Once an Outlaw (12 page)

Protected from what?
Clint wondered grimly. But he didn’t want to question the child. He’d find out everything he needed to know from Emily Spoon.

“Now that that’s settled,” she was saying, giving the boy a quick hug, “why don’t you finish feeding the chickens and let me find out what I can do for Sheriff Barclay. We want to be all finished with our work and cozy inside the cabin when the storm hits, don’t we? And Sheriff Barclay will want to be back in town.”

“Okay, Em-ly. Clucker is prob’ly wondering where I went. G’bye, Sheriff.”

“So long, Joey.”

Clint waited as the boy trotted toward the barn. Joey turned and waved once, just as thunder rumbled in the distance. Clint lifted a hand with an easy smile, hiding his tension and the worry vibrating through him.

“All right, supposing you tell me just who in hell this John Armstrong is?” he demanded as soon as Joey disappeared into the barn.

Emily set the rifle down against the cabin door and plopped her hands on her hips. “It’s none of your business.”

“After last night, it damn well is my business.”

Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink. “If you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t bring up last—”

“I’m a lawman, Emily. Never claimed to be a gentleman.” He strode right up to her, didn’t touch her, just stared down into her eyes. His voice was quiet, determined. “And when something’s wrong, it’s always my business.”

“It’s nothing—nothing I can’t handle.
We
can’t handle,” she amended swiftly. Her chin lifted. “My family stands behind me on this.”

“Look, you can barely tolerate the sight of me, and yet when you saw Armstrong in that hotel last night, you nearly knocked me over trying to keep him from spotting you. You went to … extreme lengths to make sure he didn’t recognize you,” he added dryly, noticing how those finely sculpted cheeks of her turned an even deeper pink than before. And how her lovely mouth started to tremble.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he added softly, and the cobalt glint in his eyes made her suddenly grow warm all over.

“Sheriff Barclay—”

“Clint,” he interrupted. “After last night, I reckon you can call me Clint.”

“Please stop talking about that,” Emily pleaded, desperate to change the subject. “I think it’s best if we both forget all about what happened last night. Every single part of it!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure that’s possible.”

Her gray eyes widened and flew to his cool blue ones. Something in their glinting depths made her heart start to pound like a locomotive streaking down a greased track.

“Tell me about Armstrong,” Clint persisted. He was desperately trying to keep his mind on business when all he wanted to do was reach out and stroke that mass of shimmering black hair. Why did she have to look so gorgeous this morning, in a plain white shirtwaist and riding skirt—she looked every bit as enticing as she had in that fancy gown last night. It was damned unfair, he decided bitterly.

“Tell me why the sight of him spooked you like that,” he said more roughly than he intended.

“It’s a long story.”

“Then get started.”

“How … how did you find out… his name?” Emily couldn’t think of anything to do except stall for time. She didn’t want to tell Clint Barclay one single thing, not if she could find a way around it. “I… I’m sure I never mentioned it.”

“No, you didn’t. But after you left last night, I tracked him down. He didn’t go far, just to Opal’s Brothel. It didn’t take long to find out who he was, but I didn’t learn much else—except that he gets rough with his women,” he added, his expression hardening.

Emily froze at his words, her eyes pinned to his face.

Clint continued grimly. “Apparently Armstrong was
eliminated early from the poker tournament. He was in a foul temper. You don’t need to know the details,” he muttered, thinking of Lorelei and the bruises on her arms, “but I want to know what he has to do with you. And with that little boy. Is Joey your son?” he asked abruptly.

He’d never intended to ask her that question, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. If she had a husband somewhere, or some other man in her life, he damn well wanted to know about it.

She stared at him for a long moment during which Clint held his breath, watching conflicting emotions swirl across her exquisite face.

“No,” she said at last, with a shake of her head. “Joey isn’t my son.”

An odd relief gripped him. So there was no husband …

Not that it matters
, Clint thought harshly, suddenly, steeling himself as she turned, paced across the porch and back. He tried like hell not to stare at the gentle sway of her hips beneath her riding skirt.

“Joey’s mother is my friend. A dear friend. Her name is Lissa McCoy.”

