Two

“Hobie,” the marshal barked, causing Jodee to flinch.

The lad rushed inside, his face red with cold. He’d been waiting on the porch. “Yes, sir? It’s snowing hard now, Marshal. I better get home.”

“Fetch Doc on your way. Miss McQue needs her wound tended.”

After Hobie ran out, Jodee watched the marshal pluck a printed circular from a stack of papers on his desk.

“Do you know this man, Miss McQue?" he asked, pointing to the drawing on the paper. "Burl Tangus was part of your father’s gang. Was he at the stagecoach holdup at Ship Creek Crossing? Did he shoot at Avinelle Babcock?”

Her anger gave her strength. “I wasn’t there,” she snapped back. “I never went along on holdups. I stayed in camp. Always. I cooked for Pa. I listened to his stories. I washed his clothes, but I never robbed nobody. Pa wasn’t an outlaw for most of the years we were together, not until them others came along—the Rikes and Burl Tangus. And it wasn’t Pa’s gang, not like you mean. It was Burl’s. You want to know who planned the holdups? Burl planned them.” She fell back, holding her blazing shoulder. She hoped Burl had fallen off a mountain. She hoped he lay dead in a gorge. “Marshal, I don’t feel right.”

The marshal slammed outside, leaving the jailhouse door open. Cold air swept in and blew wanted circulars all over the floor. What was he so mad about, she wondered. She was the one behind bars.

With him out of sight, Jodee didn’t have to hold back her tears. As she wept helplessly, she felt ashamed for being so afraid. Her hair was a tangle, her britches dirty, her shirt torn and bloody. “Prairie rat,” Burl liked to call her. That's what she was, all right, grinding her fists into her eyes.

“He’s a good man, the marshal,” Hobie said, closing the door against the cold and gathering up the scattered circulars. “He’s gone over to the stage office. He won’t keep you in jail long. He’s just being careful.”

Jodee had forgotten the lad Hobie was still there. She dashed away her tears.

Then the restaurant owner pushed inside, carrying a cloth-covered tray. Snowflakes stood on his freshly oiled hair. “Out of my way, boy. It’s snowing to beat the band out there.” He winked at Jodee and kicked the door closed. “The name’s Artie Abernathy. Miss McQue, is it? Knock me over with a plank. Ain’t nobody ever heard of ol’ T. T. McQue possessing a daughter. I remember hearing his name way back, ten years maybe. You’re a daughter, you say? Not a little filly friend?”

He placed the tray on the floor in front of her cell door and then stood grinning at her expectantly, his paunch straining against his apron.

Jodee didn’t like knowing her father had been an outlaw during the years he’d been apart from her mother. She didn’t like knowing they’d lived on stolen money those first few years together. And she’d told him so when she figured it out. She wished she had the strength now to climb from the cot. She wanted to kick the tray. Filly friend. Is that what they thought of her?

Realizing she was not going to respond to his humor, Abernathy exchanged a few words with Hobie and plodded outside, shaking his head.

“Thinks he’s the funniest man in town,” Hobie grumbled. He poured Jodee a cup of coffee and added several pinches of sugar from a cloth sack. Bringing it to the cell door, he set the steaming tin cup on the tray. “I make the best coffee in town. Even Ma says so.”

The savory smells tantalized Jodee. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. Painfully, she climbed to her feet and stood a moment, trying to maintain balance. Her head spun. Did Hobie have to humiliate her like this, watching her? Then she realized her shirt was torn half off her shoulder. A strip of cotton cloth stretched across her chest and around her back, holding a bandage in place over her wounded shoulder. A tantalizing patch of pale flesh was exposed above her breast.

Hobie’s face turned scarlet, but he didn’t look away.

With her left hand, Jodee clutched her shirt closed and forced herself to focus on the food. There would be time enough to think about getting away, she told herself. She had to get her strength back.

“I’d bring the tray inside to you, Miss McQue,” Hobie said, sounding sheepish, “but the marshal would skin me alive if you got out.”

Miss McQue, indeed, she thought. They didn’t fool her. To them she was trash. From the time she had been very small, folks had considered her trash. “My name,” she said in a gruff tone, “is just plain Jodee.”

Sinking to the floor in a cross-legged heap, she waited until the explosive pain in her shoulder subsided. With her left hand, she plucked away the napkin covering the tray. Oh, she gave a cry at the sight of the food. Pan-fried chicken. A wing and a drumstick, golden brown to perfection. Smelling like pure heaven. Feather light biscuits dripping in butter. Three of them. Mashed white potatoes, swimming in cream gravy. And a misshapen sugar cookie sparkling with crushed sugar.

