HEN ARE YOU PLANNING TO
LET me out of here, damn you?”
As the sour-smelling old miner shuffled out of his cell, past the sheriff, and headed for the door, Pete Spoon gripped the iron bars and glared at the implacable lawman.
“You have twenty bucks to pay the fine for fighting, Spoon?”
“Not on me, but—”
The sheriff cut him off, turning to the miner. “Cuddy, you keep out of trouble. I don’t want to see you back here for at least a month.”
The old miner, bent and bleary-eyed waved a vague hand in the air. “Hmmmph. I’m headed to Leadville. They’re not so quick to lock a body up over there.”
The jailhouse door creaked shut behind him. Ignoring the glowering prisoner who remained behind bars, Clint strode to his desk and dropped the keys inside a drawer.
“How long you planning to keep me locked up?” Pete demanded.
“Until I’m good and ready to let you out.” Clint was already reaching for the ledger crammed full of paperwork, all of it demanding his attention. The sun was hot and bright as a griddle full of grease, and the office air was stifling. He wished like hell he was out fishing instead of stuck in town half-buried in work, but there was a stack of correspondence, warrants, and directives from the federal marshal’s office that had piled up while he was away at Wade’s wedding, and then there was this prisoner to keep an eye on, and the rest of the Spoon gang to consider …
The thought had no sooner passed through his mind than the office door burst open and Emily Spoon swept in with sparks flying from her eyes. She was wearing a most becomingly fitted white blouse and a dark blue riding skirt that swished around her ankles as she crossed the floor with quick precise strides. Right on her heels came a huge, burly man in his early twenties, clad in buckskin, with red hair and a neck thick as a bull’s.
“Sheriff Clint Barclay!” Emily Spoon spat out the name like poison, her face ablaze with fury and contempt.
“What? Clint Barclay?” Pete Spoon lunged up against the iron bars. “Em, is that him?”
It was Lester who answered, his hard gaze locking on the sheriff who came slowly, nonchalantly to his feet. “It sure is, Pete. The bartender at Coyote Jack’s just told us.”
“Morning, Miss Spoon.” Clint strode easily around the desk. He towered over Emily, threw Lester a swift, coldly appraising glance, then shifted his gaze back to the woman who stood trembling furiously before him.
“Is there something I can do for you, ma’am?” he asked coolly.
Emily’s fingers itched. Oh, how they itched. She wanted to slap him. Or kick him where it would really hurt. Or scratch his eyes out. But she did none of these things. She glared at him, shock and anger and distress raging through her like a wild and uncontrollable storm.
Clint Barclay, damn his cold, ruthless lawman’s eyes, stared right back.
“So you’re the man who tracked down my uncle and had him thrown in jail.”
“That’s right.” He had the nerve to look as calm as if they were discussing the chance of rain.
“You broke up my family. Ruined my aunt’s life! She died calling for him, never seeing him again—”
Her voice quavered and broke, and it was Lester who clapped a hand on her shoulder and said tersely, “Don’t tear yourself up like this, Emily. He’s not worth it.”
“You’re right.” Emily took a deep breath, fighting for control. But it wasn’t easy. Visions of Aunt Ida growing weaker and weaker were embedded in her mind. She’d never forget how her aunt had suffered, her heart failing, her body slowly giving in to death. And all the while, every morning, every night, she’d called out for Uncle Jake, even with her last rasping breath.
“The other night—why didn’t you tell me who you were?” she demanded. Her voice shook. “If I’d known—”
“What would you have done, Miss Spoon? Shot me with that rifle I took away from you?”
Clint regretted the words the moment he said them. The truth was, he was fighting against an unexpected surge of pity. He didn’t regret putting the leader of a feared outlaw gang behind bars, not for a moment—but he regretted the very real pain on Emily Spoon’s lovely face.
“Look,” he said quickly, “try to be reasonable for a minute. When I tracked your uncle down six years ago, I was just doing my job. I put lawless men behind bars, and I’ll be damned if I’ll apologize for that—”
Emily slapped him. The ringing thud of her hand striking his face seemed to echo for one shocking instant through the jailhouse. But it wasn’t enough to satisfy the passionate rage swirling through her—her temper wholly snapping, she lifted her hand and tried to do it again.
