Lawman in Disguise (15 page)

Daisy nodded. She'd already guessed she'd have to do Tilly's job as well as her own. And it was Sunday, which meant business would be slow till noon, and then it would be overwhelming.
Lord, help me!

“I hope she's just overslept,” she murmured, twisting her apron in her hands. She knew in her heart that Mr. Ellington wouldn't find Tilly, but Daisy couldn't say so without revealing the fact that her son had gone with her to join the outlaws. As it was, when Mr. Prendergast found out what her boy had done, Daisy would lose her job for sure, for he would think too much scandal was attached to her name—even though he was losing his waitress at the same time. With his high standards for conduct, he'd prefer to have no staff at all than to have scandal surrounding even one of his employees. But that seemed of little importance now.
Please, Lord, keep my son safe, despite his foolish choices.

Chapter Fourteen

“I
t just figures we'd be stuck waitin' for that stage on the hottest day of the summer,” grumbled Tomlinson, after they'd been settled in their hiding place for about an hour. “What time is it due here, anyway?”

“About one,” Thorn replied. If all had gone according to the plan he'd made with Bishop, the sheriff's men were already nearby, too, ready to capture the would-be kidnappers, though so far they hadn't betrayed their presence by so much as a horse's whinny.

“Didn't you say they left Lampasas at six in the morning? It ain't
that
far. What takes so long?” Bob Pritchard complained.

“You fellers stop yer bellyachin',” Griggs growled. “You're worse than a thousand buzzin' flies. You're forgettin' how rich we're all gonna be when we get done with this. I think that's worth a little sweat.”

Thorn lowered his voice to answer. “They must have stopped at a station halfway between Lampasas and Simpson Creek to change teams and feed the passengers.”

“So the team'll be fresh,” Tomlinson commented, sounding a little worried, as if he feared they could outrun the outlaws.

“But the driver's stomach will be full, and he'll be wishin' he could take a nap,” Pritchard said, then chuckled. “Poor fool won't be suspectin' a thing.”

Thorn suppressed a grin. Pritchard must never have taken the stage, if he thought the food at the stations was plentiful enough to make the driver drowsy. By the time the man supervised the changing of the teams, there would be only a few morsels left at the table for him.

Lord, please, let my plan succeed. Let the sheriff and his men capture the outlaws as soon as they have taken the mayor's wife, and let no one be injured in the process, including the stagecoach driver—keep him from offering resistance. Let me receive my reward so that Daisy and I can be wed and go on to a new, better life. Amen.

Thorn started to raise his head, then remembered Billy Joe, who'd been most indignant to be consigned to Tilly's custody.
And, Lord, one more thing—please give Billy Joe the common sense to stay where he is and not give that treacherous woman any trouble, for there will be no true victory if he is harmed.

* * *

By noon, Daisy thought she was truly going to lose her mind. The surge of customers into the restaurant, dressed in their Sunday best, signaled that the church service was over. She no longer had time to worry about Billy Joe or Thorn or Mrs. Gilmore—there was just a never-ending stream of order-taking and cooking. And yet her worry remained, nagging at her soul, and worsened by Mr. Prendergast, who lurked at the passageway between the hotel and the restaurant, watching with his sharp, beady eyes, yet never offering to help. So far the strain hadn't caused her to get any orders wrong, but it was just a matter of time.

“Daisy, so good to see you,” a woman gushed. “But why aren't you in the kitchen? It's your cooking we've come for.”

Daisy blinked and took a look at the speaker. It was Sarah Walker, the doctor's wife, and Milly Brookfield, her sister, was sitting right next to her. Their numerous offspring, as well as their husbands, surrounded them.

“Hello, Sarah, and you, too, Milly, and Dr. Walker, and Mr. Brookfield!” Daisy hoped her enthusiastic greeting would hide her agitation. “Yes, it's just a bit busier than usual here today, what with Tilly, our waitress, being off sick, so I'm doing both jobs.”

Milly's mouth dropped open. “You're
what
?” She took a look around her, seeing the tables full of diners, with others still at the door waiting to be seated. “Oh, no, that's impossible. No one can do that.” She stood. “I'll be your waitress until the rush dies down. Just give me some paper, a pencil and an apron, and I'll take your orders. No arguing, now.”

