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Outlaw Love. Judith Stacy
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The man had worked himself into such a snit, Clay felt inclined to believe him. “I’d like to see the journals for the days the Morgan payroll was stolen.”
Otis’s spine stiffened. “That is private information meant only for the stage lines.”
Clay straightened and squared his shoulders. He tapped the badge on his chest. “Not anymore.”
His eyes narrowed, and then he slapped his palms against the desktop and rose. “Ernie!”
The young man jumped from his chair. “Yes, Mr. Bean?”
“Get the records for the days of the last four stage robberies. Give the marshal whatever he wants.” Otis turned and glared at Clay. “And I should hope this will actually result in an arrest”
Ernie gathered the ledgers and brought them to the counter for Clay, then hurried back to his desk. Otis stood watching Clay as he leafed through the pages showing the routes, schedules, passenger rosters, and cargo manifests.
The bell jangled and the door opened. Clay glanced up to see a tall young woman in pale blue step inside. Her brown hair was carefully coiffed, and she looked like an easterner. Her eyes flashed as her gaze swept the three men.
“Well, good morning, gentlemen.”
She purred the words, like a cunning cat on the prowl, and sauntered over to Clay. She tapped the badge on his chest with her fan and smiled lazily up at him. “I do believe you must be that marshal I’ve heard so much about.” She tossed an impatient glance at Otis Bean. “Introduce us.”
Otis’s lips curled downward. “I’d like to present Mallory Morgan. This is Marshall Chandler. Mallory is Jack Morgan’s daughter.”
He touched the brim of his hat politely. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Mallory uttered a deep, throaty laugh and eased closer, holding her gaze steady on Clay’s. “Yes, Marshal, quite a pleasure.”
The young woman exuded a sensuality that perme. ated everything around her. All done up as she was, in that proper dress with the tight fitted bodice and the bustle that swayed provocatively, he sensed a recklessness about her, the kind that in his younger days he would have sniffed after like a dog on point; the kind he now knew could cause a man a world of trouble. Especially when packaged as the daughter of the town’s richest man. Clay eased back a step.
Mallory smiled sweetly and touched Clay’s chest with her fan again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you men from your work. I’ll just have a word with Ernie.”
Her gaze turned to Otis, and her brows arched, as if she were daring him to object He didn’t, and she giggled softly and wound her way back to Ernie’s desk, her bustle swaying.
Clay turned back to the ledgers, talking quietly with Otis. After a moment, he glanced up. Ernie, flushed and breathless, was on his feet. Mallory stood inches away, purring softly to him. She gestured with her fan and smiled seductively. He nodded and grinned like a babbling idiot, totally captivated by the spell she cast.
Clay turned back to the ledgers. He knew he’d worn the same dumb look as Ernie many times himself. What man hadn’t?
Mallory stayed only a moment longer, then leisurely left the express office, offering a goodbye from behind her fan. Ernie sank down in his chair, heaved a heavy sigh and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
Another hour passed, while Clay examined the stage records, before Jack Morgan and Sheriff Bottom arrived.
“Do you always put the payroll on the stage?” Clay asked.
“No reason not to,” Morgan told him. “I’ve sent it that way for years, with never a problem. Why should I go to the expense of paying my own guards, when the stage line will do it for the freight cost? I’m not throwing money around like that.”
Otis Bean lifted a pocket watch from its pedestal on his desk. “Stage is due to arrive in six minutes.”
Clay led the way onto the boardwalk. One passenger, a man in a yellow plaid vest, waited outside.
Otis paced the boardwalk, studying his pocket watch. “Five minutes! Stage in five minutes!”
“Anybody else taking the stage today?” Clay asked.
Otis consulted his schedule, clutched in his. other hand. “No. Only whoever boarded in Whittakers Ferry.”
Clay gazed down the street. “Where’s that?”
“Ten or so miles east of here. Four minutes!”
“And the next stop is Harmonville?”
“That’s right.” Otis consulted his schedule once more. “After leaving here, the stage stops at the swing station for fresh horses—that’s where. the mine foreman picks up the payroll—then goes straight through.”
Thundering hooves pounding the soft dirt street preceded the stage.
“Stage arriving!” Otis clutched his pocket watch.
The driver atop the big coach braced his feet and pulled back on the reins, stopping the team in front of the express office. The horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads. Leather creaked and the stage groaned, settling in a cloud of brown dust. The shotgun rider stood and stretched.
Clay’s gaze swept the stage with a critical eye, the men up top, the baggage tied on, the sturdy horses out front. He stepped off the boardwalk and opened the coach door. Inside sat an elderly man with a white beard, dressed in a bright green suit—the perfect complement to the next passenger boarding. Neither man would be a help in a shoot-out, but neither would try to be a hero and get someone else shot
Clay gave only a cursory glance to the widow seated in the far corner. No one liked to look at a widow. A bonnet and a thick black veil shielded her face. Black gloves covered her hands and the heavy gown draped the rest of her. In her lap she clutched her reticule and a small Bible.
A heaviness rose in Clay’s chest. Rebecca…
Determinedly he pushed the thought from his mind and replaced it with preparation for the task at hand.
Otis consulted his pocket watch. “Three minutest Stage leaving in three minutest!”
Clay watched as the strongbox was hoisted up top, then took the rifle Sheriff Bottom had brought for him and climbed up beside the driver. He paid no attention to the anxious look on Jack Morgan’s face or the sher- iff’s attempt at advice.
Nor did he give any thought to the little widow in the coach beneath him. For all the memories the sight of her widow’s weeds caused, she meant nothing to him. Just a passenger on the stage. Nobody important
He was sure of it.
“Name’s Buck, Marshal. Better grab hold of something.”
The driver shouted to the team, and the stagecoach lurched forward. Clay closed one hand over the edge of the seat and kept the other on the Winchester resting on his lap.
“That back there is Mick.” Buck nodded toward the shotgun rider seated behind them with the baggage.
Clay turned and nodded, and Mick did the same. The man looked to be near thirty, Clay judged; he handled the rifle in his hand as if he knew what to do with it, and Clay was glad for that.
“Keep a sharp eye out behind for us,” Clay called. Mick nodded and turned to face the rear.
“Expecting