The Outlaw's Secret Page 22

  She nodded, feeling the first flicker of hope since their conversation had begun. But it was dashed a few moments later when the sheriff rubbed his jaw and pushed out a defeated sigh.

  “I wish I could help you, Miss Vanderfair.” He shook his head. “I really do. But I can’t gather up my men and ride into who knows what, solely based on the word of one person.”

  She’d failed to convince him. Standing, Essie felt suddenly light-headed. She gripped the edge of the desk to stay on her feet. “I...” She closed her lips, not even sure what more to say. She’d told him the truth. But it hadn’t worked.

  Head high, she walked to the door. Not until she’d turned the handle and stepped through did she find her words once more. “Just remember, Sheriff, if the Fletcher gang goes free once again and one of the Pinkerton agents ends up dead, you will be culpable for disregarding the information I’ve given you.”

  He puffed out his chest and scowled at her. “I can’t just ride off every time I get wind of some tall tale of criminal behavior. Good day, Miss Vanderfair.”

  Without bothering to return the sentiment, she exited the building. The door shut firmly behind her. Now what, Lord? she thought, turning in a slow circle. I’m trying to trust You, though I’m not sure what to do next. Would Tate be angrier at her if she gave up or if she returned without the law?

  A longing to lay her head on a pillow somewhere and weep for hours filled her to near distraction, but she reminded herself that wasn’t an option. On weary legs, she moved to the edge of the sidewalk and sat to think.

  Even if she hadn’t been able to convince the sheriff to come with her, she could still get the medical supplies Silas needed. She also needed to see with her own eyes that Tate hadn’t been harmed in her absence. Of course, riding back alone would be dangerous, especially if Fletcher had somehow guessed the truth about her ransom. But she couldn’t give up. Not when she loved Tate.

  Loved? Essie lifted her chin and stared unseeing at the passersby. Did she really and truly love Tate? The answer came swift and sure—yes.

  “Then we are not quitting,” she told her horse as she shot to her feet.

  Fresh energy pulsed through her. Climbing back into the saddle, she got directions from a gentleman to the doctor’s office. Unfortunately, she found his door locked, as well.

  “Is no one else up and about this morning?” she grumbled. Time wasn’t something she had in abundance right now.

  At least thirty minutes ticked by, most of which she spent pacing the sidewalk and imagining what Tate might be doing. Just when she’d determined to seek out the doctor’s residence, a man with a black bag approached the office.

  Essie got right to the point as the doctor let her inside. She told him about Silas being shot in the leg, and that while the bullet had gone clean through, the wound wasn’t healing properly. The doctor insisted on having the injured party brought in to the office to be examined until Essie informed him “the patient” was forty miles away. That was enough to convince him of the critical nature of her visit. He readily agreed to let her purchase the needed supplies.

  With relief, she paid him for the medicine and bandages, and stowed everything inside her valise. The doctor walked her outside, instructing her on how to care for the wound. After thanking him, Essie climbed onto her horse once more.

  Armed with supplies, she decided her final piece of business would be to procure a new horse. She needed a fresh mount that could get her back to Tate as quickly as possible. Her funds were rather limited, but she hoped there might be a decent animal she could afford. She located the livery on her own and led her horse inside.

  Unlike the other two establishments she’d visited so far, this one teemed with commotion and noise. A group of men were selecting horses and saddling up. Essie stopped at the edge of the fray, knowing they would have to finish before she could commandeer the livery owner’s attention.

  “Miss Vanderfair!”

  She turned to see the sheriff hurrying toward her, leading a horse. “Sheriff?” She gawked at the man.

  “We thought you’d left. Been looking for you.” He grinned. “Now that you’re here, though, this’ll be your horse for the ride.”

  Essie blinked in confusion. “The ride?”

  “Yes, to apprehend the Fletcher gang.”

  Crossing her arms, she gave the sheriff a hard stare. She wouldn’t be going anywhere with him until he explained himself. The man she’d left in the sheriff’s office had been rude and unwilling to listen. The man standing in front of her now seemed to be in a frightful hurry to do the very thing she’d begged him to do. “I don’t understand.”