Daisy thought she might get fired just for allowing Milly to help, but the chance to finally catch up on the cooking and stop feeling so in over her head was worth getting in trouble. So she ignored the consternation in Mr. Prendergast's eyes that she could see from the pass-through window between the kitchen and the dining room, when Milly in her borrowed apron started zipping around the tables, taking orders, refilling water glasses and coffee cups, cleaning tables when diners were done and ushering new customers into those places. Free to concentrate on her cooking, Daisy caught up with the orders and people got their food, and finally the crowd began to thin out.

Daisy kept Milly's meal on the stove until business had slowed down enough for her to eat it, and she was just thanking her for her extraordinary help when Mr. Prendergast made his way over to the table.

“Mrs. Brookfield, we're always honored when you're able to come in from your ranch and dine with us, but for helping us today, your family's meal is on the house,” he told her in his unctuous way.

“Happy to help, sir,” Milly responded. “You won't mind if your hardworking cook sits down for just a moment with us, will you?”

Daisy guessed he would have liked to say that she should get to work on the pile of dishes that were no doubt awaiting washing in the kitchen, but how could he, with Milly Brookfield, founder of the Spinsters Club and wife of an influential rancher, smiling so winningly up at him?

“Of course not,” he purred. “Just let us know if there's anything else we can get for you folks.” He retreated to the passageway as if to watch for more diners.

“I can't thank you enough,” Daisy said, sitting in a chair Dr. Walker had brought from an empty table. “My feet are plumb worn to a frazzle. I never would have been able to keep up with both jobs if you hadn't helped, Milly.”

“Happy to assist, as I said,” she repeated. “And happy to have a chance to share a meal with you. How's that boy of yours, Daisy? Last I saw him, he'd grown a foot taller at least.”

“Yes, he's been keeping busy working for Ella at her café...” Daisy began, but then her voice trailed off. In the last hour, she'd been so busy frying and basting and boiling and dishing up food, she'd had no time to spare for worrying about Billy Joe. But now the whole situation came back to her in a rush, and suddenly her cheeks were awash with tears. “Oh, Milly, I'm so worried about him...” She covered her face with her hands, horrified that the proprietor might return and catch her sobbing into her apron.

“Let's just go into the kitchen and start on the dishes, shall we?” Milly said, urging her to her feet and steering her gently in that direction.

Once the door of the kitchen swung shut on them, it all came spilling out of Daisy—the whole story of how an outlaw had come to stay with them after he was wounded at the bank robbery. And how Billy Joe had grown to admire the man—who wasn't really an outlaw but a State Police officer, working secretly to infiltrate a gang—so much that he was even now waiting alongside him to halt the stagecoach and kidnap the mayor's wife. And how she and Thorn Dawson had come to fall in love.

Milly, elbow deep in dishwater, took it all in stride, as if she heard such fantastic stories every day. “You poor thing,” she murmured. “You've had to be strong for so long, my dear...”

Daisy knew the other woman was referring not only to her son, but to her marriage to the brute who had been Billy Joe's father, and his subsequent death in a prison riot. Yes, she'd had to be strong. She sniffed and added the soup bowl she was drying to a stack on the prep table.

“Thanks for listening. Prissy's the only other one who knows all this about Thorn, because of Sam being the sheriff, of course—although I suspect your sister, Sarah, has known about the wounded outlaw in my barn, too, since her husband was treating him.”

Milly smiled. “You couldn't have picked better confidantes,” she said. “Daisy, I'm sorry neither I nor the Spinsters Club have been more of a help to you through all the troubles you've been shouldering since long before Thorn Dawson came to town. With me out on the ranch and with the young'uns to keep up with—”

“There's nothing anyone else could have done,” she insisted, not wanting Milly to feel guilty for Daisy's own bad choice of a husband.

“Well, it sounds as if once this escapade is done, there'll be a wedding taking place,” her friend said as she dried her hands. “When that happens, the Spinsters Club can help you plan the celebration.”

Milly's caring, encouraging smile nearly started the waterworks again. “Thanks, I'd like that. But I'm afraid I won't draw an easy breath until Billy Joe—
and
the mayor's wife—are both safe at home again.”

“I'll be praying,” Milly assured her, “for all of you.”

* * *

“It's coming! The stage is coming! It's 'bout half a mile around the bend!” Pritchard yelled as he rejoined the gang waiting in their hiding place. Since he'd found a shortcut over a hill that led from their place of concealment from the road, he'd been sent to watch for them.

