24

Matt Sinclair locked the cell, checked the office to make sure everything was secure, then left for the telegraph office.

He needed time to think.

He’d been raised in Kansas, was eighteen when the war started. He’d wanted to join but he was needed at home; he finally joined the Union Army in ’64 when his brother was old enough to take care of the farm.

The Sinclair family’s farm was in northeast Kansas, and it had escaped much of the violence that splattered blood throughout Missouri and Kansas. He’d heard enough tales, though, and had known men who’d gone through the hell of the border war. He knew about Centralia, how unarmed soldiers had been killed in cold blood, then mutilated and scalped.

He had nothing but contempt for the guerrillas on both sides, most of whom used the war as an excuse to steal and kill. And it had been his experience that such men didn’t change. A conscience existed, or it didn’t.

But the man called both Wade Smith and Brad Allen confused him.

Matt Sinclair considered himself a fair judge of character. A sheriff had to be. He hadn’t liked Wade Smith when he’d first met him. Something about those cold, guarded eyes had alerted him, and he had the troubling sense he’d seen the face before. He’d tried to ignore the warning signals, afraid that they might be jealousy, resentment that Mary Jo Williams appeared attracted to her foreman. Now he knew the truth.

Leopards didn’t change their spots, dammit. The man was pure trouble. Matt had absolutely no reason to believe him.

Nothing but the fact that Brad Allen now sat in Matt’s jail when he could have easily killed Matt and escaped.

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure what the man had to gain in jail that he couldn’t gain outside it. Except Matt’s trust. Matt sure as hell wouldn’t have released someone like Shepherd on a stranger’s say-so.

So Brad Allen, alias Wade Smith, was a smart son of a bitch.

Matt went to the telegraph office and sent three wires, one to the sheriff in Texas who’d sent out the last poster on Clay Kelly, one to a fellow lawman in Lake City for help, and one to the U.S. Marshal’s office requesting the status of Brad Allen.

The telegraph operator looked at him strangely, but didn’t ask questions. He’d learned long ago he wouldn’t get any answers.

Then Matt walked to the largest of the two saloons in town. “Any strangers around?”

“Just that new foreman from Mrs. Williams’ place.”

“Let me know if you see any others.” Matt sighed. He wished he had time to ride out to Mary Jo’s, but she was half a day’s ride away. He had stopped thinking of her as Mrs. Williams months ago, although he still called her that publicly. In his mind, though, she was Mary Jo, and the stranger’s easy use of that name irked him as much as the blow across his head. He shook away the thought and went over to the bank.

Sam Pearson was owner and president of the Last Chance Merchants and Farmers Bank, and he was bent over some ledgers, while a clerk counted figures at the counter. There were no customers.

“You have a lot of cash now?” Matt asked, not bothering with formalities.

“Enough,” Sam said. “The ranchers deposited their cattle money here.”

“Is there any other place you could put it? Besides your safe?”

“Barton at the general store has a good safe. So do you. Mind me asking why?”

It suddenly crossed Matt’s mind that maybe this was what Allen or Smith or whoever he was wanted: the money placed in a more accessible spot.

“I’m not sure,” Matt said slowly. “I’m hearing rumors that an outlaw named Clay Kelly’s in the area. He likes banks.”

Sam blanched. “You know what that would mean to the town?”

“Hell, yes, I know.”

“How sure are you?”

Matt hesitated. “Enough that I’m going to put a posse together to guard the bank for the next several days.” He surprised himself at the commitment. Until this minute he hadn’t been sure he believed the prisoner in his jail. “I’ve also sent for some extra help, but it might take several days to get here.”

“I’ll disperse the cash around, make some payroll deliveries early to the ranches.”

Matt nodded. “But don’t tell them why. I don’t want anyone to know but those on the posse. If Kelly comes, I want a surprise.” He hesitated, then added as insurance, “And you don’t want a run on the bank.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the prisoner you’re holding, does it?”

“Shepherd?” Matt said, realizing suddenly that no one knew his original prisoner had been broken out of jail. He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Just disperse as much cash as you can. Starting in the morning, I’ll have men posted all over the town. We’ll get them trying to go into the bank.”

