Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) by Jacquie Rogers
Authors: Jacquie Rogers
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she ain’t getting any money from you.
I am working hard as always just to make do, but now have to do for your sister, too. My bones are old and rheumatism is setting in my joints. I might have to sell the necklace for tonic.
Regards,
Your Mother
He looked up at Miss Daisy, who stared at the mysterious Mr. Mike Flynn . “Well,” he said as he tossed the letter on the foot of the bed, “now you know who he is. Happy?”
She smiled broadly—not just with her sweet mouth, but with emerald green eyes bright with excitement. He couldn’t figure why some lucky stiff hadn’t snagged her already. He’d be in a whole lot less of a fix right then if she were married with a batch of young ‘uns clambering on her lap.
Which brought up another disturbing vision, a family of his own—Daisy as his wife, the mother of his kids. He shook his head and grimaced. He had to get out of Oreana, and the sooner, the better. The first thing he needed to do was ask Bosco about Flynn, just in case a tidbit of crucial information had been left unsaid, which, in Bosco’s case, was not likely.
“Very happy,” she answered, halfway surprising him since he’d forgotten the question. “Even though he did match the description you sent in the telegram, I wasn’t fooled for a moment. But I bet he can tell us just who shot you, although he won’t, of course, because it was him.” She sashayed over to the mirror. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“It’s not gentlemanly to watch a lady fix her hair, and I need to set myself to rights before I go back downstairs.”
“Uh, I gotta go.”
She flashed him another ‘come here’ smile. He hastened his retreat, certain she had no idea how she affected him, and not trusting himself to be alone with her for another second. He bounded down the stairs, disregarding the dull pain that penetrated his thigh with each footfall.
One thing bothered him. Shouldn’t Flynn have been awake, or at least stirring? He’d have to ask Bosco just how much laudanum he’d given the poor sap, because they might need to do something to rouse him before he croaked. What that would be , Cole didn’t know, but while he wanted to get Flynn out of the way, he sure as hell didn’t want to be party to a killing, intentional or otherwise.
Meantime, he had to somehow throw Gib Rankin in jail with his brother, and then find out who and where the judge was that could throw away the key. One year in prison, and those two would forget all about their sluicing operation on Sinker Creek.
The door to the marshal’s office stood wide open, with Forrest Gardner sitting at the desk, aiming his broom at hapless passersby. “Hands in the air!”
Cole dutifully raised both hands. “You got me, son, fair and square. Now what do you plan to do with me?”
The boy frowned and lowered the broom handle. “Don’t rightly know, sir, but the first part worked real good.” He stood. “I swept the floor and the boardwalk, and I, uh, kept your chair warm.”
He was a cute kid, and Cole didn’t want to see him down in the mouth after doing all the dirty work. “Put the broom back in the corner, junior deputy. How’s the prisoner?” Porker must have gone to sleep, finally, because the only sound was Bosco’s gawd-awful snoring.
“Oh, a man came and got him. Said he was taking the prisoner to breakfast.”
Cole sprinted the four strides to the jail room and through open cell door, coming to a halt beside the empty cot. Sure enough, no Porker. Damn, damn, double damn! Gib had come for his brother, all right.
But it wasn’t really the boy’s fault. Cole swore under his breath again, and slammed the cell door—now he’d have to catch the bastard all over again. He quieted himself to speak to the boy. “Your next job is patrol.”
Forrest perked up, eyes bright. “Patrol?”
“Yup.” Cole took off his hat and hung it on the hook. “You have to walk around every block in town except around the Branded Horse.
I am working hard as always just to make do, but now have to do for your sister, too. My bones are old and rheumatism is setting in my joints. I might have to sell the necklace for tonic.
Regards,
Your Mother
He looked up at Miss Daisy, who stared at the mysterious Mr. Mike Flynn . “Well,” he said as he tossed the letter on the foot of the bed, “now you know who he is. Happy?”
She smiled broadly—not just with her sweet mouth, but with emerald green eyes bright with excitement. He couldn’t figure why some lucky stiff hadn’t snagged her already. He’d be in a whole lot less of a fix right then if she were married with a batch of young ‘uns clambering on her lap.
Which brought up another disturbing vision, a family of his own—Daisy as his wife, the mother of his kids. He shook his head and grimaced. He had to get out of Oreana, and the sooner, the better. The first thing he needed to do was ask Bosco about Flynn, just in case a tidbit of crucial information had been left unsaid, which, in Bosco’s case, was not likely.
“Very happy,” she answered, halfway surprising him since he’d forgotten the question. “Even though he did match the description you sent in the telegram, I wasn’t fooled for a moment. But I bet he can tell us just who shot you, although he won’t, of course, because it was him.” She sashayed over to the mirror. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“It’s not gentlemanly to watch a lady fix her hair, and I need to set myself to rights before I go back downstairs.”
“Uh, I gotta go.”
She flashed him another ‘come here’ smile. He hastened his retreat, certain she had no idea how she affected him, and not trusting himself to be alone with her for another second. He bounded down the stairs, disregarding the dull pain that penetrated his thigh with each footfall.
One thing bothered him. Shouldn’t Flynn have been awake, or at least stirring? He’d have to ask Bosco just how much laudanum he’d given the poor sap, because they might need to do something to rouse him before he croaked. What that would be , Cole didn’t know, but while he wanted to get Flynn out of the way, he sure as hell didn’t want to be party to a killing, intentional or otherwise.
Meantime, he had to somehow throw Gib Rankin in jail with his brother, and then find out who and where the judge was that could throw away the key. One year in prison, and those two would forget all about their sluicing operation on Sinker Creek.
The door to the marshal’s office stood wide open, with Forrest Gardner sitting at the desk, aiming his broom at hapless passersby. “Hands in the air!”
Cole dutifully raised both hands. “You got me, son, fair and square. Now what do you plan to do with me?”
The boy frowned and lowered the broom handle. “Don’t rightly know, sir, but the first part worked real good.” He stood. “I swept the floor and the boardwalk, and I, uh, kept your chair warm.”
He was a cute kid, and Cole didn’t want to see him down in the mouth after doing all the dirty work. “Put the broom back in the corner, junior deputy. How’s the prisoner?” Porker must have gone to sleep, finally, because the only sound was Bosco’s gawd-awful snoring.
“Oh, a man came and got him. Said he was taking the prisoner to breakfast.”
Cole sprinted the four strides to the jail room and through open cell door, coming to a halt beside the empty cot. Sure enough, no Porker. Damn, damn, double damn! Gib had come for his brother, all right.
But it wasn’t really the boy’s fault. Cole swore under his breath again, and slammed the cell door—now he’d have to catch the bastard all over again. He quieted himself to speak to the boy. “Your next job is patrol.”
Forrest perked up, eyes bright. “Patrol?”
“Yup.” Cole took off his hat and hung it on the hook. “You have to walk around every block in town except around the Branded Horse.
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