But this time he caught her wrist and held it fast, his eyes going flat and hard—the eyes of a man without pity.
“I don’t think so, Miss Spoon,” he said softly.
Lester rushed at him then. “Let her go, damn you, Barclay!”
The hard shove he gave the sheriff should have sent him reeling backward, but it didn’t. Instead Clint Barclay only stepped back a pace, quickly releasing Emily’s wrist. Then in one lightning motion he landed a bone-crunching right to Lester’s jaw, a blow that sent the red-haired man spinning to the floor.
“Lester!” Emily cried in horror.
Lester clambered up dizzily and charged again, but the lawman hit him once more, and he fell back with a grunt, crashing into a chair.
“Emily—grab the keys from the desk drawer and get me out of here. I’ll teach him a lesson!” Pete was shouting.
But the next instant, as Lester and Barclay traded blows again, Lester suddenly was knocked to the floor and this time he struck his head. Clint stepped in front of Emily so she couldn’t reach the keys in his desk, but she made no attempt to get past him; instead she flew to her cousin and knelt beside his still form.
“Lester! Lester, are you all right?” she asked frantically as his eyes remained closed. “My God, what have you done to him?”
Clint made no reply.
Lester Spoon moaned, and Emily let out her breath in relief, even as she cradled his head in her lap.
“Don’t try to move yet. Just wait. Pete, are you all right?”
“I will be soon as you get me out of here and I can say a few choice words to Barclay!”
Clint leaned against his desk, watching Emily fret over the fallen man. “I can hear you through the bars just fine.”
“You’re despicable!” Emily cried. As Lester struggled to a sitting position, clutching his battered jaw, she scrambled to her feet and faced the lawman.
“You’re nothing but a bully!” She was shaking. Never had she seen anyone fight like that. Lester was tough—he and Pete, she knew, had started and finished more than a few barnyard and saloon brawls—but the sheriff had knocked him down as easily as if he were no bigger than Joey.
“You have no idea what you did to my family. And now … this! Why is my brother locked up in that cell?”
“He was fighting in a public place. And disturbing the peace.”
“Let him out. Now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Spoon. He has to serve two days’ time, and then there’s the matter of a twenty-dollar fine.”
A twenty-dollar fine! Emily’s heart sank.
“You have twenty dollars, Miss Spoon?”
“I’ll get it, damn you!”
“Fine.” Clint nodded, pushing away from the desk to stand towering before her. “Bring it in tomorrow, and he’s all yours.”
Emily stepped toward him again, her hands clenched into fists. Oh, how she wanted to hit him. But it would only lead to more trouble. She struggled once more to control her temper, but rage filled her, and she knew she was trembling from head to toe.
“From the looks of that saloon, I’m sure Pete wasn’t the only one who was fighting. Why isn’t anyone else locked up?”
“He was the one who started it all.”
“I think you’re lying.” Emily stalked closer. “You’re just trying to harass him—and all of us so we’ll leave.”
“I’m trying to keep the peace. Anyone who can’t live peaceably like the rest of our law-abiding citizens can clear out.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Pete yelled from inside the cell.
“Hell, yes. I would.” But Clint was watching Emily Spoon’s pale, angry face and feeling a twinge of something that made him downright uncomfortable. He didn’t know why. He believed in what he did for a living, believed in it down to his very core.
After losing his own parents to a murderous outlaw gang when he was nine, a gang that left him and his two brothers orphaned, he had no sympathy for those who broke the law and terrorized others. The outlaws who’d killed his parents all those years ago had never been captured and made to pay for their crime, but he’d spent his life bringing other lawless men just like them to justice. He’d worked hard trying to make the West safer. Using his gun, his wits, his fists, and his own strength, he’d dedicated himself to protecting people from the human vultures who roamed this land.
But Emily Spoon didn’t see things that way. Her loyalties were firmly entrenched with those on the wrong side of the law.
“No, Lester—don’t.” She grabbed her cousin’s arm as he finally gained his footing and tried to stagger toward the sheriff. “Just stand still a moment. Lean on me.”
“Dizzy,” he muttered. “Otherwise I’d give him what he deserves…”
Noting his glazed eyes and battered face, Emily’s stomach clenched. She threw a helpless glance at Pete, watching wrathfully from behind the bars, and then turned her frustration on Clint Barclay.