Sam Pearson nodded.

Matt had a dozen questions in his mind now for the man in his jail. Dammit, he believed him. He didn’t want to, but he did.

He stopped by the boarding house and picked up two meals, one for himself and one for his prisoner. He wanted answers, lots of them, and then it was going to be a very long afternoon. He wished the ache in his head would go away. He felt the bump again. It was tender as hell. He had Allen to thank for that.

Wade had never been in a cell before. He’d never known how crushing it could be to the spirit, locked like an animal in such a small space. He’d better get used to it, he told himself.

What really made it unbearable was his helplessness. Why had he ever thought he could trust Sinclair?

He kept seeing Mary Jo’s face, and Jeff’s, and Kelly’s leering one. He should have just told Mary Jo to take her money from the bank, and the hell with the rest of the town. She wouldn’t have done that, though. He knew that.

Wade cursed Matt Sinclair and he cursed himself. He was too worried to sit down on the iron cot with its inch-thick mattress. He investigated the lock, thinking he should have done that before giving his gun to Sinclair.

How could he have been so wrong? But the man had seemed to be listening, and Wade had so few options. If only his arm were functioning, but that was like wishing the sun was blue. It wasn’t, and nothing was going to make it so.

He heard a key turn in the front door of the jail, and he leaned against the bars. He didn’t care if he looked anxious or not, desperate or not. By God, he was!

Sinclair entered loaded down with a tray. He put it on the desk, then took a sandwich over to Wade. Wade just stared at it, refusing it.

“Take it,” Sinclair said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Wade obeyed reluctantly, taking the food in his good hand, watching warily as the sheriff poured some coffee from the pot on the cookstove and set the cup down on the cell floor. Then the lawman pulled his chair up close to the bars and plopped down in it with his own sandwich. “How many men are with Kelly?”

Wade released a long breath. He started pacing, mindless of the sandwich in his hand. “Four now with Shepherd. Two young gunnies. Seem real eager with their guns.”

“Would they go in shooting?”

“These would. Kelly enjoys killing.”

“And you, Allen, you enjoy killing?”

Wade stopped in mid-stride.

“I’m from Kansas,” Sinclair said quietly. “I know what Anderson did there.”

Wade felt the familiar sickness of soul. “Kansas and Missouri were both pits of hell,” he said tonelessly. “My entire family was wiped out by Jayhawkers, my mother and sister raped before they were murdered. I did my share of killing. I won’t lie to you about that, and I don’t excuse myself.” He clenched his teeth together. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he had to make Sinclair believe him, and the truth was the only damn option. “There was some satisfaction at first,” he added slowly, trying hard to be honest with himself. “Maybe even some pleasure. I don’t know. I just knew how angry I was, how … I needed to avenge my family.” He hesitated. “That went away, but not fast enough,” he said. “I’ll always regret what happened back then. I’ve tried damn hard to forget it, but I can’t and I never will.”

There was a long silence, then Sinclair continued his questions about Kelly. How might he strike? From what end of town? How many men would he send inside?

“You don’t want to wait until he’s inside, or he’ll kill everyone there,” Wade said. “He doesn’t leave witnesses.”

Sinclair raised his eyebrows. “You were friends?”

“I said I rode with him. I also rode with Jesse and Frank James, the Cole brothers. We were all with Quantrill and occasionally with Anderson, but that didn’t particularly make us friends.”

“When is the last time you saw him?”

“I left Anderson after Centralia.”

“Why?”

“That’s personal.”

“Not anymore,” Sinclair said. “I don’t know how far I can trust you. You’re asking me to put a lot of faith in a man on a wanted poster, who walked in here and used a gun on my head.”

Wade’s hand gripped the bar. He was being asked to expose everything he’d buried inside for so long. He hadn’t been able to tell Chivita, nor Mary Jo, hadn’t been able to put his capacity for violence into words. Not while that violence still existed inside him, and it had lingered, exploding again when Chivita and Drew were killed. It was alive even now. He wanted to kill Kelly with his own hands for threatening Mary Jo. God, he hated admitting what kind of man he was. But he needed Matt Sinclair, and Sinclair wasn’t going to accept evasion. “Because I was turning into the same kind of animal as those Jayhawkers who killed my family.”