There seemed no point in trying to keep the story a secret any longer. From the way Clint Barclay was making himself at home on her front porch, he didn’t appear to be going anywhere until she satisfied his damned lawman’s curiosity.

“Lissa is a widow, and she worked in the boarding-house where my aunt and I used to live.” Emily took a breath. “At one point she was betrothed to John Armstrong. Then she found out what he was really like and she … she broke off their engagement.”

A slow drizzle began—heavy gray drops plunking down upon the weeds and grass of the yard and upon the
porch—striking her cheeks, dampening her shirtwaist. But Emily hardly noticed. She was seeing Lissa’s frightened, tear-streaked face that night she’d sent John Armstrong away. She was hearing Lissa tell her in a voice that throbbed with fear how Armstrong had warned her he would never let her go.

A distant slash of lightning lit the sky. “Are you sure you want to hear all this?” she asked, glancing up. “The storm—”

“Just tell me, Emily,” Clint replied in a voice so calm that some of the turmoil inside her began to ease. “I want to help.”

She glanced toward the barn. There was no sign of Joey yet. He was safe and dry there, no doubt chattering to Clucker while he played a game of solitaire. She’d have to keep an eye out for him, but in the meantime she could tell Clint Barclay about Armstrong. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. If Armstrong showed up again in Lonesome, Clint could warn her …

The rain was falling faster. “Come inside then.” She turned abruptly, picked up the rifle, and went through the door. He followed as a harder downpour began to lash the earth.

Never had she thought she’d invite a lawman—particularly
this
lawman—into her home. She suddenly didn’t know whether to treat him like a guest or an intruder.

“Would you… like some pie—or some coffee?” she began doubtfully, but Clint shook his head. At her gesture of invitation he took a seat—choosing the armchair where Uncle Jake liked to sit.

This isn’t right
, Emily thought.
He shouldn’t be here. I’ll tell him the story quickly, ask him to let me know if Armstrong comes back, and then he’ll leave
.

She slipped onto the sofa and smoothed her skirt,
wondering if Clint Barclay sensed the same heat and tension between them that she did. Better not to think about that—better to just tell him what he wanted to know quickly—so he would leave.

“From the moment Lissa ended her engagement, her entire life became a kind of hell,” she said, looking at Clint with eyes tinged with sadness. “Armstrong always had a temper—which is something those of us in the Spoon family know all about,” she added ruefully, “but Lissa had no idea that Armstrong’s temper was violent, or that it was fueled by a mean streak. He’d show up, demand to see her, and knock down anyone who tried to get in his way. He pushed me into the wall once when I wouldn’t let him inside the boardinghouse.”

She saw Clint’s eyes turn to chips of blue ice and continued quickly. “But he saved the worst of his violence for Lissa. He struck her on more than one occasion. Other boarders had to come to her aid, force him to leave. One day he caught her outside as she was returning from an errand—he beat her horribly. She had a black eye and bruises on her throat because he tried to choke her.” Emily’s fingers clenched around her skirt at the memory.

“I begged her to go to the constables, tell them what was happening, but she was afraid, afraid that would anger him even more. The final straw came just before I left the boardinghouse to come west—to meet Uncle Jake and the boys.”

A shudder ran through her. “Armstrong climbed through her bedroom window in the middle of the night, while she and Joey were both asleep. He began beating her, and Joey tried to stop him.”

“Go on.” Clint spoke tensely.

Emily bit her lip, forcing herself to continue. “Joey
was only trying to help his mother, but Armstrong knocked Joey down, kicked him. Then began hitting him. Joey was screaming, crying—Lissa tried to pull him away, to shield him, but Armstrong was like a crazed man. He … he started to choke her—he was actually trying to kill her—and I believe he would have killed Joey too.” Emily’s own hands clenched into fists. Even the memory of that night left her shaken. “Thank heavens Mr. Dane and Mr. Puchinski, two of the other boarders, heard the commotion and broke into her room in time …”

Her voice trailed off. “As soon as I heard the noise, I knew it was him. I grabbed Aunt Ida’s derringer—the one Uncle Jake gave her before he went on the run—and I rushed downstairs, but Armstrong was gone by the time I reached Lissa’s room. He got clean away.” She lifted her gaze to Clint’s face. “But Lissa knew—and so did I—that she and Joey would have to leave Jefferson City before he came back again.”