Jodee could scarcely breathe for the choke of tears in her throat. Like a starving child, she grabbed the chicken leg, inhaled the aroma of it and then bit, savoring the first splash of flavor flooding her mouth. Memories assailed her. The farmhouse kitchen, her pretty mother sitting across the kitchen table from her, the smell of chicken sizzling in her grandmother’s iron skillet. Jodee felt as if she were five years old again, safe and sound, with her mother’s love protecting her.

Unable to endure Hobie's rapt stare, Jodee twisted away. As she chewed, tears poured down her cheeks. It was the first decent food she’d eaten in six years.

• • •

As dawn brought pale light to the inside of Burdeen’s jailhouse, Jodee dragged herself from a troubled sleep. She found herself covered with a fresh-smelling hotel blanket. Through the iron bars she could see the marshal’s desk. Behind it stood a wooden shelf sagging with stacks of paper and books. No curtain hung at the shuttered window. The chair beside the door had one short leg. She studied how the iron bars stood between herself and an outhouse and wondered where the marshal was.

It seemed strange not to have morning chores awaiting her, no campfire to rebuild, no coffee pot to scrub clean with creek sand. There were no shaggy horses to tend, no outlaws snoring in bedrolls, no plans for holdups to aggravate her, no loot for the Rikes and Burl to squabble over.

No father to wake.

A rage of grief swept over Jodee so overwhelming she couldn’t stand it. From the moment Burl and the others had ridden into camp without her father after the holdup, she hadn’t had a moment to think. They fled westward up the nearest trail, and she’d been driven to follow because she couldn’t risk being caught by a posse. They rode their horses near to death and then found that tumbledown cabin. Now she was in jail, gunshot and helpless.

With her mind reeling in anger and fear, Jodee heard a soft sleepy snort. She got hold of her panic and wondered if the marshal was sleeping nearby. A strange, not entirely unpleasant flutter went through her stomach as she thought of the marshal lying in bed in the jailhouse addition. What kind of life did a man like that lead, sleeping in a jailhouse?

Rolling over, she reminded herself she hated him.

But he had put a roof over her head…and she’d had that meal the night before. She’d slept under a clean blanket with a real feather pillow. Nobody had pestered her in the darkness. All winter she’d lived, cooped up with those worthless Rikes, sleeping in a dirty shack, listening to their crude talk and dodging their sly looks. And Burl Tangus had made no secret of what he thought she was good for.

Another snort.

Jodee sat up, shaking.

What if it was that sly-eyed deputy asleep in the other room? She heard someone throw off cover and climb to his feet with soft rustling sounds. Then she heard the thump of boots and finally footsteps crossing almost stealthily to the door. A door just out of sight swung wide. Jodee’s heart stood still. She saw a man’s shadow in the dim morning light as he moved into the main room. Her heart began thundering.

It was the marshal. Jodee sagged with relief. She watched him prop up the inside window shutter with a stick and push the outside window shutters open. Cold, fresh-smelling air tinged with the pleasant aroma of wood smoke rushed in. She watched him breathe deeply and stretch his arms wide.

Glancing back, he realized she was awake and watching him. “Didn’t snow much,” he said, looking taken aback by her stare.

She thrilled to the sound of his deep voice. Was there ever a more wonderful face than that? She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Sleep had softened his expression to something kinder than the day before. Perhaps he’d just been tired.

Pulling up a heavy plank bar from the door with a rope he hooked to the side, the marshal was about to go out when he glanced sidelong at her. A peculiar expression crossed his face and reddened his neck. Quickly he went for the key hanging next to a rack of rifles. He unlocked her cell and held out his hand. “Excuse me, Miss McQue.” He glanced at the unused chamber pot beneath her cot. His ears got red, too.

Jodee’s face grew hot, as well. She should’ve guessed he would’ve provided all she needed, but damned if she’d use the convenience in so public a place as a jailhouse cell. She climbed to her feet, relieved to feel stronger. Her broken-toed boots stood at the end of the cot like two drunks. On her feet were thick white store-bought socks. She didn’t own socks. Hadn’t in years. She wiggled her toes.

“I’m glad to see you can stand,” he said as he watched her poke her feet into her boots. Then he grasped her hand and took a steadying hold of her left elbow as she faltered while coming through the cell’s doorway. “Take it easy. It’ll take a while for you to get your strength back.”

She didn’t remember anyone taking her boots off. Or putting socks on her feet. Maybe he was looking for hidden money. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had done her a kindness like that. Not even her father. She wondered what the undertaker had found in the Rikes’ boots. She wondered if she should say something about it, but held her tongue.

The marshal kept a firm hold on her as they crossed to the door. She felt like an invalid. He probably expected she’d try to bolt. Instead, all she could manage was to put one foot in front of the other.

Outside, Jodee shivered in the cold. The snowy street was marked with wagon tracks and footprints. One set of footprints came straight to the jail’s porch, then on to the next building, disappearing among wheel tracks down the street.

