No sooner had Emma left her house to find what she’d need to prepare her guest a hearty breakfast, than Omar slipped from the warm feather bed and into his trousers. He’d padded barefoot throughout the small cottage checking inside every drawer, cabinet, or covered bowl that might contain anything of value. Some things he’d already gone through while she had slept during the night. He’d found a coin purse in the pocket of her coat hanging on a coat tree in the corner by the front door. There had to be more money around here somewhere, he was sure ofit….
By the time Emma had finally stepped inside the mercantile store, she’d almost forgotten what had brought her there. Seeing Memphis Beck after all these years had caused something to change inside her. She didn’t realize how lonely and isolated from the world around her she’d become since her husband’s death. There had been times when she could not have said with certainty what part of her day-today living was real, and what part was some sort of dream that had seeped out into her waking hours.
Now, after seeing Beck, feeling his arms around her as he’d hugged her by the crumbling adobe wall, there was no doubt: this had been real; this was no dream. This was reality as she remembered it to be, alive and exciting with her back at the center of it. Yet this was a feeling that she knew had slipped further and further away from her over her years with Dillard Vertrees. But Dillard had nothing to do with it, she knew.
As she reached for a jar of peaches on a shelf, she realized that Memphis Beck had kindled to life a part of herself that had died long before her husband’s death. Perhaps died was not the right word, because she felt it alive inside her now. Perhaps it was something she’d lost only for a while, or that had slipped further and further away from her until she only saw it now through some distant and fading veil.
Well, whatever the case, she had a feeling all that was about to change. She had no idea what she had meant, giving herself to the likes of Omar Mills, some young, ignorant ruffian whose only redeeming feature had been his good manners—which as it turned out were false, she reminded herself, laying the peaches into her shopping basket. She drifted along a row of shelves and a locker of dried meat. She remained caught up in her thoughts about her and Memphis Beck until she’d made her way to the long polished wooden counter.
What she felt come alive inside her at the adobe wall had been live by the moment, she told herself, one moment at a time, because any particular moment might be the end of it. Beck had pointed that out to her long ago, the two of them lying naked on a blanket beside some cool and nameless stream, high up among drifting pieces of low white clouds in an endless stretch of hill country….
“Will that be all, Mrs. Vertrees?” asked Fred Gunderson, the mercantile owner, taking the canned peaches, a bag of dried beans, and a hand-six slab of jowl bacon from the basket she’d set absently on the counter.
“Yes, Mr. Gunderson, thank you,” Emma said, snapping out of her preoccupation. She reached inside her coat pocket, took out her small coin purse, and unsnapped it. As she fished inside it with her fingers, to her surprise she found the purse empty. “I—I’m sorry, I seem to have no money this morning,” she said. Odd, money should have been inside the purse. Embarrassed, she said at length, “Will you please—”
“Put this on charge for you,” Gunderson said, anticipating her words. “Of course, anytime.” He efficiently placed the items back into the shopping basket and stepped back from the counter. “Anything else you need, you feel free to point it out to me.” He grinned.
“That will be all, thank you,” Emma said, still wondering what might have happened to the coins in her change purse as she picked up the basket and turned to the door.
Stepping onto the boardwalk, she saw Sheriff Gale walking toward her, saying, “There you are. I didn’t know what had happened to you. I—I can’t wait to talk to you later. I felt like I owed you an apology, not so much for what I said, but for how you took it.”
“You mean an apology that is not an apology at all?” Emma said a bit curtly.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” said Gale. “I felt like we were starting to talk to each other for the first time back there…maybe coming to an understanding of some sort. I wanted to pursue it—I’d like to pursue it right now if it’s all the same with you.” As he spoke he stepped in closer and reached out, offering to carry her shopping basket.
But with Memphis Beck having walked back into her life and Omar Wills seeming to think he had some sort of hold on her, Emma suddenly felt crowded. “No, it’s not all the same with me,” she said harshly. Clutching the basket to her bosom, she stepped wide around the sheriff and walked off briskly along the boardwalk, saying over her shoulder in a chilled tone, “If you will excuse me.”
Through the dusty window of Little Aces’ telegraph office across the thinly peopled street, Sam stood watching Emma and the sheriff. Behind Sam a bushy-haired young clerk wrote down an incoming reply to the message Sam had just had him wire to the badlands ranger outpost regarding Memphis Warren Beck.
A question had nagged at Sam ever since his encounter with the railroad detectives. He wondered, why were so many men searching for Memphis Beck in this part of the country when every lawman knew that Wyoming was the gang’s stomping grounds?
Curious… Sam watched Emma Vertrees leave the sheriff standing with his hands spread. As Sam watched he asked himself again what the connection might have been between the lawman’s widow and Memphis Warren Beck.
“Here’s your reply, Ranger Burrack,” said the telegraph clerk, laying his pencil down.
