woman her height. As expected, all three men looked at them. A jolt of feminine power zinged through her. “Now, if you do not mind, we would like to be on our way.”
She’d rather sleep on bare ground with only insects for company than stay in the strange town. John handed the paper back to the sheriff.
“I don’t know who this is, but it isn’t me.” He shook his head. “We came out here from New York, left Independence a week ago.”
The sheriff stared at both of them for a minute, his icy blue gaze sending shivers up and down Frankie’s spine. Spider indeed.
Finally he looked back at the paper and nodded. “All right, folks, you can be on your way. Sorry for the trouble.”
He carefully pinned the poster back on the wall, making sure the shaft went through the same hole in the paper. Frankie was fascinated and horrified by the man’s behavior. She resisted the urge to run from the building.
“Thank you, Sheriff.” John put his arm around Frankie’s back and turned toward the door.
Before they could reach it, however, the door burst open with enough force to make the door stick to the sod wall. Declan Callahan stood there, bloody, filthy and enraged.
“I’m gonna kill you, Malloy.”
Frankie’s stomach twisted at the appearance of the man who had kidnapped her. John reached for his gun, but the sheriff already had one pointed at his back. Declan advanced on him and another gun appeared beside John’s cheek.
“Don’t come a step closer, mister.” The sheriff of this small town had a few surprises up his sleeve, including a second pistol.
Callahan halted, his hands opening and closing into fists. The man must have run from the moment he’d woken until he stepped into the building. Pure rage drove him, that much was obvious. John didn’t look afraid of the big Irishman. She was more afraid Sheriff Everett would string him up, then deliver his body for the thousand-dollar reward.
The lawman turned his pistol on Frankie. “You’re both under arrest. No doubt there’s a reward on your head too.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “My lucky day, Malloy.”
Chapter Seven
The cell was six foot by six foot, leaving little room for privacy. Frankie stood at the tiny window, the steel bars just as sturdy as the ones on the door. John sat on the edge of the dirty cot, his elbows on his knees, his expression blank and hard.
Callahan sat in the other cell, staring at them with hot fury oozing from every pore. She tried not to look at him, but she could feel his gaze on her back, creeping across her skin. He could be angry all he wanted, she would not allow herself to feel guilty.
“I will bring you back to Peck, Frankie. No matter what your beau does, I won’t fail.” Callahan sounded as determined to return her to New York as she was to avoid going back.
“I will die first.”
“Not my first choice, but ’tis an option.”
John growled low in his throat. “Shut up. Just fucking shut up.”
She didn’t know if he was speaking to her or Callahan, but his tone definitely pricked her pride.
“I’ll talk the day through if I want.” Callahan got to his feet and gripped the bars separating the two cells. “I owe you a beating, Malloy. I promise you I’ll collect.”
“You are a fool. They’ll hang me before you can land one punch.” John flicked his hand in dismissal. “Then they’ll charge you with kidnapping and no matter what or who Peck is, they aren’t going to save you.”