Sinclair rose from the chair and walked away from him. Wade watched as he poured himself another cup of coffee. Wade knew he was thinking, assessing, wondering how far he could trust one of Anderson’s guerrillas, a butcher like other butchers. He felt a chill run through him; he could never put that damn past behind him.

“How old were you?” Sinclair finally asked.

Wade was momentarily stunned by the question, then he shrugged. He’d surrendered his privacy when he walked in here. “Fifteen when they raided our farm,” he said.

“That when you joined Quantrill?”

Wade hesitated. “The next year, but I’d been hunting for someone like him.”

“And since the war?”

“I’ve been trying to get away from the war, from what happened then,” Wade said flatly, without excuse. “Moving around, mostly in the mountains. Hunting. Rounding up wild horses and breaking them for trade.” Then he remembered his lie about Denver. “I went into Denver occasionally for supplies.” He wasn’t going to mention the Utes, or Chivita. The way most folks felt, that would only condemn him. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care, but …

Sinclair’s eyes bored into him, and Wade realized the lawman knew he was holding something back. “You wouldn’t know anything about a miner found dead a month ago?”

“No,” Wade lied, afraid that admission would hurt Mary Jo, hurt his believability, but God, he hated lying again.

Sinclair was good at his job. Very good, a hell of a lot better than Wade had expected. He kept changing the subject, throwing questions apparently at random but boring in, inch by inch.

“Would Kelly expect you back?”

Sinclair was offering him a way out of this cell. Wade wanted to take it. Christ, he wanted to take it. Already, he felt suffocated by his confinement. He thought about spending the rest of his life in a cage, if, that was, he didn’t hang.

He locked his jaw together for a moment. “No,” he finally admitted. “I don’t know where he is, and we don’t particularly care for each other. He thinks I want a share of the money, but he expects me to find him later.”

“Trusting sort, are you?” There was doubt in the lawman’s voice.

“He doesn’t think he gave me a choice. If I didn’t do what he wanted, he was going to find a way to tell you just who I was, and then he would go after Mary Jo. He suggested I just come in and slip Shepherd a gun.”

“You could have.”

“And you would be dead.”

“That would bother you?”

“I told you I didn’t want any more innocent blood on my hands.” Anger shaded Wade’s words now. He was tired of talking, of being forced to talk about matters he wanted to forget.

“I don’t think you did say that,” Sinclair said, milking him again. “Not exactly.”

“Damn it, enough about me. What are you going to do?”

Sinclair just sat back. “What would you suggest?”

“An ambush as they come in.”

“More killing?”

Wade swallowed hard, trying to control that anger of his. “Kelly’s a coward at heart. They all are. Put enough guns on them and they’ll surrender.”

“And tell everything they know about you?”

“Hell, you already know.”

“Do I?” Sinclair said thoughtfully. “I might just owe you my life. I’m not sure I wouldn’t tear up that poster if we save the bank. I can’t do that if they’re still alive and talking.”

Wade stared at him hard, wondering what game he was playing now. Matt Sinclair wanted Mary Jo. That had been clear the first time he’d met him. And Sinclair was a lawman. He wouldn’t give up a catch like Brad Allen. Matt Sinclair would become a hero, just as Jeff so wrongly believed Wade was. But Sinclair would be a real one. “I’m through running,” Wade finally said.

A frown crossed Sinclair’s face, then disappeared. “Fair enough,” he said. “Give me a fresh description of Kelly and the two gunhands with him.”

By evening, two of Matt’s telegrams had been answered. He now had a lot of information on Kelly, and it matched everything Allen had told him. He also had the promise of assistance tomorrow from a neighboring lawman, but that might be too late. He had to depend on his townspeople, men he’d deputized before. But he worried about them. They weren’t killers. He could only hope Brad Allen was right, that Kelly and his bunch were cowards at heart.