  “After you left, I decided to wire the Pinkertons myself. Turns out you were right.” He had the decency to look embarrassed. “They confirmed their detective Tate Beckett was indeed posing as his outlaw twin brother and that we were to assist him in bringing in the Fletcher gang—posthaste.”

  “Really?” A smile pushed through her disbelief. “You’re going to help me?”

  With a nod, the sheriff handed over the reins to the other horse. “Not only are we going to help you, but we’re going to reunite you with your fella.”

  “My fella?” Her cheeks warmed as she situated her valise on the new horse. He couldn’t know the revelation of her heart outside his office. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  She caught the way his eyes twinkled with amusement. “Just a hunch, Miss Vanderfair. But most girls wouldn’t ride eighty miles in a day just for the fun of it or to see justice served, as decent as that may be. I figured this detective has more to do with it than you’re letting on.”

  Essie offered him a full smile as he assisted her into the saddle. “That would make a rather fascinating story, now wouldn’t it?”

  “Indeed it would. You ready to ride back?”

  “More than ready.” They were setting out much later than she’d originally hoped, but at least she wasn’t riding back alone now.

  He collected a horse for himself and climbed onto its back. “Let’s go,” he called, waving the other men forward.

  Outside the livery, Essie couldn’t help peering up at the blue sky and offering a silent prayer of gratitude, thankful that she had the lawmen and the Lord on her side.

  Her greatest wish now was to reach the camp in time.

  Because the sheriff was more right than he knew. Tate Beckett, a detective in disguise and a twin brother to an outlaw, was the “fella” of her heart, through and through. And she hoped to have the chance to tell him exactly that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  If the morning had crawled by, the afternoon passed twice as sluggishly. Tate attempted to move with the changing of the sun’s direction into whatever patch of shade appeared. Under Fletcher’s orders, Clem had taken over Silas’s care, which meant getting the injured outlaw food and water and maneuvering him into the shadows and away from the warm sun.

  Tate passed the time with dozing or thinking. He imagined what he wanted to say to Tex once he finally found him, realizing how much he wanted to seek and give forgiveness. Not just with his brother, but somehow with his father, too. Then there were the things he hoped to say to Essie if and when she returned. About how he didn’t want to envision a future without her, how he was ready to give up detective work.

  He thought about having a farm of his own again. Palming a handful of dirt from a newly turned field...listening to the wind whisper through the shade trees...tasting fresh berries from the vine. He’d missed these things and hadn’t even realized it. But now his heart filled with new aspirations that had nothing to do with tracking down outlaws or putting on a disguise.

  When Fletcher barked at Clem to start preparing supper, Tate’s stomach twisted with anxiety and his heart spiked to a double-time rhythm inside his chest. Had Essie made it to Casper? Was sh
e all right? Had she convinced the sheriff to come back with her?

  He offered another prayer—surely his hundredth since waving goodbye to Essie in the middle of the night. He prayed again for her safety and for his—and for the chance to share with her just how precious she’d become to him.

  Supper was a quiet, tense affair. Tate managed to get a burned biscuit into his mouth, in spite of his bound hands, but his hunger ran out before the food did. Fletcher wasted no time on talking. Silas was sleeping again and even Clem kept mostly silent.

  “That girl better show up,” Fletcher grumbled in a dark tone after Clem went to rinse the dishes in the stream.

  Tate studied the man seated before him. Hard lines had worn ruts into the outlaw’s face, though Fletcher couldn’t be that much older than Tate. A perpetual scowl had pulled his mouth downward, so even when he smiled, it looked like a grimace.

  “How’d you end up here?” he asked without really thinking. Essie might not get her desired interview with the outlaw, now that they wouldn’t be reaching the hideout, but perhaps he could find out something to share with her.

  Fletcher glared at him, the revolver still resting across his knees. “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you choose this life?” Tate attempted to gesture around them with his tied hands.

  Approaching them, dripping dishes in tow, Clem remarked, “It was his stepfather.”