“Get to your spots, boys—this is it,” Griggs called out, gesturing at them. Everyone pulled their bandannas upward from their necks to cover the lower half of their faces.

Griggs's words echoed in Thorn's brain as he reined Ace out into the rutted road as the others were doing.
This was it.
The culmination of all his careful planning. In the next few minutes, he would either have successfully planned an ambush of the ambushers, which would lead to his reward and the start of a new life for him—or the ambush would fail and he'd be viewed by the authorities as one of the kidnappers. For if Bishop's men weren't able to surprise and subdue the gang, and harm came to Mrs. Gilmore, Thorn would likely be held as responsible as the others, even if the State Police confirmed that he'd been sent on their orders to infiltrate the gang. No one but Daisy and Billy Joe would believe he was a lawman in disguise then. He trusted Sam Bishop to be a man of his word, but what if he wasn't?

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding...”
The verse from Proverbs he'd heard Daisy quote came back to him now.
“In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.”
Thorn had entrusted this plan to God, hadn't he? It wasn't something based only on his understanding, so why wouldn't the Lord bless it? It wasn't the Lord who brought these doubts into his mind now, at the last minute...

I trust You, Lord. Please protect me, Billy Joe and Mrs. Gilmore, and let all go according to Your plan.

“Whoa!” Griggs called out as the stagecoach rounded the bend. As if by some unspoken signal, he and the rest of the outlaws blocking the road fired their pistols into the air. The terrified team of horses whinnied in panic, reared and pawed the air with their hooves. For a moment Thorn was afraid they would cause the stage to be overturned, with the startled horses stampeding, dragging the coach on its side with its passengers helpless to save themselves.

Amazingly, though, the animals settled once the report of the guns died away, though they rolled their eyes and trembled as Griggs approached.

“This is a stickup!” the gang leader roared. “Throw down your rifle, driver, and reach for the sky or I'll blast you to kingdom come! That goes for your passengers, too—any of you passengers who are armed better be throwin' yore pistols out the window and gettin' ready to hand over yore valuables!”

The grizzled driver complied, his arms shaking and his eyes wide. The rifle clanked as it landed against a small boulder, and there were softer, answering thuds as a Colt and a small derringer flew out the window to land in the dusty road. Thorn heard a buzz of conversation from within the coach.

“Everyone outta the coach!” Griggs ordered, and after an endless moment, the door was flung open and one by one, the passengers emerged—a rotund, balding man who looked like a drummer; a middle-aged man and wife, clutching each other fearfully; and finally, with great dignity, a silver-haired woman who had to be the wife of Simpson Creek's mayor. All of them were pale and looked terrified.

One of Griggs's men, whom Thorn knew only as Mose, rode forward, holding out a small sack. “I'll take yore valuables,” he announced to the passengers.

Mrs. Gilmore began to unfasten a necklace from her throat, and the middle-aged man dug in his pocket, bringing out a pocket watch that gleamed golden in the sunlight. His wife moaned as she saw him hold it up. The drummer dropped a handful of coins into the bag.

This would be a good time for Bishop and his men to pounce, while the outlaws' attention is focused on what the passengers are handing over
, Thorn thought. But there was only silence behind him, and he dared not look around, lest he give a hint of their presence.

“Is that all ya got?” Mose jeered at the passengers. “Ma'am, I think ya forgot about them gold earbobs,” he said to the middle-aged woman. He gestured menacingly at her ears until she whimpered and pulled them off. “What about you, driver?” he called, and at last, the man pulled a silver flask from his trousers pocket and dropped that in with the rest of the booty.

“What about that chest up there by yore boot?” Mose demanded. “Carryin' a payroll?”

The driver shook his head, then worked the clasp and tilted the chest so that the outlaw could see it was empty. “Sorry, I already delivered that in Lampasas,” he explained, with an obviously false apologetic air.

“You folks can get back inside,” Tomlinson said, pointing to the coach.

Hesitatingly, darting glances back at the outlaws, the passengers began to clamber back into the coach.

“Not you, Miz Gilmore,” Griggs called out, pointing his pistol at the gray-haired woman. “You'll be staying with us for a while.” With his weapon, he gestured her away from the coach and her fellow passengers, to the side of the road.