He’d stationed men in windows throughout town, coordinating shifts, concentrating on the morning hours but leaving skeleton crews of watchers at night. He wanted to leave little to chance. The banker had dispersed the money to every trusted man with a safe and had left only a minimum amount of money in his own safe. Matt was not, however, going to share this information with the man in the jail. Sinclair believed Brad Allen, but …

He had told no one about the change in prisoners. Brad Allen was his own business, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with him. Jail seemed to be the safest choice at the moment.

Brad Allen, or Wade Smith, continued to puzzle him. Matt had never met a man like him, one so contradictory to everything Sinclair believed about men like him. Foster, as he called himself now, radiated danger and untamed violence, and yet he was obviously willing to sacrifice himself. Matt still wasn’t quite sure why.

Matt wanted to believe him. Hell, he did believe him. He’d known killers, and there was always a blank-ness in the eyes, a coldness they couldn’t cover. His prisoner’s eyes were different. Bleak. Sometimes angry. But they weren’t empty.

Matt stopped at the hotel and bought supper for both of them, shoving the plate through a space at the bottom of the cell, then poured his prisoner another cup of coffee, which was so strong it almost didn’t need a cup to hold it. He met Allen’s eyes, but didn’t say anything. He wanted the man to stew, to get angry. Perhaps he’d learn more that way than through sweet reason.

He asked only one question before going out again. “Any chance Kelly might come at night?”

“I don’t think so. He can’t see at night, and he likes to be in total control.”

That coincided with all the information Matt had collected from the telegrams he’d sent. Kelly liked to ride in quietly, go into a bank, terrorize everyone there, and then ride out, guns blazing. Matt hadn’t yet received a reply to his telegram about Brad Allen. He almost hoped he wouldn’t, and several times he’d considered releasing him. Despite that arm in a sling, he might be handy. Mary Jo had said he saved young Jeff’s life.

A most unusual man, this Brad Allen/Wade Smith, but one Matt wasn’t ready to trust completely. He was safer where he was.

Matt checked the streets, then returned to the jail, napping on and off in the office, leaving several more times to check the streets, always securing his office before going. Allen was quiet, but he wasn’t resting. Matt felt as if he had a prowling tiger back there, and he didn’t feel easy about it.

There was no window in the cell. No moonlight. No sky. No breath of air.

Wade tried to force himself to relax. He’d done the best he could, the only thing he could. It was probably the only time in his life he had done the right thing. He hoped to God it was right.

But the silence, the darkness, the closeness of the cell all brought the nightmares to life. Only he wasn’t asleep. They weren’t dreams, but a succession of memories. Even the most recent—from last night—were cloaked in regret. He prowled the small space, wishing he could take it back for her sake, for Mary Jo.

I love you. He kept hearing those words. They echoed in his mind and heart. They should have healed, but they only exacerbated the wound.

She needed someone like Matt Sinclair. Wade had come to respect him in the last few hours. He was honest, certainly smart and probably brave. He said little to Wade, but it was obvious he believed at least some of his tale, and that preparations of some kind were going on. He wished like hell he could be a part of them.

If he were Matt Sinclair, he wouldn’t take a chance on someone like Wade either, even knowing only part of the truth.

The walls were closing in on him, crushing him. He tried to blank out his mind, but he couldn’t. A hundred possibilities flitted through his mind. What if Kelly went directly to the Circle J? What if he didn’t come here at all? Wade was so damn helpless. Just as he had been before.

Mary Jo didn’t sleep at all the night after Wade left. Although he’d said he would try to get back, she knew in her heart he was really saying goodbye.

She wished she knew exactly what he was going to do. Despite the fact that he’d denied doing anything for her, she knew he was risking everything for her and Jeff. She wished she knew what everything was.

What haunted him so? They know something about me. She kept trying to think what it could be, what could be worse than his first confession to her, that he’d killed three men in cold blood.

She knew him well now. Or thought she did. He still kept many parts of himself guarded. But she knew everything that was important: his loyalty, his courage, his gentleness with both her and her son.