  “Shut up, Clem.” The gang leader’s jaw visibly tightened.

  “What about your stepfather?” Tate prodded. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, which meant sundown wasn’t far off. If he could keep Fletcher talking until Essie showed up...

  Fletcher pushed his hat up then yanked it back down. “He was a rotten, lazy no-account.”

  Tate refrained from saying anything more and the wait paid off.

  “I don’t remember my real pa,” Fletcher said, a bitter edge to his voice. “My ma married Franklin when I was six and the man turned out to be nothin’ but a liar and a drunk. Roughed us up more when he was sober, though.”

  Something akin to compassion sprang up inside Tate. He knew what it was like to have a father who betrayed trust and caused pain with his choices. “When did you leave home?”

  “At fourteen.” Fletcher sat straighter. “Struck out completely on my own and never went back.” A pained look momentarily crossed his hardened features, and Tate wondered if he was thinking of the family members he’d left behind. “It didn’t take long to prove my stepfather wrong. I wasn’t a lazy no-account like him. I was the best pickpocket you ever did see. Never got caught for it.

  “Eventually I tired of that, so I got work on a number of ranches. But the foremen were always brutes, workin’ you to the bone while they made the better money. I stole a horse at eighteen and went to prison for a year.”

  Tate kept his expression neutral, not only to hide his shock at Fletcher’s story but also his apprehension at the time that was passing. The sky in the west had turned the color of a blushing lady. It was almost time. He listened intently for the sound of horse hooves but heard nothing.

  “I worked another ranch after I left prison, but it was more of the same.” Fletcher tapped his thumb against his knee, his gaze haunted. “I got tired of not bein’ my own man, not bein’ able to do what I wanted. I’d lived under another man’s thumb for too long. So I went back to horse rustlin’. But that didn’t pay up front like train or bank robberies. Eventually I upped and formed my own gang.” He smiled smugly. “Things have been goin’ my way ever since.”

  And, hopefully, that was about to end. Tate shot a glance up the ravine. Was Essie coming? He couldn’t quite allow himself to believe she might not, that something might have prevented her return. Flexing his fingers, which only succeeded in tightening the rope at his wrists, he tried to focus on Fletcher’s words again.

  The gang leader looked downright proud of his accomplishments. “I don’t answer to anyone out here and there’s no measly pay for my hard work,” Fletcher concluded.

  “You didn’t tell the part about your stepfather comin’ to see you in prison,” Clem added.

  The man’s arrogance vanished in a moment, replaced by barely concealed rage. “That ain’t part of the story, Clem.”

  The other outlaw looked a bit cowed but not entirely. “You’re always sayin’ it’s the most important part of the story.”

  Ignoring the pink-and-azure sky above, Tate feigned continued interest in Fletcher’s story. “Your stepfather sought you out in prison?”

  Fletcher no longer drummed his knee; now he gripped the gun tightly between his hands. “Sure did. Came to see me and wanted an apology for shamin’ my family with my evil ways. But I spat in his face and told him I’d never say sorry. If anyone ought to apologize, it was him.”

  The man went still, his voice quiet but deadly. “He told me my ma had died from a broken heart, over me.” He lifted hate-filled eyes to Tate’s. “It wasn’t until years later that I found out she’d been killed in an accident. An accident involvin’ my stepfather.”

  A charged silence followed his gut-wrenching admission. Then Clem cleared his throat. “Good thing the man was gone and buried by then, right, Fletch?”

  Fletcher jumped to his feet. “I’m sick to death,” he hissed at Tate, “of pious folks like you, Franklin.”

  Tate exchanged a glance with Clem, who blanched. “He ain’t Franklin, Fletch. That’s Tex sittin’ there.”

  The burning hatred didn’t dim as Fletcher wheeled on Clem. “Don’t you think I know that? But it’s like I always said—you can’t trust anyone.” He pointed the revolver at Tate, his gaze wild. “Not even your own partners.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” Clem asked. On the other side of the camp, Silas slowly sat up, his expression taut as he watched Fletcher.

