Explaining Herself (21 page)

But the boss had insisted. And when Jacob Garrison insisted on something, it generally went his way. That's how die rancher had been present when Laramie and two other Circle-T hands caught this fellow with a stolen steer and a running iron in the first place. It's what had Laramie accompanying the rancher into town wit
h
their prize.

That Sheridan was a much larger city
th
an in '88 was more obvious, riding down Main Street at midday, than it had been skulking into a saloon on the edge
of town. Laramie already knew the outskirts had an electric lighting house, flouring mills, brickyards, even a soda-water manufactory. Downtown, he counted three blacksmith shops and two livery stables, along with more stores than he could name. Far more people turned to watch from the boardwalks, or came out of shops to look, than he might ever have recognized. When he did occasionally place the face of an old undertaker here, a once-friendly storekeeper there, his gut cramped at the unpleasant sensation of past meeting present. After all, if he recognized them, they might just recognize him.

He could end up sitting on the other horse, even yet.

Riding a rustler into town like this
—as if he were some kind of lawman—felt like he was
asking
for that kind of set-down. He resented Garrison for making him do it.

Then he saw Victoria.

She came out of the newspaper office in the same way that other folks were emerging from the tonsorial parlor, or the dry goods, or the millinery
—her eyes wide and her lips parted in surprise. But unlike the rest of the townsfolk, she recognized him—as Ross Laramie, anyhow. And she knew just what this fellow had done to be tied up this way.

Unlike the rest of the townsfolk she also began to hurry along the sidewalk, sometimes dancing sideways to look again at Laramie and her pa as she went, following them toward their destination. She seemed to be trying to send Laramie messages with her bright eyes
—looking at the rustler, looking at him, smiling encouragingly. Sometimes she bumped into people, seemed to make a quick apology, and kept right on shadowing the small parade. Laramie realized she was so packed with questions that she couldn't have stood still anyway, and he felt a smile of understanding pull
at his mouth, threatening his mask of indifference.

Likely he would regret having told her so much about his real purpose in Sheridan, even under the clumsy guise of a third party. But for the last few days, he'd felt better able to concentrate on the rustlers, knowing that Victoria was investigating the older crimes.

Had he sat tall as a defense against anybody thinking poorly of him? After a block of Victoria following, sweeping her skirts and printer's apron this way and that as she dodged other folks, Laramie found himself sitting straight from a different motivation entirely.

In capturing one of the men who'd been stealing her father's cattle, he'd pleased her. That may not have been why he'd done it. It was what he'd been hired to do. But still, knowing he'd pleased her somehow pleased
him,
deep down where he'd never expected it.

Deep inside where he thought he might be dead. Or frozen over, anyhow. That was happening a lot lately.

When they reached the new brick building marked
jail,
Laramie dismounted, then stood back and let Garrison pull the rustler off his horse. He waited for Victoria.

It gave him the chance to step between her and the prisoner when she reached them, before they even went in.

"Is he a rustler?" she asked, then leaned past Laramie. "Excuse me, sir, but are you a cattle rustler?"

The rustler
—a freckled fellow who said his name was Harry Smith—got that startled look about him that Victoria tended to provoke. "Miss?"

"Get back to work, Victoria Rose," drawled her father, one gloved hand nudging the cattle thief inside the sheriff's office.

"But this
is
my work, Papa," she insisted, following
him as he followed Harry, leaving Laramie to take up the rear. Partway in, safe behind her father's back, she spun around to beam at him for a quick, private moment of shared triumph. Then she turned back. "It's news. And I'm a newspaperwoman."

Whether Garrison thought better of that battle or dismissed her as dealt with, Laramie couldn't tell. But he could tell that the man sitting behind the sheriff's desk
—one of the few folks on Main Street who hadn't come out to see the excitement—was
not
Bram Ward. The star he wore said "Deputy," and Laramie's gut feeling was that he was one of those lawmen who weren't necessarily good.

Though he might be basing that too much on the fellow's long, toothy face, or the interest with which he looked at Victoria as he belatedly stood. "Why, Miss Garrison," he greeted, glancing with less interest at the rancher and his prisoner. "Boss. Ain't this a surprise?"

"Franklin," greeted Garrison. "Where's Ward?"

"Out takin' lunch." Finally, Franklin's gaze glanced across Laramie. "You takin' up with bounty hunters, boss?"

"Found the boy changin' a brand," said Garrison instead.

Victoria, nearly bouncing with her need to ask questions, tried leaning around Laramie. He angled himself more firmly between her and the prisoner.

As well as the deputy.

She scowled at him.

Finally, Franklin was impressed. "On a Circle-T cow?"

Garrison's scowl was darker than his daughter's. As if he would ignore a rustler blotting someone else's brand? "Steer," he corrected dryly.

"I reckon this fellow's lucky to be here at all, then." Franklin scooped a ring of keys from the desktop and
unlocked the closest cell. "That's a damn
—excuse me," he added qui
ckly when both Garrison and Lar
amie turned sharply to him. "A
dang
unhealthy profession around here."

Victoria tried to use the distraction to angle around Laramie's other side, but in a single step he cut her off.

"Yessir," said Harry. "That is, it would be, if that's what I was really doing. But see, it's all a mistake."

He was around Laramie's age in years, but not in experience. Harry's astonishment that anybody had even discovered his hideout had made his capture easy.

