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Samson curled his fingers into his palm, his raised fist hovering over the door. Unable to knock, he lowered it to his side and shook his head. Not much more than a week ago, he’d given entering an establishment like this no thought, driven by a man’s desires and heedless of the consequences. But what had been entertainment, enjoyment even, over the years, now seemed cheap and tawdry.
Expelling a breath, he knocked at last, and the door opened. A soiled dove, her corset, adorned with ruffles and bows, her cleavage spilling over, leaned on the door trim. The light of an oil lamp turned her underthings transparent. She gave no appearance of concern.
“Rumor’s going around about you,” she said, puckering rouged lips. “Little birdie says you’ve gone and got married.”
Silva’d inquired in the expected places then for the story to have reached her ears. Samson glanced past her, flashing a gold coin in one hand. She plucked it from his fingertips and reversed, closing the door behind him. Her mouth pulled back in a teasing smile, she reached for his belt. He grasped her wrists and stilled her.
She arched her brows. “Is it true?”
“I need to write a letter and need you to have it delivered for me.”
“A letter? You came here to pen your bride?”
“Her father.”
The girl made a snort. Whirling, she paraded across the room to a crowded vanity table and dug in its drawers, producing a half sheet of paper, a pen and pot of ink. She pushed the various bottles and jars of beauty products aside and waved him to a seat.
He hesitated.
“I’m not asking why,” she said, “but I’m aching something awful that you’re bein’ chaste.” The girl plopped down on the end of her bed, the covers rumpled, a man’s shape still formed in the sheets.
Samson stared for a moment, awash with guilt, then descended on a small stool. He made no effort to pick up the pen.
“I’ve got whiskey if that’ll help.”
He glanced at her and nodded. She reached below the bed and produced a half-empty bottle, smeared with handprints. Samson took a long draw, wiping his lips with the back of his palm. “You ever think about getting out?”
The girl’s brows rose again. Her youthful age vied with the years of use already written on her face. Lillian had none of that but softness, brightness.
“An’ where would I go?” she asked. “I ran from my pappy, got tired of him sneaking in my bed. My mama’s people won’t have me, saying God don’t save my kind. Nor does any man I’ve met, for that matter. No, this is the best I’ve found so far. At least, I’ve got pretty things.”
For dresses and jewelry, she’d abuse herself? Why did he care?
Samson reached for the pen, wetting it, and slid the paper beneath his grasp. He formulated his thoughts and glanced at the girl again. “Another coin and you say nothing about this.”
She reclined. “Not a word. She’s a lucky girl, your missus.”
Not giving a reply, he returned to the page and began to write, signing his signature at the bottom, beneath it, the date. He waited a moment for the ink to dry then folded the letter and sealed it with wax from a candle in the windowsill. He extended it to her with the second coin. “This goes to Sheriff McCann. Place it directly in his hands and don’t leave it with anyone else. Understood?”
“McCann? That’s a good distance.” She bit her lip. “I can get it there. I’ll ask Jimmy. That good enough?”
Samson nodded and ambled for the door. The girl hopped to her feet and pushed one shoulder against the door, preventing his exit. “Isn’t fair, you giving me dreams, you know? Never considered getting out, ’cept now you’ve lit that in me. I got a friend in Houston ....”
He stared at her. What hatred and self-abasement had ruined might vanish given enough time. Her getting out would be a good thing. Why didn’t he believe the same for himself? His dad died in a hail of gunfire. He’d pictured his death the same way.
“Go there.”
They stared at each other, for a moment, then she backed away, and he exited. He wended his way through the saloon, ignoring curious gazes, but one hand raised to the swinging doors, came to a halt.
A lawman leaned against the boardwalk overhang’s post on the opposite side of the street, a badge twinkling on his vest.
Samson slid behind the wall and retraced his steps through the saloon. He rounded the bar and squeezed through the service door into a long hallway that emptied in a back alley. Cracking the door and seeing no one, he edged into the afternoon light.
He paced to the corner and looked forward at the street, the lawman out of his view.
