Outlaw's Bride (29 page)

The abrupt silence seemed even more ominous than the explosion of the gun battle moments before. The stillness was broken by the appearance of the townsfolk, coming out from behind closed doors to stare at the two outlaws lying in the middle of their usually peaceful street.

“A few of you men check on the robbers,” Clint hollered. He didn't wait to see if anyone followed his order, but loped across the street to where Atwater lay motionless and quiet. He squatted down beside the gray-haired man and eased him back away from the trough to lie on the ground.

Wet crimson soaked the upper right side of Atwater's shirt and Clint licked his suddenly dry lips. He laid his palm on the left side of Atwater's chest and was rewarded with a strong beat.

“Is he …?”

Clint lifted his head to see Mattie peering down at him. Even pale and frightened, she was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. “No, he's alive, but he needs medical attention.”

“Kevin isn't here,” Mattie said, then added firmly, “Bring him over to the doctor's office and I'll see what I can do.”

Clint called two men over to help him carry the unconscious sheriff across the street. Mattie led the way and opened the office as if she'd done it many times before. She motioned toward a tall bed in the center of one of the rooms.

“I'm going to need hot water,” she commanded.

Clint nodded and found the kitchen. There was a huge pot on the stove already filled with water, and Clint quickly stoked up the fire to heat it. While it warmed, he returned to the examination room.

Mattie's concentration was centered on the sheriff. One of her hands was stained red by the man's blood, yet she didn't seem to notice. Clint's heart swelled at her strength and grit.

“Do you need some help?” he asked softly.

Mattie nodded without looking at him. “We need to get his vest and shirt off so I can examine the wound.”

Stepping over to the other side of the bed, Clint eased Atwater's left arm from his vest, then rolled his limp body toward him carefully. Mattie pulled off the vest from his right side.

“I thought you weren't coming back,” Mattie said, her voice breathy. Her gaze remained on Atwater as she and Clint worked in tandem to remove his shirt.

“I thought so, too,” he said.

Mattie eased Walt's shirt off the rest of the way. Only Atwater's undershirt remained and she took a pair of scissors and cut a large circle out of it.

“It's still bleeding,” she said. She grabbed a cloth from a shelf of supplies and pressed it against the bullet hole high on Atwater's right shoulder. Then she reached across and clasped Clint's hand, drawing it over to the cloth. “Press down firmly. We need to stop the bleeding.”

Clint did as she said as he watched her work. Her calmness shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. She had almost been shot, yet she was acting as if it were a common occurrence.

“How's Andy?” he asked.

“Fine. Thank God he had already gone home when this happened.”

“How's his ankle?”

“Fine.”

“Is he helping around the house more?” Clint knew he shouldn't be bothering her as she worked, but he wanted to hear her voice and learn what she'd done while he'd been gone.

Mattie nodded but didn't speak.

He heard the outer door open and footsteps sounded as someone neared. Clint tensed, his body still taut from the gunfight. A man dressed in a smithy apron stood in the doorway.

“What is it, Frank?” Mattie asked.

“One of them outlaws is dead. The other needs a doc,” he replied.

“Take the dead one to the undertaker's and put the other one in jail,” Clint said, taking charge as naturally as he breathed. “Mattie will look at him after she's taken care of the sheriff.”

“How bad is the man's wound?” she asked.

“Looks like he caught one in the leg, above the knee,” Frank replied.

“Wrap a scarf around it tightly. That'll take care of him until Kevin or I can examine him,” she said.

Frank nodded and left.

“A person would think you do this every day,” Clint said softly.

Mattie glanced up at him for the first time since they'd brought Atwater to the office. “Don't be fooled. I'm shaking so hard on the inside, I'm afraid I'm going to rattle apart.”

Clint's throat tightened and he laid his free hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You're doing just fine, Mattie.”

She quickly turned her attention back to the wounded sheriff, but Clint caught the blush that colored her cheeks. How had he been able to leave her?

“Did you find the man you were after?” Mattie suddenly asked.

Clint shook his head. “I lost his trail about a hundred miles northeast of here.”

“So why did you come back?”

His heartbeat kicked up a notch. “I had some unfinished business.”

She glanced up at him, a question in her eyes, but Clint merely shook his head. “Not now.”

“I'm going to get some water and clean the wound,” she said. “Hopefully by the time I'm done, Kevin will be back so he can take care of him.”

“Is there an exit wound?”

She shook her head. “The bullet's still inside.”

Clint heard the door open again and more than one set of footsteps neared them. A middle-aged man wearing an expensive suit and too much pomade appeared in the doorway. Behind him, Arabella—no, Amelia—stood anxious and fearful. The man had to be her husband, Orville, the owner of the bank.

“How's Walt doing?” the man asked.

“I'm not sure,” Mattie replied. “He's been shot in the shoulder and the bullet's still inside him.”

“Where's Dr. Murphy?”

“I found a note saying he went to deliver the Hudsons' baby. He should be back anytime now.”

Orville bobbed his head up and down, his double chin moving in time with the gesture. “Good, good. Walt did a damned fine job of stopping those two thieves.” He glanced at Clint. “And I noticed how well you handled yourself, sir.”