Frowning, the marshal looked up the street and down, into alleyways and open spaces between buildings, even at the roof of the stage office across the way, his body tensed, his palm settling on his holstered pistol. Then he started along the porch, still holding her elbow. He scarcely seemed to know she was there as he considered the tracks.

Was Burl rock-brained enough to come to town? Jodee wondered. She looked around uneasily, too.

“They’re burying the Rikes this morning,” the marshal said. “Will you want to go?”

“I got no feeling for them outlaws, Marshal,” she said, still using her gruff tone. “It’s on their account my pa’s…” She couldn’t say the word. Feeling light-headed with the risk, she finally said, “Somebody checked their pockets, right? And their boots? You? The undertaker?”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful.

Relieved, she followed him around to an outhouse in back near a plank fence. Beyond the fence was the back of a two-story hotel flanked by the backs of saloons. A woman stood in an upstairs window brushing out long brown hair.

“Why, Marshal,” she called in a sultry sing-song. “Good morning to ya!”

He shot Jodee an irritated, possibly embarrassed look.

“Who you got there? I ain’t never seen a cowhand with long yaller hair like that.”

“Mornin’, Rella,” the marshal muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Jodee shut herself inside the outhouse. Did the marshal know that kind? The woman was still watching when she came out.

“You must be Burdeen’s new female desperado I heard tell of last night.” The woman howled with laughter. “Everybody's talkin’ about you, honey. She looks mighty dangerous, Marshal. Are we safe in our beds?”

“Pay her no mind, Miss McQue,” the marshal said softly.

“Hey, little desperado,” the woman called more loudly. “There’s work for you here whenever you need it. When he lets you out, come on over.”

“Pipe down, Rella.”

“It must’ve been hard, sleeping near that wildcat all night, locked up so tight in her cold little cell.” Rella's laughter echoed. “Did you warm her up, Marshal?”

The marshal took Jodee’s elbow and steered her back around to the front of the jailhouse. “You all right?”

“How can I prove I never took part in holdups?” Jodee asked, trying to jerk free.

He didn’t let go. “That’s for the judge to decide.”

“Judge! But I—”

“Miss McQue,” the marshal said with exaggerated patience. “There was a stagecoach holdup. You were found with the outlaws who committed that holdup. To my way of thinking, that makes you look mighty suspicious. Until I have proof different, you’ll stay in my jail.”

“You’re no better than a bullheaded outlaw yourself if you can’t see I never done a wrong thing in my life except get myself born to an outlaw.”

He studied her until she felt so squirmy she had to look away. How did he manage to make her feel so worthless? She twisted free of his hold.

Before he could take hold of her again, the pregnant matron from the afternoon before shouted from across the street, “Marshal Harlow, I want a word with you.” Holding a shawl around her shoulders, she stepped into the melting snow and mud and waddled across the street.

The marshal looked like his face ached. “Won’t you come inside, Patsy? I must get my prisoner back to her cell.”

“Prisoner—” The woman gaped at Jodee. “From now on I am Mrs. Virgil T. Robstart to you, Marshal Harlow. You’re no longer a friend of mine.” She preceded the marshal inside the jailhouse.

Hobie arrived just then to lay a fresh fire in the heating stove. His hair was damp, combed back from his forehead. “Mornin’, Marshal. Miz Robstart.” Then he fastened his eager gaze on Jodee. “Mornin’, Miss McQue.”

“You can’t keep a female prisoner in this jail,” Mrs. Robstart went on indignantly. She turned her attention to Hobie. “And you certainly can’t keep a female prisoner with an impressionable young boy like Hobie Fenton hanging around.”

“I’m not hanging around, Miz Robstart," Hobie exclaimed. "I work here. It took weeks to convince Ma to let me.”

“I’ll just see what your mother thinks when she finds out the marshal is keeping women in here. Get yourself to school before I skin you alive.”

Hobie stood his ground.

“Now, Patsy—” the marshal began.

Like a rattler, she swung on him. “I spent a desperate night with Virgil. I didn’t want him to go on that posse. You knew that. Then you bring him back to me, shot. You said you’d bring those outlaws back alive to stand trial, but you brought back four dead bodies and a female outlaw.” She squinted at Jodee, took a few steps closer and gasped at the gaping rent in Jodee’s shirt. “Are you all right? Has the marshal mistreated you?”

“I’m not an outlaw, Ma’am,” Jodee said in her most polite tone. She wondered if there was any hope the woman might take pity on her. “At least he got me to the privy in time.”

Mrs. Robstart sputtered. “The town will be in an uproar, Corbet! Git, Hobie, or I’ll speak to your mother.”

“Don’t you go costin’ me my job, Miz Robstart,” the lad said. “Ma needs the cash money I earn. Miss McQue ain’t getting’ out of jail while I’m in charge—I mean, w—when the marshal goes on his rounds. No girl outlaw is goin’ to turn my head to the wrong side of the law.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Corbet, listen to him.”