“Yoohoo! You there ... deputy.” The girl called from an upper-story window. “Half price for anyone who’ll let me stroke his badge. It’ll only take five, I promise. I’ll meet you at the stairs ....”
Samson muffled a laugh.
Allowing a minute to pass, he pressed against the wall and tiptoed to the front. Not sighting the lawman, he slunk over to his horse, unhooked the reins, and leapt on. He recaptured the mare at the edge of town.
One more stop to make, and he had only to wait for things to fall into place. With Francisco taken care of and Lillian protected, he could go anywhere.
Anywhere. Alone. Forgotten.
His mood dived. Was that what he wanted?
A cloud of dust rose on the horizon, taking the form of five horsemen, the center rider, a familiar figure Lillian recognized instantly. “Daddy!” Love for her father flowered in her heart. Ten days away seemed like an eternity and this, finally, the moment she’d hoped for.
Silas’s stiffness muted her enthusiasm. The upcoming meeting was sure to go wrong. How callus of her not to prepare for it. He had done nothing but good for her, though her father wouldn’t see it nor try to understand.
The distance narrowing, she sought an encouraging word to dull what would erupt. She hadn’t enough time to formulate it. Recognition sparked in her father’s eyes, and he sat taller in the saddle.
“Lillian!” he called out. In his next breath, his voice turned gruff. “Silas Renegade.” He waved one arm toward the others and withdrew his weapon, fingers curled tight. “Arrest that man and bring me my daughter.”
The riders closed ranks, and Silas, in one motion, raised his gun, the barrel dipped toward the head of her father’s horse. The riders’ weapons also rose in a wave.
“I’d put that down if I were you,” her father said. He pulled in a breath, his mustache quivering in the motion.
“Papa don’t ...”
Silas spoke over her. “I’ll lower mine if you lower yours. If you don’t, that nice animal will pay the price.”
Her father’s face reddened, and he made a garbled cough. “You would die for a horse?”
“I would die to watch you fall.”
“Papa, please.”
Her father’s gaze shifted, his eyes softening. “Lillian, you are well?”
Concern altered his tone. He looked older, worry drawing long lines on his brow. Or had those been there all along but she hadn’t noticed them?
“I am fine. I’ve sprained my wrist in a fall, but it’s much better today.” Still swollen but more mobile than it’d been.
His face reddened further, his jaw muscles tightening. “It would not have happened if not for that scoundrel, Samson Renegade.”
“He’s kept his word,” Silas stated. “I am here to see her home, safe.”
“Kept it for his own pleasure!” her father barked. “I will see him hung if it’s the last thing I do.”
“You have a gold deposit coming tomorrow?”
The sudden switch in topic lessened her father’s confident stance. Wariness replaced his anger. “What of it?”
“You’d do best to worry about its security and not waste time on where my brother is.”
“It is not a waste to catch an outlaw! I will find him, no matter how long it takes! He murdered a man in El Paso. He will not repeat the crime here.” Her father motioned in their direction. “Arrest him and shoot if you have to.”
The circle of horses closed, and to her surprise, Silas surrendered his gun. One deputy bound him, another capturing the weapon. A third dismounted and lifted her from the horse. She came face-to-face with Deputy Anderson, startled by it. All that time in their midst and she hadn’t noticed him.
“I’m glad to see you safe,” he said.
“I’ve been safe all along.”
A query seemed to form in his gaze. He asked nothing, however. “You can ride with me,” he said. “You won’t have to tolerate those Renegades anymore.”
Tolerate? Seated in front of him, her heart filled with loss. Overwhelmed, she twisted around and met Silas’s emotionless gaze. Not that her father had ought to hold him on, except for hope to seek his brother. In vain. Silas wouldn’t feed Samson to the law, nor would Samson come to rescue him from her father and risk himself. What happened when her father discovered that?
“They didn’t ... harm you?”
Deputy Anderson’s voice broke into her thoughts. Lillian twisted further to better see him. “Silas Renegade is a man of the cloth. How stupid of you to even consider it.” She faced forward. “As to Samson ...”