She had lost before because there wasn’t anything she could do. She wasn’t going to lose now if she could prevent it. She wasn’t going to let him walk away because he thought that was the best thing for her. It wasn’t. It never would be.

If he didn’t return in the morning, she would take Jeff to the Abbots as Wade suggested. She would go into town herself, ride her mare, which would be faster than the wagon. She would take Tuck with her.

She could fight this time. She would fight for him. For all three of them.

Mary Jo rose before sunset. She dressed and went outside and watched the sunset come up, but today its beauty hurt instead of sending a thrill through her. She kept seeing Wade ride off, as he had twenty-four hours earlier, his back stiff and straight until he’d looked back …

He’d given himself away then, in that one backward look. There had been a world of longing in that gesture. She wiped away a tear from her face, then went to fix breakfast for Jeff and the two men.

Sinclair took breakfast to Wade. “When do you think they might come?”

Wade wished he knew. It had been twelve years since he rode with Kelly. The man always looked for an advantage. Wade took the proffered cup of coffee and hesitated. He’d been thinking all night and had an idea. He didn’t know how Sinclair would take to it. “You wouldn’t have some spare men?”

Sinclair looked at him curiously.

“For a posse. Kelly will be expecting a posse to chase Shepherd. And he’ll take advantage of that, of you and most of the men leaving town to look for Shepherd.”

“You wouldn’t be here just for that purpose?” Sinclair asked with sudden suspicion. “Get us out of town and they could hit the bank and break you out?”

“Kelly’s not that smart.”

“But you are,” Sinclair said, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Wade shrugged. “It was just an idea. Send out a few men, some that wouldn’t be too useful here.”

“I wouldn’t have any idea where to send them.”

“South, toward Mary Jo’s place. He’s somewhere in that direction and it’s the logical route for a posse to take. Only figures a wanted man would flee to the mountains.”

“You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

Sinclair was needling him again, and Wade didn’t like it, but he wouldn’t let it show. He shrugged.

“That’s where I found that body a month ago.”

Wade kept his eyes level. Sinclair wasn’t going to let go of that bone. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

Matt Sinclair sighed. “You sure you don’t know where Kelly is?”

“He let me find him once. He won’t do it again, not until he wants to be found.”

Sinclair got the coffeepot and poured them both another cup of coffee, handing Wade’s through the bars of the cell. “I wish I knew what to make of you.”

Wade shrugged. “It’s not complicated. If I had the use of this arm, I would have gone after him myself. The only thing I care about is two people who were real good to me.”

Sinclair eyed him skeptically. “That doesn’t go along with the rest of the package you’ve given me.”

“Let’s just say I got religion.”

“I don’t believe that either, but we’ll discuss it later. I’ll go see about forming a posse.”

After he left, all Wade could do was wait. The hours passed particularly slowly because he didn’t know what was going on. Only the growing heat in the jail told him the sun was rising. The shades were still down on the windows and only a little light filtered through.

Time. Christ, he hated this enforced idleness. He wished he was out there with Sinclair. He knew about ambushes. He knew more than he wanted to know about them. Time. So much time to think. So much time to remember. So much time to regret. He swallowed a deep breath to keep from pounding on the barred door. He forced himself to sit, to wait, to blank out his mind. It had worked once. It didn’t work now. He heard men ride out, and he wondered about his gray. He would make sure Mary Jo got him.

He heard the lock turn in the front door, and he moved up from the cot where he’d finally sat after pacing for an hour or more. He stood and went to the barred door, expecting Sinclair to come with more questions.

It was Sinclair all right, but Mary Jo was with him. He went still, wondering how much the sheriff had told her. His fist clenched the bar. He didn’t want her to see him like this, like a vicious animal in a cage. But he should have known she would come. At least Jeff wasn’t here.

“I told you not to come,” he said tightly.

“Tuck came with me.” Her voice was low.

“Did you withdraw …?”

“The bank’s closed.”

Wade looked over at Sinclair, who had raised the shades and was now peering out the windows as if he had no interest at all in the two people staring at each other. Wade wanted to jam his fist in the man’s face. He’d had no right to bring Mary Jo here. And then he realized the fallacy of that thought. Hell, Sinclair had every right, and that was galling. Wade didn’t have any rights now. He’d given them up when he walked in here yesterday and broke Shepherd out. That fact, though, didn’t make this easier to take.