“See what you’ve done! He’s hurt!”
“If you ask me, he’s damn lucky. I could lock him up too.”
“Oh, my, aren’t you the soul of kindness.”
Barclay folded his arms across his chest. “Come back tomorrow with the money, Miss Spoon. Better yet, send your uncle instead—with the deed to the ranch.”
“Go to hell!” Pete yelled from behind bars.
“You … want to see … my pa, you’ll have to … go to him,” Lester said in a thick tone.
Clint’s dislike for both of the Spoon boys was growing by the moment. They didn’t strike him as being low-down-mean and brutal like the Duggans, or like some of the gunmen he’d encountered over the years, but they were hot-headed, arrogant, and full of themselves—and he had no patience to deal with rough young pups who needed to learn manners and respect for the law.
“Miss Spoon, allow me to get the door. It appears your cousin needs to rest a spell.”
He had to admire the way she looked at him. As if she’d skewer him alive if she could and leave his heart for the buzzards.
Miss Emily Spoon had spunk—and just as much arrogance as her brother and cousin. But she was a lot nicer to look at, he had to admit, his gaze flickering over her lush figure and that luxuriant cloud of hair. For a moment he wondered just what it would feel like to tangle his hands in those dark velvet curls that so enticingly spilled down her back and framed her face.
Or to kiss that wide, pretty mouth.
He wondered if she’d taste as good as she looked.
Whoa. Clint drew in a deep breath and dragged his thoughts back to business. This was no ordinary woman, to be admired, enjoyed, perhaps squired to a picnic or church social, he reminded himself grimly.
She was a Spoon.
But he noticed that when Lester leaned on her while they made their way to the door, it was all she could do to support him and he gritted his teeth.
“Want some help?”
“Not from you,” she returned scathingly.
Fine. She didn’t want his help, he wouldn’t offer it again. Even if her damned cousin fell flat on his face in the middle of the street.
As they brushed past him going out the door, he caught the scent of lilacs drifting past. Nice. Real nice…
But nothing that ought to make a man’s blood surge through his veins, he admonished himself, startled by his own heated reaction.
It wasn’t exactly sultry French perfume, like Estelle over in the saloon wore, or that musky, oily rose scent that enveloped most of the other saloon girls at Coyote Jack’s.
This was clean, soft, pretty. Like her, Clint realized, grimacing.
Next thing you know you’ll be following her, he thought.
But he didn’t. He stood still and watched the two of them stagger out of the jailhouse and down the boardwalk toward their horses. Lester Spoon was mighty unsteady and the girl was struggling to help him. Frowning, he wondered how they were going to make it home.
Then he reminded himself it wasn’t his job to make Lonesome a soft, welcoming place for outlaw families. Or to see they got safely back to their dens.
He stalked back into the office and slammed the door, trying to block out the memory of the distress he’d seen in Emily Spoon’s eyes when she’d spotted her brother in that cell and the way she’d fretted about her cousin.
Pete Spoon’s voice barreled at him, hard and low.
“You ever touch my sister again, Barclay—you’re going to pay.”
But before Clint could reply, his attention was drawn to the window, and what—or more precisely, who—he saw bearing down at him, headed straight from Hazel’s Millinery to his office door.
“Damn. No!” He yanked the shade down and wheeled away from the window. Little beads of sweat popped out on his brow.
“They coming back?” Pete demanded.
Clint barely heard him. All he knew was that Agnes Mangley and her daughter, Carla, were swishing up the street in yards of bustled muslin and lace and hats with bird’s nests in them.
Coming his way.
And Clint knew why.
Swearing under his breath, he sprinted toward his desk, grabbed the keys from the drawer, and rushed back to twist the lock on the office door. Hooking the key ring on his belt he dove toward the back door, ignoring the incredulous stare of Pete Spoon from behind the bars. Just in time he dodged out into the alley, faintly hearing the loud rap on his door and shrill calls of “Sheriff! Yoo-hoo! Sheriff Barclay!”
He nearly tripped over a pile of discarded trash, righted himself with an oath, and sprinted down the alley faster than a jackrabbit, making a beeline for the one place he’d be safe from any or all of the matchmaking ladies in Lonesome—the one place no respectable lady would set foot—the back door of Coyote Jack’s saloon.