Outlaw's Bride (6 page)

Clint eyed the lawman, noting how similar every small-town sheriff looked. Most of them were as dim-witted as they appeared, and he generally steered clear of them. But he couldn't walk away this time. “Sure.”

“What happened?”

The throbbing in Clint's side intensified with the rise of his temper. “I got shot in the back by a man wearing black boots.” He wasn't going to tell the local lawman about the palomino—it was too rare a breed in these parts and Clint wanted to take care of the man himself.

“Who was he?”

“Somebody who shined his boots a lot.”

Atwater's eyes narrowed. “Look, Beaudry, you were shot in my jurisdiction and I want the bastard who did it. You should, too.”

Clint eyed the husky lawman with grudging respect. “I wish I could help you, Sheriff, but like I told Mrs. St. Clair, I don't remember much.”

Atwater heaved a sigh and glanced out the window. “I know who you are.”

“Who am I?”

“You're a U.S. marshal, and a damned good one, from what I heard.”

“I turned in my badge a long time ago.”

The sheriff brought a sympathetic gaze to bear on Clint. “Because your wife was murdered. And you've been trying to find the man who did it ever since.”

Clint couldn't conceal his surprise. “How did you find out?”

Atwater shrugged. “Your name sounded familiar, so I sent a telegram to a friend of mine—Pete Dodge down in Amarillo.”

“He shouldn't have told you anything. My business is my own.” Clint shifted, and regretted the movement when his side protested.

The sheriff leaned over to adjust the pillows behind Clint's back. “Take it easy, son. I tracked your backshooter for about twenty miles, then lost him when a hard rain hit. He was headed toward Grand Junction, though.”

“Mrs. St. Clair told me.” Clint had no reason to treat the lawman rudely, and added, “Thanks.”

“Don't thank me, Beaudry. I was just doin' my job.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You try to go after him too soon and you're gonna wind up dead.”

“As long as the bastard dies alongside me, I don't care.”

“Hatred only begets more hatred,” the sheriff said thoughtfully.

“I like ‘an eye for an eye' better.”

“That's revenge, not justice.” The sheriff placed his hat on his balding head. “You once upheld the law, Beaudry. Breaking the law ain't gonna bring your wife back.” He turned to leave.

“Sheriff.” The man turned back to Clint. “Don't tell Mrs. St. Clair.”

After a moment, Atwater nodded. “If'n that's what you want.” He aimed a forefinger at Clint. “But I don't want you hurtin' her—she has a heavy enough burden without you addin' to it.”

Anger flared in Clint. “I don't hurt women.”

“Maybe not intentionally.”

Clint stared at the man's back as he left. Atwater's comment had struck too close to home. If Clint had quit his marshal's position like Emily had wanted, his wife would still be alive. Instead, he'd gotten her killed. Unintentionally.

He closed his eyes against the moisture welling within them.

Mattie heard the sheriff's footfalls on the steps and wiped her soapy hands on her apron. She met him at the bottom of the stairs. “Well?”

Atwater paused and leaned on the balustrade as he removed his hat and scratched above an ear. “He's got a lot of anger inside him, Mattie.”

She crossed her arms as a chill went through her. “Tell me something I don't know.”

“He's not a killer.”

Mattie hadn't been ready for that one. “How can you be so certain?”

“Trust me.”

She studied his face and reluctantly recognized his sincerity. She had known Walt Atwater for a long time—he'd taken over as sheriff after Jason had been killed. He was tough, but compassionate and fair. But she had a son to think about….

“What about Andy—is Beaudry a threat to him?”

“Depends on what you mean by threat.” He shrugged. “Beaudry won't harm him, but Andy's hungry for a man's attention, and Beaudry's someone a boy's gonna look up to.”

Mattie understood only too well. “I'm going to have to keep Andy away from him.”

Walt laid a weathered hand on her arm. “Don't. I got a feelin' they can help each other.” He donned his hat. “I'll be stoppin' by from time to time to check on how things are goin'. 'Bye, Mattie.”

“Good-bye, Walt.”

She listened to his footsteps on the porch and the faint sound of him talking to Andy. Despite the sheriff's reassuring words, Mattie wasn't going to accept Beaudry's innocence so readily. Maybe he wasn't a murderer, but his Colt told her he was a man who lived by the gun.

And a man who lived by the gun, died by the gun.

Clint shifted on the too-familiar mattress and stifled a groan of impatience. Since he'd regained consciousness, all he'd done was lie around and sleep. At first that had been fine. He'd been overwhelmingly weak and his body hungered for rest. But now it was more than a week since he'd been shot, and all he wanted to do was get the hell out of these four walls before he suffocated.

Mrs. St. Clair brought his meals and changed his bandages, but otherwise she steered clear of him. Hell, it was probably a good thing she did. Though Clint could have eaten his meals by himself now, he allowed her to believe he was still too weak, so she continued to feed him. His fascination with her was fast becoming an obsession. He'd never met a woman more closemouthed or cantankerous than Mattie St. Clair. Nor one so unaware of—or indifferent to—her own beauty. Since she was a widow, he was surprised she hadn't guessed his uncomfortable reaction to her closeness. A man could only take so much of lush curves, even a man in his condition.