She looked so goddamn beautiful.

And Sinclair hadn’t told her a thing. He knew that from the look in her face. It hadn’t changed since yesterday morning at sunrise. Or was it a year ago? A lifetime? Her eyes still shone when they looked at him, even as he stood behind bars.

“Jeff?”

“He’s at the Abbots’. I think he’ll stay there this time. At least he promised when I told him he might put you in danger if he came.” She looked embarrassed. “It was the only argument that worked.”

“It didn’t work for you?”

“No,” she said softly. “I couldn’t let you go.”

“You should have,” he said bitterly. “It would be better for all of us.”

She moved closer to him, almost leaned against the bars and put one hand on his.

“Don’t,” he said in a strangled voice, tearing his hand from hers and retreating from the bars, leaning against the stones of the back wall, looking at another wall, anyplace but at her, at those trusting eyes. After a moment, he looked past her to Sinclair. “Can’t you take her to the hotel?”

Sinclair hesitated, looking from one to the other. “I really think that would be best, Mary Jo. We’re expecting a little company. I want you off the streets.”

“Why are you holding him?”

Sinclair looked toward Wade, then back at Mary Jo. “Safest place for him at the moment.”

“But …”

She wasn’t going to go on her own. And every moment she stayed here was dangerous. Wade wanted her off the street, safe in the hotel. Hell, safe at home. “Tell her,” Wade said suddenly. “Go ahead and tell her everything.”

Just then, all three of them heard a number of hoofbeats on the dry-packed dirt street. Matt Sinclair looked out and grinned suddenly, then took the keys to the cell door and opened it.

Wade found himself staring at him.

“Just stay with me,” Sinclair said. “Don’t say a damn thing.”

The door flew open and a tall man entered, flanked by two others. All three wore badges. Sinclair greeted the leader with familiarity. “Glad to see you, Dave.”

“When I heard Kelly was down this way, you couldn’t keep me away. Been riding all night,” the newcomer said. He looked at Wade and Mary Jo curiously. “I’m Marshal Dave Gardner from Lake City.”

Sinclair made the introductions. “This is Mary Jo Williams, who owns a ranch about twenty miles from here and Wade … Smith, her foreman. He’s the one who recognized Kelly.”

Dave Gardner nodded at Mary Jo, then fixed a stare on Wade. “You sure it was Kelly?”

Wade had stepped outside the cell. He nodded, wondering what kind of game Sinclair was playing. “I’m sure.”

“You think they’re going to hit the bank here?”

“That’s what he thinks,” Sinclair answered for him, cutting off any additional questions.

Gardner looked from one man to the other, obviously sensing something odd, but he didn’t pursue it. Instead, he turned back to Matt Sinclair.

“When?”

“Anytime now.”

“Where do you want my men? I have six with me. All good men, good shots.”

“Thank God. All mine are townsmen. Willing enough, but none are easy with guns.”

“Just tell me where you want us.”

“I have ten men posted in windows and on roofs above the street. You were probably in their sights when you came in. If your men can replace four nearest the bank, I’d feel a lot better.”

The marshal nodded. “I’ll do it now.”

Sinclair hesitated. “I’d better go out and give a signal. I don’t want any accidents. You wait here,” he told Wade, “and I’ll take Mrs. Williams to the hotel.”

Mary Jo looked from one man to the other, then surrendered. At least, she appeared to surrender, Wade told himself. And what in the hell was Sinclair doing, allowing him out of the cell, apparently leaving him free in his office? Free for the moment.

Mary Jo leaned up and kissed Wade, apparently indifferent to the avidly watching observers. The kiss was long, sensual, and … loving, so damn loving that all protest fled from him.

“Mrs. Williams?” Sinclair prompted after a moment, and Wade reluctantly let her go, moving a few steps away, trying to quiet the quaking in his heart. She looked back at him for a long moment, then followed Sinclair and the other men, leaving Wade alone in the room.