The deputy’s fingers tightened on the reins. Clearly, he noticed her usage of his first name.
“He’s too smart for all of you,” she said. “A man named Francisco Silva did the shooting in El Paso and has plans on robbing the bank.”
“Silva, did you say?” Deputy Anderson asked, his tone more grave.
“You know him?”
“Saw him in town right after you were taken off with that Renegade.”
“He was up to no good,” she replied. “He caught up with us in the desert, stole our horse, and left us to die.”
The deputy’s breath hissed inward, his grip of her firming. “You didn’t,” he said, a minute passing.
“No, and you can thank them both for that. In fact, I’d enjoy it very much.”
Whatever Deputy Anderson was thinking then, she didn’t know but shut her eyes and counted her heartbeats. Samson wouldn’t rescue his brother, but he would provide Silas an escape if needed.
Where was he? One thing was certain, he wouldn’t go anywhere until Francisco had been arrested, and clearly, no one suspected the outlaw yet.
That gave her a glimpse of hope and, later, sight of the Pecos River added relief and comfort. The sunset rippling on the waters, strangely, breathed of the upcoming holiday. She longed for the joy of it, the blessings.
A glimpse of town did not appear until well after dark.
“Take my daughter home, Anderson,” her father said, once within a hundred yards. “I will deal with our prisoner.”
Deputy Anderson tugged the reins, angling the horse to the west. Lillian reached forward and pulled them upward, bringing the horse to a sudden stop. “He isn’t a prisoner,” she snapped. “He’s done no crime, and you will put him up properly.”
“Lillian.”
“No ... I love you, but I have grown up and will not be led about by the nose any longer. We have a spare bed,” she said. “You will allow him use of it. If you must ... have someone watch the house, but you will not treat him like a common criminal.”
She couldn’t see her father’s face well but sensed his mood and prepared to take a stand. He held still for only a moment. He waved the others off, bidding Deputy Anderson stay. “You will stand guard,” he said. “I will indulge her this once.”
Lillian swallowed her satisfaction. Her sense of fulfillment tempered at the figure poised on their front steps. Her father bade them wait and rode forward. “Who goes there?”
“Letter for you, sir,” the fellow said, scrambling to his feet. A tired horse hung its head an arm’s length away.
“A letter? At this hour?”
“Would have delivered it earlier, but you weren’t in town. Was told I could wait here. It has to be received in person.”
Her dad dismounted. “Well, where is it?”
The fellow removed the missive from his saddlebags. Having laid it in her father’s palm, he mounted and rode off in an instant. Her father bowed his head, and Deputy Anderson tapped his horse’s sides, bringing them close, Silas at their side.
Her father dragged his thumb underneath the seal and unfolded the letter, turning it toward a gas lamp. His breath escaped in a garbled rush, his chest heaving. Anger frothed at his lips. “It’s from that damnable brother of yours. Is it true?” he snapped, waving the letter at Silas.
Silas replied, impassive. “I cannot read the contents from this distance.”
“He says ... he says ...” Pain wreathed her father’s expression. He lowered his arm and cast his gaze upward. “You have married that murdering Renegade?”
Samson. Her heart in her throat, Lillian could not reply, and her lack of response spoke whatever error her father believed. Horror and frustration, sadness settled on him.
The deputy spoke common sense. “You should go inside. Does no good to remain out here.”
His shoulders slumped, her father turned on one heel and, roughly, pulled Silas from the horse. He marched him up the steps.
“See to the horses, would you?” he asked the deputy.
Deputy Anderson nodded and helped her onto her feet, his hands lingering on her shoulders. “Why, Lill?”
Again, she didn’t answer, unable. Why did Samson write her father and say such? What did he have to gain by it? Except it meant ... everything to her that he did.
Unspeaking, she followed her father and Silas in the door, aware of the deputy’s tight gaze on her backside.
Samson tossed his head back, draining his glass. He settled it on the table, and the old man filled it again. He didn’t take a drink.