The marshal’s forehead lifted into furrows. “Virgil wanted to go on the posse.”

“Doc says there’s infection. Virgil won’t be able to work for weeks. He could die. Didn’t you ever think of that? Didn’t you give me a thought? Or are you so dedicated to your precious job—and by that I mean to say dedicated to Avinelle Babcock, that you—”

“Virgil’s a grown man and a damned capable one,” the marshal cut in. “I took him along because he was—is—my best deputy.”

“I hold you responsible, Corbet.” Mrs. Robstart jabbed a finger at Jodee. “And you. Your people shot at Avinelle Babcock, killed a driver. It makes a body sick.”

“If anything happens to Virgil,” the marshal said gravely, “I’ll look after you and the baby.”

“If anything—now isn’t that just dandy. If my husband dies you’ll take care of us. Well, thank you very much, but I’d rather have my husband. Alive and well!” Mrs. Robstart turned on her heel, her voice betraying rising tears. “Maybe it’s true what folks say.” She stalked out, leaving her words hanging in the air.

The marshal rubbed the back of his neck again. “What do folks say about me, Hobie?”

Jodee watched the lad’s cheeks redden. “Aw, Marshal.”

“Just tell me. I won’t hold it against you.”

The lad edged toward the door. “I’d best be gettin’ to school.” At the last minute he turned back. “I’m proud to sweep your floors, Marshal. Folks don’t know you like I come to. Any night of the week some rowdy could shoot you dead. It ain’t easy to leave that behind and go to a church social and be all polite and friendly to the ladies. It isn’t the way of a lawman.”

The marshal’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Thanks, Hobie.” He clapped the lad on the shoulder.

Abruptly the marshal followed Hobie outside. Jodee couldn’t hear what he said. For several minutes, the lad paced as if on guard. She heard a stagecoach rattle past with its six-horse team flinging muddy snow behind the big rear wheels.

“That’s the early stage, Miss McQue,” Hobie called inside to her, pointing. “Headed back to Cheyenne City. Ma says I’ll be on it someday.”

“I could be on it right now and gone forever,” Jodee said back, thinking the lad might be persuaded to help her get away.

Returning, the marshal pushed past Hobie and came inside. “Got money for a ticket, Miss McQue?”

Jodee wished he hadn’t heard her.

Before he could be scolded again, Hobie loped off to school. “I left enough wood to last the day, Marshal. I’ll bring in more after school.”

The marshal slammed the door against the cold. “How were you planning to ride out of town, Miss McQue, holding the driver at gunpoint? Have you and your kind ever considered work?”

Jodee turned away. What did he know of her life? As far as she could remember, she had worked every day of it. And in the shadow of her outlaw father. She sank onto the cot, too overwhelmed to hold her shirt closed over the bandage. No wonder her father had taken to thieving, she thought. Sometimes stealing was the only way to survive.

The marshal was just bringing a wash basin and water pitcher to her cell when the woman called Rella barged in.

“Ready to scrub up your little prisoner?” Rella called, grinning. Holding up a wad of flowered fabric, Rella winked at Jodee. “This here marshal come over to my place just now to say to me that you need a hair comb and something girly to wear. This might do.” She pushed the flowered silk dressing gown between the bars. As it slithered to the floor, Jodee glared at it. It smelled of cigar smoke and whiskey.

After the marshal placed the basin on the floor beside the cell door, he handed Rella the key. Quickly he retreated outside

Rella gave a hoot. “Would you look at that, all gentlemanly and foolish-like. Don’t you just love him? Big damn fool. He don’t come near me or my girls. Too good for the likes of us, I reckon.”

Jodee stood from her cot, grabbed up the dressing gown and stuffed it back through the bars. “I don’t wear such like.”

Rella fished a comb from her pocket. She stopped grinning. “Well, ain’t you the prickly one. You’ll find out, honey. Ain’t a person in this town will ever accept the daughter of a stage-robbin’ outlaw.” Rella tossed the comb and key into Jodee's cell. “When you’re desperate enough, honey, just give me a shout. I’ll help you. I'll set you up right nice. Room of your own. Clean bed sheets. In a year you’ll be rich.”

After she waltzed out of the jailhouse, Jodee stared at the key. She was still standing there when the marshal came back in.

“Just ’cause my pa was an outlaw,” Jodee yelled, picking up the key and handing it to him, “don’t mean I’m her kind.”

The marshal stared at her.

Taking the comb, she staggered back to the cot and dropped onto it, exhausted. She began working at her tangles with the comb. Her right arm felt molten again, worse than before. Rella had been right. She’d never be accepted, not here, not anywhere. And she’d never go home. What was she going to do?