“I wish I’d known about this last night.” Clint spoke in a low tone that was no less furious for all its quietness. “I’d have given a lot to get my hands on him.”

She was startled by the anger in him, an anger clearly directed at John Armstrong.

“There was nothing you could have done,” she pointed out wearily. “Lissa isn’t even here to accuse him of trying to kill her and—”

“I didn’t say I’d arrest him, Emily, I said I’d like to have gotten my hands on him.”

She stared at him as the import of his words hit her. She felt a shock at the blazing fury in his eyes. “I don’t have much use for men who hurt women,” he added shortly.

“It’s better this way,” she said after a pause, then
jumped as another flash of golden lightning streaked across the sky, followed shortly by a growl of thunder. The storm was moving closer, swooping down from the mountains. “It’s Joey who needs to be protected now. Lissa is on her way to San Francisco to find a new home for them both—somewhere where Armstrong will never find them. When she’s ready, she’ll send for him or come for him—but in the meantime, I’m keeping him safe. The last thing I want is for Joey to ever have to see John Armstrong again—or even to find out that he was right here in town last night,” she said fiercely. “Ever since that night he’s been frightened of nearly everything. Until recently, he’s barely spoken, barely smiled. He’s just starting to lose the fear. Thanks to Uncle Jake, he wants to learn how to ride, he goes to the barn himself to do the chores—you saw him—he helps me in the garden now, and we even talked about having a picnic down by the stream. That’s the first time he’s even thought about venturing so far from the cabin.”

Suddenly she noticed that while she’d been talking the sky had turned an eerie greenish-gray The charcoal clouds roiling above were thicker and more ominous than before. The next slash of lightning brought her to her feet.

“I need to get Joey.” A sudden knot of worry twisted through her stomach. “I’m surprised that the thunder hasn’t already frightened him into coming back—”

“Let me.” Clint reached the door before she did. “It’s raining pretty hard already.”

He was out the door before she could protest, sprinting across the porch, down the steps, and toward the barn. A moment later he disappeared inside and from the cabin door, Emily watched anxiously for him to come out with Joey. But he didn’t.

She started across the porch, hugging herself, but at that moment, Clint emerged from the barn.

“He’s not there,” he shouted.

The knot of worry tightened and Emily raced down the steps. There was steady, drumming rain now, and it matched the hard beating of her heart as she darted toward the barn to look for herself. Clint was already circling the structure, scanning every direction, when she dashed out again, white-faced, fighting panic.

“Joey!” she shouted into the wind. Lightning zigzagged across the sky and, involuntarily, she cringed. The bolt of thunder that followed shook her to the core.

“Joey, where are you?” she screamed.

“Joey!” Clint’s deep voice carried even over the rising wind. There was no sign of the little boy, not in any direction Emily looked. Had he somehow come around to the kitchen door, slipped in without her hearing him? Had he overheard them talking about John Armstrong?

Her throat constricting, she raced around to the kitchen door. To her dismay, it was ajar. But even worse was the deck of playing cards lying beside the vegetable garden, being thrummed into the earth by the driving rain.

Her hands flew to her throat. “Oh my God.”

Dashing inside the cabin, she called out frantically, “Joey, where are you?”

He’ll be in the back bedroom
, she told herself as fear clawed through her.
He’ll be huddled under his bed or in a corner, sobbing and terrified, because he heard you say that John Armstrong was in town
.

But Joey wasn’t in the back bedroom, or in any of the rooms in the cabin—he was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll check the shed,” Clint said grimly.

Emily stood in the parlor for a moment, shock and
horror washing over her. Then she rushed outside, straight to the corral, placing her hands on the split rail fence.

“Joey!” she screamed into the wet gusting wind that swirled around her. “Joey!”

It was there that Clint found her a moment later, unable to discern whether it was tears or just rain that streamed down her cheeks. She jumped when he seized her by the shoulders and lifted wide, panicked eyes to his face.

“He’s gone, Clint! He must have heard us talking … oh, God, where did he go?”