  To Tate’s remorse, the outlaw finally focused his attention on the sky above. The sun had already set, leaving the world cloaked in twilight. A sinking feeling tethered Tate to the ground.

  “She’s not comin’, is she, cowboy?” A cruel smile spread across Fletcher’s mouth. “Like I said, you can’t trust anyone...”

  Essie was too late. The realization brought no anger, only deep sorrow and concern. Tate feared something had happened to her and he grieved his lost chance to tell her how he really felt about her.

  The sound of the gun being cocked set his heart slamming into his chest. He shut his eyes and braced himself for the inevitable blast.

  “So long, cowboy.”

  “Nooooo!” The feminine cry pierced the air. Tate jerked his eyes open and glanced toward the sound. A flash of movement and blond hair on the ridge above caught his eye. Essie had made it! But was she alone?

  Fletcher recovered quickly from the surprise of Essie’s scream and fired a shot toward the edge of the ravine.

  “Essie, watch out,” Tate yelled in warning. Fletcher fired again, his demeanor seething.

  Taking advantage of the man’s distraction, Tate rolled forward and knocked the outlaw off his feet. The revolver went flying and, from the corner of his eye, Tate saw Clem scramble to grab it.

  “You lyin’, no-account—”

  Tate didn’t care to hear the rest of Fletcher’s insults. Lifting his bound hands, he drove them hard into Fletcher’s side. The gang leader groaned and instinctively curled into himself. If Tate could just hold him in place until Essie—and, hopefully, the rest of her party—reached them, they might all get out of this without any further injuries.

  “Leave him be, Tex.” Clem’s tone held a panicked edge Tate had never heard before.

  “Why? So he can treat you rotten again?” He dodged a wild blow from Fletcher by scooting backward. But his advantage had disappeared. “You don’t want that anymore, do you, Clem?” He glanced at Silas, who sat so still that he appeared to be made
of stone instead of flesh. “Look at how he treated Silas.”

  The outlaw cook’s expression hardened. “That was your doin’, too. Fletch’s all the family we done got. And we don’t turn our back on family.”

  Holding a hand to his side, Fletcher climbed slowly to his feet until he loomed over Tate. “Nice try, cowboy. You still lose.” He reached out for the gun and Clem handed it back. “I’m only tryin’ to figure out if you and the lady have been plannin’ this all along.”

  “Leave Essie out of this,” Tate snarled. Movement behind the two outlaws drew his attention. Essie and the sheriff were charging up the ravine, leading a group of seven men. Tate darted a look at Silas, who’d also seen them. Would the other outlaw alert Clem and Fletcher to what was coming? But the injured man’s mouth remained shut.

  “I’ll leave her be until I get my hands on that money of hers.” Fletcher aimed the revolver a second time at Tate. “And there’s nothin’ you can do about it once you’re dead, cowboy. Because, face it, you’re outnumbered.”

  “No, he’s not,” the sheriff shouted from behind. “We got eight guns to your one, Fletcher.”

  Fletcher’s face went white and his eyes widened in shock. Without turning around, he glanced at Clem, who now faced the posse. Clem visibly gulped and nodded the truth to Fletcher.

  Tate blew out his breath. Thankfully he was already seated or the intense relief coursing through him would have driven him to the ground. “This is the end of the road for you, Fletcher.”

  “Put your hands in the air and turn around,” the sheriff directed.

  Raising the gun above his head, Fletcher slowly spun to face the group. “You!” he cried out bitterly when he saw Essie. “You lied, woman. Said you were goin’ to get supplies.”

  “I did get supplies,” Essie countered, her voice calm, her chin high, as she hoisted her valise in the air. “But I decided to pick up a few extra...things...while I was there.”

  He’s going to shoot her. The thought leaped into Tate’s mind right before he saw Fletcher’s arms begin to drop. He reacted at once, propelling himself forward and ramming his body into Fletcher’s. The gun fired as the outlaw toppled to the ground. An accompanying scream shot straight through Tate’s heart. Was Essie hurt? He hurried to climb to his knees to see.