Her secrecy about her past gnawed at him, too. When he'd asked her about herself, she'd given him a frigid look that could have frozen a brass monkey's balls. The only information he'd gotten from her was that she had a son named Andy.

He moved and swore under his breath. Nature had a way of calling at the worst possible time. He knew he should holler for Mrs. St. Clair, but even after eight days of her nursing, he felt a keen sense of embarrassment when she helped him with the personal task. Maybe he could handle things on his own this time.

He spotted a boy with hair the color of Mrs. St. Clair's peeking into his room. The kid had to be her son. “C'mon in, Andy.”

The boy appeared startled, shot a glance down the stairs, then entered the room furtively.

“How'd you know my name?” the kid asked in a low voice.

“Your mother told me,” Clint replied. “What were you doing out there?”

Andy slid his hands deep in his trouser pockets. “I just wanted to see if you were a bad man.”

A smile tugged at Clint's lips, but he restrained the impulse. “And?”

“You don't look so bad. Not like the fella Sheriff Atwater arrested for peein' in the street the other day.”

This time Clint didn't stop his grin. “Pretty bad fella, huh?”

Andy's cheeks reddened. “He
looked
bad—badder'n you, anyhow.”

“Thanks,” Clint said dryly. The boy's story reminded him of his own discomfort. “You want to help me up?”

“Ma said you're not supposed to be getting out of bed.”

“I don't plan on going for a walk—I just need to use the necessary.”

“Oh.” Andy thought about that a moment, then nodded. “All right.”

The boy stepped over to Clint's side and swept back his covers. Bracing himself with his hands on the mattress, Clint pushed himself up while Andy put a helping arm around his waist. Nausea ripped through Clint as his head swam in dizziness. Sweat popped out on his forehead and chest.

Andy planted his anxious face in front of Clint. “Are you all right, Mr. Beaudry?”

“I'll be fine, kid,” he managed to say. “Just… give me a minute.”

Clint wrestled with his weakness as he debated having Andy call his mother. Finally the lightheadedness passed, and with the boy's help, he was able to relieve himself without passing out. Andy helped Clint back to bed, then tucked away the chamber pot.

“What's going on?”

Mrs. St. Clair stood with her hands planted on her hips as she pinned her son with a stern gaze.

“It wasn't the boy's fault, ma'am,” Clint spoke up. “I asked him to come inside to help me.”

“With what?” the woman demanded.

“He had to—” Andy started.

“I had to relieve myself,” Clint broke in, irritated that his private business had become everybody's business.

Mrs. St. Clair's cheeks flushed, which gratified Clint.

“Oh.” She straightened her shoulders and fixed her strict gaze on the boy again. “You're not allowed in here, Andrew. Go on.”

Andy's mouth opened, but closed abruptly. “Yes, ma'am.”

After the kid left, Mrs. St. Clair transferred her disapproval to Clint. “I don't want you talking to my son, Mr. Beaudry. Is that clear?”

“Why not?”

“Because of what you are.”

The lady didn't pull any punches. “Anyone ever tell you you're a hard woman, Mrs. St. Clair?”

She dipped her head, but not before Clint caught the pain in her eyes. “He craves a man's attention. He never knew his father.” Raising her proud gaze, she said softly, “Please, Mr. Beaudry, don't tempt him with something you can't give him.” Then she spun on her heel and was gone.

Clint sucked in his breath at the sorrow her words wrought. Mrs. St. Clair was right—he could give the boy nothing.

Because he had nothing left to give.

H
er arms stacked high with freshly laundered bedding and clothing, Mattie climbed the stairs wearily. At the top of the steps, she heard Andy's voice coming from Beaudry's room and froze. Just yesterday afternoon she'd ordered her son to stay away from him and now he'd disobeyed her, something he rarely did. She marched toward the room, her footsteps muffled by the rug.

“I think all boys like fishing,” she heard Beaudry say in a tone that held a smile. She halted in the hall and listened to the man's rich, Texas-laced voice. “When I was your age, me and my pa would spend hours fishing in this little pond.”

“Did you catch a lot of fish?” Andy asked.

Mattie's heart ached at his eagerness. Thank heavens for Herman, though he was more of a grandfather than father.

“Sometimes. But even if the fish weren't biting, we'd just talk,” Beaudry replied.

Silence stretched out between man and boy, and Mattie was tempted to peek around the corner. Beaudry's voice stopped her.

“Why the long face, Andy?” There was genuine concern in his tone.

“Ma doesn't want you here,” Andy replied. Mattie leaned closer to hear the rest of his quiet words. “As soon as you're feeling better, she's going to throw you out.”

She drew back and pressed her spine against the wall, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. She was the villain in her son's eyes, and by the sound of it, Clint Beaudry had become the hero. How could she explain to Andy why Beaudry had to leave?

“Your ma's a smart woman.”

Startled, Mattie peeked into the room and saw Andy sitting on the edge of the bed. Beaudry had a hand on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture that brought a lump to Mattie's throat. He didn't look or sound like a killer.

“She loves you and wants to make sure you aren't hurt,” Beaudry continued. “That's what mothers are for.”

“Then what are fathers for?”

Pain flashed across the man's angular features. “They provide for their families and build something to leave to their children.” He smiled, and Mattie could tell he'd forced the gesture for her son's sake. “And they take their sons fishing.”