Garrett’s shoulder. “He’s dead. Someone musta shot him.”
“I figured that much, Schmitty.”
To Garrett’s frustration, all of his witnesses had scattered. He’d recognized most of the faces, but there were still the cowboys passing through town he didn’t know—the kind of men accustomed to the previous sheriff’s corruption. Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite the lawless atmosphere of the town, there hadn’t been a murder in Cimarron Springs for years.
“David.” Garrett caught the younger man’s stunned expression. “Let the doc know we’ve got a casualty here.”
His Adam’s apple working, David jerked his head in a nod and turned away from the gruesome sight. Garrett ticked off another point in the young man’s favor. Though shaken, he hadn’t shirked from his duties. Cimarron Springs might have a new deputy soon.
Garrett had a feeling he was going to need all the help he could get. He drummed his fingers on his bent knee. By morning, everyone in town would assume Mr. Stuart had shot Mr. Hodges over the new mercantile store. And for all Garrett knew, he might have.
Money and business had a way of forcing men into desperate measures. Yet Mr. Stuart struck him as the sort of man who was all talk and no action. The mercantile owner rarely ventured from his uneasy vigil behind the counter, and he doted on his daughter. Garrett couldn’t see him risking a lynching.
Hushed whispers fell around him and he could almost feel the budding rumors flying through the air. If Mr. Stuart was innocent he’d have an uphill battle saving his reputation. Trying to squash gossip was like trying to put out a brushfire with a cup of tea.
The saloon doors slammed open and David burst into the room. “Come quick, Marshal. The jailhouse is on fire!”
Chapter Ten
J o settled her head against the back of the chair and lazily fanned herself with a paper. The space atop the jailhouse was long, narrow and airless. A bedroom had been cordoned off by a tall screen, but the only windows were in the kitchen area, where the hazy panes faced the darkened alley. After attempting to pry them open, Jo had discovered they were painted shut. Not that it mattered much since the front of the building was boarded over with a false facade, effectively blocking any chance of a crosswind.
An industrious tenant had cut holes into the floor and fitted the openings with iron grates to vent air from the first level. That meager improvement barely stirred a stale breeze. Jo figured the place must heat up something fierce in the summertime.
She unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled back her sleeves. A faint hint of Garrett’s masculine scent lingered in the seat cushions and teased her senses. Cora remained asleep, wrapped in a pink blanket, her rag doll clutched against her chest. The heat lulled Jo, and she let her eyes drift shut.
Glass shattered and Jo bolted upright from her half slumber. The sound had come from the first floor. She wobbled to her feet and glanced around. Two sets of stairs accessed the upper level, an outside set descending into the alley, and the inside set, which spilled into the open space below. She took a few steps and paused. Probably it was nothing, she might have dreamed up the whole thing, but she’d best check anyway.
As Jo descended the stairs, her raspy breathing stirred the eerily quiet building.
Growing uneasy at the unnatural quiet, she sidled nearer the wall. “Marshal Cain? Garrett?”
She cautiously made her way through Garrett’s office, her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light. Glass crunched beneath her feet and she realized one of the panes from the large double-hung windows had been shattered.
Lifting a shard, she angled the glass toward the light. Letters from the marshal’s etched name remained partially visible. All that meticulous work, wasted. Kneeling down, she closed her fingers around a weighty brick. Voices called to each other from the street. She crouched and
“I figured that much, Schmitty.”
To Garrett’s frustration, all of his witnesses had scattered. He’d recognized most of the faces, but there were still the cowboys passing through town he didn’t know—the kind of men accustomed to the previous sheriff’s corruption. Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite the lawless atmosphere of the town, there hadn’t been a murder in Cimarron Springs for years.
“David.” Garrett caught the younger man’s stunned expression. “Let the doc know we’ve got a casualty here.”
His Adam’s apple working, David jerked his head in a nod and turned away from the gruesome sight. Garrett ticked off another point in the young man’s favor. Though shaken, he hadn’t shirked from his duties. Cimarron Springs might have a new deputy soon.
Garrett had a feeling he was going to need all the help he could get. He drummed his fingers on his bent knee. By morning, everyone in town would assume Mr. Stuart had shot Mr. Hodges over the new mercantile store. And for all Garrett knew, he might have.
Money and business had a way of forcing men into desperate measures. Yet Mr. Stuart struck him as the sort of man who was all talk and no action. The mercantile owner rarely ventured from his uneasy vigil behind the counter, and he doted on his daughter. Garrett couldn’t see him risking a lynching.
Hushed whispers fell around him and he could almost feel the budding rumors flying through the air. If Mr. Stuart was innocent he’d have an uphill battle saving his reputation. Trying to squash gossip was like trying to put out a brushfire with a cup of tea.
The saloon doors slammed open and David burst into the room. “Come quick, Marshal. The jailhouse is on fire!”
Chapter Ten
J o settled her head against the back of the chair and lazily fanned herself with a paper. The space atop the jailhouse was long, narrow and airless. A bedroom had been cordoned off by a tall screen, but the only windows were in the kitchen area, where the hazy panes faced the darkened alley. After attempting to pry them open, Jo had discovered they were painted shut. Not that it mattered much since the front of the building was boarded over with a false facade, effectively blocking any chance of a crosswind.
An industrious tenant had cut holes into the floor and fitted the openings with iron grates to vent air from the first level. That meager improvement barely stirred a stale breeze. Jo figured the place must heat up something fierce in the summertime.
She unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled back her sleeves. A faint hint of Garrett’s masculine scent lingered in the seat cushions and teased her senses. Cora remained asleep, wrapped in a pink blanket, her rag doll clutched against her chest. The heat lulled Jo, and she let her eyes drift shut.
Glass shattered and Jo bolted upright from her half slumber. The sound had come from the first floor. She wobbled to her feet and glanced around. Two sets of stairs accessed the upper level, an outside set descending into the alley, and the inside set, which spilled into the open space below. She took a few steps and paused. Probably it was nothing, she might have dreamed up the whole thing, but she’d best check anyway.
As Jo descended the stairs, her raspy breathing stirred the eerily quiet building.
Growing uneasy at the unnatural quiet, she sidled nearer the wall. “Marshal Cain? Garrett?”
She cautiously made her way through Garrett’s office, her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light. Glass crunched beneath her feet and she realized one of the panes from the large double-hung windows had been shattered.
Lifting a shard, she angled the glass toward the light. Letters from the marshal’s etched name remained partially visible. All that meticulous work, wasted. Kneeling down, she closed her fingers around a weighty brick. Voices called to each other from the street. She crouched and
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