Laramie only wished they'd caught his gravelly-voiced partner
—or someone more important. This couldn't be Harry's operation. He wasn't smart enough, and he hadn't fought hard enough. He was hired help, at best.

But he was a start.

Victoria asked, "How was it a mistake?"

Poor Harry hadn't even figured up a good answer for that, so he blushed.

Garrison looked disgusted. "Judge decides that."

"I won't do it again," insisted Harry, as Franklin closed and locked the cell behind him.

"Well, that's easy to say when you've been caught," Victoria pointed out, from the other side of Laramie.

"Ma'am?" asked Harry.

"If you really, truly meant to reform
—" Victoria leaned more determinedly to one side, then dodged to the other direction. Laramie extended a hand that would have planted itself firmly against her waist had she not stopped first. Her eyes laughed at him, teasing. Beautiful.

He glanced quickly toward her father, who, thank God, was still scowling at the man who'd stolen his
c
attle. Looking back, Laramie saw Victoria do the same thing.

"If you truly meant to reform, you would have done it before you were arrested, wouldn't you?" she asked. As if reforming were that simple. As if a fellow didn't need a damn
—
danged
—good reason to try it.

Like the reason standing right in front of Laramie, pulling a small notebook and pencil stub from the big pocket of her big leather apron. "I'm sure the readers of the
Herald
will be interested in both sides of the story," she assured Harry, then looked encouragingly at the other men. "It is all right if I ask some questions, isn't it?"

Garrison sighed, as if he knew full well the futility of trying to stop her now.

"Miss Garrison," said Deputy Franklin, wiping a hand on his dungarees, "you can ask all the questions you want."

Then Laramie and Garrison both sighed.

Victoria got most of her information out of Harry Smith, the alleged rustler
—who, she thought stubbornly, did not look like any
type,
no matter what Ross had said.

Papa tended to give little slivers of answers, like when she asked why he'd hired a range detective at all and he'd held her gaze a moment, then said, "To detect."

Ross might have been more forthcoming if they were alone. For that reason, she planned to find some privacy with him very soon. But for now, in the sheriff's office, his answers weren't much better than Papa's.

"So you knew how to find the rustler's trail from the other day, when they shot at us," she prompted.

He nodded.

Harry Smith, from his cell, said, "I'm real sorry
about that, miss. I had no idea you was a woman until you started talkin' to your horse."

Papa gave her an odd look, but she ignored him to ask more questions while they still let her. "So you just kept watch on things until the rustlers showed up again?"

Ross nodded. Then maybe he saw something in her expression, because he said, "Yes." No great improvement.

"So what did you do when one did? No offense, Mr. Smith," she added toward the cell. "I should probably say
alleged
rustler, but that's a mouthful, don't you think?"

'Yes, ma'am," he agreed. He seemed nice enough
— if a little depressed.

"Mr. Laramie?" she prompted in the following silence.

"Fetched some Circle-T men," Ross admitted. 'Your pa came back. Went after him."

Thank goodness he was a range detective, because he would never write dime novels telling a story like that. But she kind of liked him strong and silent.

She turned to the rustler. "Mr. Smith? When did you first realize you were in trouble?"

Mr. Smith sat on his cell's single cot, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging, but he looked up quickly enough at her question. "Miss? It was when I heard that fellow there cock his six-shooter behind me. That's a fairly impressive little noise. I pretty much knew it then."

"That fellow there" was Ross, of course. Victoria had a very hard time not smiling proudly at him. At moments like this, she truly wished he would call on her properly.

But she'd asked. He'd refused.

In the meantime: "So what brand were you changing the Circle-T
to,
Mr. Smith?"

"Miss?"

'You were blotting out the original brand, and you had running irons. What did you mean to change the brand to?"

The rustler seemed to be blushing. "Cain't rightly recall, miss."

Papa made a rude sound and stood. "Best get back."

It took her a moment to realize that for once he meant himself and not her. He really
was
making an effort to let her be the newspaperwoman she wanted to be.

Through her pleasure at that realization, she had a clever idea
—her fav
orite kind. "Papa, may Mr. Lara
mie stay while I finish my interview?" she asked. 'You'll want someone to talk to Sheriff Ward when he gets back, right?"

Ross wasn't the sort of man who would widen his eyes, but he did go strangely still at that.

Papa nodded once. "Sendin' Thaddeas," he warned, so she'd know her time was limited. Then he opened the door
—almost on top of Mr. Day, Victoria's boss.

Oh. She hadn't exactly asked permission to write this particular story, had she?

"Mr. Garrison," greeted Mr. Day. "Just the man to talk to. I hear you caught yourself a cattle rustler."

Papa stared at him a moment, slid his gaze toward Victoria with that way he had of knowing too much
— and disapproving of most of it—before he looked back at the editor. 'Yep," he said, and left.

Mr. Day watched the cattle baron go, then looked at Victoria, then moved on to Ross. 'You're Mr. . . . Laramie, wasn't it?" He said the name oddly, as if it had some hidden meaning. "Working for the boss?"

Half the town called Papa "boss." Victoria suspected her mother had something to do with that.

Expression blank, Ross nodded.

"I assume you helped capture this rustler?"

Ross nodded.

Mr. Day frowned. He didn't seem particularly pleased when Victoria said, "Since I was here to see my father, Mr. Day, I took the liberty of asking questions. I have all my notes here, if you'd like to look at them."

"If that wouldn't be too much trouble," said the
Heralds
editor.

She tore the pages of notes from her pad and handed them to him, but made sure to keep the pad.