Clint bit back a retort. Men like Orville existed in every town. They weren't bad men, just self-important ones—a big fish in a little pond. “Thank you, Mr.—”

“The name's Orville Johnson and I'm the owner of the establishment those two men tried to rob.” He motioned to Amelia. “And this is my wife, Amelia Johnson.”

“We've met,” Clint said smoothly.

Amelia's eyes widened behind her husband.

“She stopped by Mattie's while I was recovering from my gunshot wounds about six weeks back,” Clint finished.

Amelia closed her eyes briefly and when she reopened them, Clint saw gratitude written there.

“So you're the gunman everyone was talking about,” Johnson said.

Mattie paused in her task of cleaning the blood from Atwater's chest. She glanced at Clint, her brows furrowed and her lips set in a grim line.

“I was a U.S. marshal,” Clint said coolly.

Mattie blinked, as if surprised he'd admitted it.

Johnson appeared duly impressed. “So what brought you here?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson, but could you save your questions until a later time?” Mattie asked. “We need to get the bleeding stopped or Walt could die.”

“Oh, yes, certainly. I'm sorry, Mrs. St. Clair,” Johnson apologized. He looked at Clint. “After you're done here, would you mind stopping by the bank? I have an offer for you.”

Clint wondered what kind of offer that could be, and shrugged. “Sure.”

Johnson turned, but paused. “Thank you again for your help.”

“I'm just glad I showed up when I did.”

Johnson ushered Amelia out ahead of him.

“Puffed-up little pigeon, isn't he?” Clint commented.

Mattie lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “He's the mayor of Green Valley.”

Clint withdrew the cloth from Atwater's shoulder, and there was only a small trickle of blood oozing from the wound. “Looks like the bleeding has slowed.”

“Now if only Kevin would get here,” Mattie said plaintively.

The door opened for a third time and Kevin rushed in. He caught sight of Clint and came to an abrupt halt. “What're you doing here?” he demanded.

Though taken aback by the man's curt question, Clint kept his features impassive. “I got back just in time to help stop a robbery.”

As Kevin and Mattie exchanged a look, Clint narrowed his eyes.

“Go on over and talk to Mr. Johnson,” Mattie said. “Kevin and I can handle it from here.”

She didn't meet his eyes again.

Foreboding whispered across Clint as he strode to the doorway where the doctor stood. Clint tossed him the bloody cloth and he caught it without flinching.

“I'll see you later, Mattie,” Clint said in farewell.

He headed back outside to find that the two outlaws had been carried off the street. The only sign that the town had erupted in violence half an hour earlier was the drying blood in the dirt.

Clint glanced back at the doctor's office and wondered what was going on. Dr. Murphy acted as if Clint were trespassing. Had the doctor staked a claim to Mattie already?

If so, it was nobody's fault but Clint's.

He'd left Mattie with no promises.

C
lint strolled across the street to the bank and into a crowd of milling people. He wasn't surprised to see them gathered around, gossiping about the unsuccessful robbery.

The conversations faltered and wary gazes followed him when he entered, as if they expected him to be another thief intruding in their midst. Or maybe they had seen him help bring down the two outlaws.

“Over here, sir,” Orville Johnson called from a doorway at the back of the bank.

A smile tugged at Clint's lips when people started talking again, but this time he knew they were speculating on why the bank owner would be calling a virtual stranger over to join him. Clint wondered the same thing. The crowd parted to allow him through and he joined Johnson, who ushered him into his office.

“Sit down, Mr….?” Johnson began.

“Beaudry. Clint Beaudry.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Beaudry.” Johnson stuck out his hand and shook Clint's like a politician a day before election. “Have a seat.”

Clint lowered himself to the chair in front of Johnson's desk. He removed his hat and dragged his hand through his unruly hair. He hoped this meeting wouldn't take long—he needed a bath and a shave. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Mr. Johnson?”

The bank owner sat back in his plush chair and clasped his hands, steepling his fingers. He looked like a snake eyeing a mouse. “What brought you to our town, Mr. Beaudry?”

“I was shot by the sonuvabitch who murdered my wife,” Clint said bluntly.

Johnson's mouth gaped and his face paled.

“Mrs. St. Clair nursed me until I was healed enough to leave,” Clint added. “I came back again after I lost the trail of the murderer.” He had no intention of telling him his real reason for returning.

“You're the one who saved her son's life?”

Clint lifted his right ankle to rest on his left knee. “I helped him out of a well.”

“Mrs. St. Clair told my Amelia the whole story. She said her son would've died if not for you.”

Uncomfortable with the praise, Clint remained silent. He hadn't done it alone—Mattie and Herman had done their share, too.

“What's your line of work?” Johnson asked.

“I told you I used to be a lawman. Now I'm only a drifter.”

Johnson nodded, as if he were a teacher and his favorite student had just answered a question correctly. “I have a feeling you were a good lawman.” He paused, one hand squeezing the other nervously. “I realize this just happened, but we have to find someone to take over for Sheriff Atwater.”