The old man made a mucusy cough. “There are stories circulating about you. I don’t believe a one of them.” He smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “One said you’d shot a man in cold blood. Rubbish, I said. If Renegade’s bullet was between your eyes, you drew first. Another said you’d died in the desert with the sheriff’s daughter. T’would’ve been tragic, she’s a rare beauty, except here you are.”
Samson emptied his glass at last. He waved off a third. His reason for seeking the old man out remained solid, but the assurance that’d brought him there wavered a great deal. Because of Lillian.
“That’s right, drink dulls the senses. One thing I remember from your pappy is his abhorrence of liquor.”
“Why’d he shoot Jefferson Bowles?” The words weighed heavy on Samson’s tongue.
A curious gleam appeared in the old man’s eyes. “Sorry sort, the Bowles’ clan, and Jefferson at the bottom. Not evil, mind you, but idle, and idleness kills the soul. I guess, in his case, it killed his son and wife, as well.”
“And Mama.”
The old man’s brow furrowed. “Is that what’s tormenting you? Was tragic how she died. I have great respect for your brother in his dealin’ with it.” The old man snagged Samson’s glass and filled it, taking a drink himself. “The other story I heard came from that no-good Mexican ...” He returned to his previous topic. “He said you dumped a thousand dollars in gold and jewelry on him to get your horse back. Comes in here crowin’ about it. How he’s richer than Croesus, but I said to myself, that treasure will kill you dead.”
The old man leaned across the table, his sour breath blowing in Samson’s face. “You want me to fix it?”
“Not tellin’ you to fix it.”
“No, you wouldn’t, but I will. I’d rather do business with a Renegade than trust that backstabbing thief.”
“He’s going to rob the bank.”
“Of course, he is. He was in neck deep with that crooked lawyer fellow ... Dibbits? Strange, though, haven’t seen him struttin’ around in a couple weeks. But don’t you worry, I’ll see to things myself. With pleasure. You can sleep easy ....”
Samson gave no reply. Sleep was hard to attain. He reached for his glass, and the old man filled it.
“That pain in your gut you feel is called your conscience. Your pappy tried to kill it, but he wasn’t God ... or the devil.”
Samson swirled the amber liquid, sloshing it over the rim.
“The pain in your heart’s called love.”
Motionless, Samson held his next few breaths. “I lied,” he said, at last, his chest emptying. “I told her father we’d married. I wanted to protect her. If they didn’t catch Francisco, he’d leave her be.” That’s what he’d told himself. The truth was, he wanted her away from Deputy Anderson ... and he wanted her to know it mattered. She mattered.
The old man rubbed his palm roughly over his bearded chin. “When your brother brought you to me, saying, ‘Get him across the river,’ know why I agreed?”
Samson raised the glass sniffing its contents.
“No young boy should have to carry that kind of weight. Killin’ a man’s life-changing, and it ought to be.” He paused, a knowing look in his eye. “A year later, he stops by again, he’s never returning to Texas. He’s goin’ to Mississippi. Guess he found his calling there. But, as life would have it, Texas called him home. Now, he tells his sermons at the end of a gun.”
“I don’t want that for him.”
“No ...” the old man reclined. “I don’t imagine you do. But you’re his reason for staying. You want to set him free, you have to free yourself first.”
Samson drained the glass, the buzz in his head mangling his thoughts. “My freedom is at the end of a rope.”
“For what? No one knows who killed that outlaw, long ago. No one can prove you’ve stolen anything, and Francisco’s about to swing for the rest.”
That wasn’t good enough. He knew what he’d done and couldn’t see a way to erase it and be good enough for Lillian. He couldn’t see how to move on without her either.
Both had driven him here, whiskey in his hand.
His father would have stood him, butt-naked, in the watering trough all night for it. See what mistake you’ve made? Let this teach you a lesson. Keep your mind clear at all times.
The old man poured yet another glass. Samson downed it. He needed his senses tomorrow, but it was so much easier to let himself forget.