But Sam’s attention lingered for a moment longer on Emma as she disappeared around the far corner of the boardwalk. Had he been reading her and Beck both wrong? Had this woman simply been stricken by Beck’s charm? Had Beck only been responding to her the way any outlaw of his caliber would? Sam knew that a man like Beck stayed on a constant lookout for someone he could dupe into helping him should the opportunity ever present itself. Was that it? Or did they know each other? That was more the way it had struck him, Sam thought, picturing their expressions, the way their eyes had met. He’d have to give it some more thought….
Turning to the clerk standing behind the counter, he said, “Obliged, young man,” and took the telegraph from his outreached hand.
“You’re welcome, Ranger. Please feel free to call me Rodney,” the clerk replied.
“Thank you, I will. Tell me, Rodney,” Sam said, looking down at the telegraph as he spoke, “how long did Sheriff Vertrees and his wife live here in Little Aces before he was killed?”
“Oh, it must have been six or seven years,” Rodney said, rubbing a wisp of a reddish goatee as he thought about it. “I was just a young boy when Sheriff Vertrees took over. His wife joined him shortly afterward.”
“She fitted right in here, did she?” the ranger probed effortlessly. “Sometimes it takes a woman a while to get used to a place where her husband has taken a new job.”
Rodney glanced out through the dusty window as if the street might reveal more information to him. “It seems like it took her a long while to fit comfortable here,” he said in reflection. “She was shy, never left the house much at first.”
“I see.” Sam turned his attention to the letter, not wanting to appear too nosy about the sheriff’s widow. “But after a while she began to fit right in,” he said idly.
Rodney shrugged. “Yeah, that’s how it was.”
Sam fished a coin from his vest pocket and laid it on the counter. “Keep the change, Rodney. I’m much obliged for your help.”
“Thank you, Ranger.” He slid the coin off the counter and into a wooden cash drawer.
Sam turned toward the window reading the ranger outpost’s reply to his telegraph. No current charges against Memphis Warren Beck in any western territories at this time, Sam read to himself. Just as he’d suspected. But as he read the next line, his senses piqued. Three members of the Hole-in-the-wall Gang sighted and identified by stagecoach driver seven days ago near Lobo Lupo Springs, headed east toward New Mexico Territory… He paused at that point.
That made sense, he decided, beginning to understand why the Western Posse were hot on Beck’s trail. They were acting on information about more than one member of the gang being here. Memphis Beck just happened to be the one whose trail they found first.
Reading on across the three names, he murmured each one as if to implant it more clearly in his mind. “Collin ‘the Blade’ Hedgepeth…Bennie Drew…Thomas ‘Cat’ Weaver.” Not only did this explain the big posse being so far off their graze, he told himself, but two of these three names were on his wanted list.
Bennie Drew and Tom Cat Weaver had been wanted for murder long before they’d taken shelter in Hole-in-the-wall. It was about time they decided to show their faces, he thought. Folding the telegraph, Sam shoved it down into his shirt pocket and looked back across the street where Sheriff Gale had taken off his hat and stood scratching his lowered head.
Put her out of your mind, Sheriff, Sam said to himself. He had a feeling things were about to get busy in Little Aces.
Emma returned home determined to stay cool and calm and go about easing Omar Wills out of her house and out of her life quietly without any problems, and without causing a scene. She could do it, she told herself, entering through the back door and setting the basket on the kitchen table.
“I’m back,” she called out through the house toward the bedroom where she’d left Omar still lounging naked beneath the covers. Omar, not having heard her come into the house, had been busily riffling through an oaken dish cabinet when her voice caught him by surprise.
Emma heard the sound of his bare feet hurrying across the wooden floor. “Omar?” she said, stepping into the other room curiously. Looking around, she saw a door on the dish cabinet swing open slowly, and she knew without a doubt what the young cowboy had been up to. All right, stay calm, pretend not to have noticed anything, she told herself, stepping over and closing the cabinet door quietly.
She walked into the bedroom and saw him lying beneath the covers, pretending to be asleep. A big stupid child, she thought, looking down at him. She noted to herself that his trousers were no longer hanging over the chair back by the wall. “I’m back,” she said, raising her voice enough to penetrate his feigned sleep.
Omar opened his eyes groggily and stifled a waking yawn with his hand. “Oh, you’re back. I must’ve fell back to sleep.”
“I see….” Not wanting to play along with his deceitful game, Emma said flatly, “I’ll have your breakfast on the table in a few minutes.”
In the kitchen she tied a white apron around her waist and began working coolly in spite of a burning rage that had begun to boil inside her chest. She had no doubt now of what had happened to the gold coins in her change purse. Wills had robbed her. He was nothing more than a sneak thief—a low-life penny-ante purse robber. Whipping her biscuit batter into a frenzy, she said under her breath, “To think that you gave yourself to such an animal.”
Later, when the smell of warm biscuits drew Omar into the kitchen still buttoning his shirt, Emma had set out a plate, a cloth napkin, and knife and fork. Beside the plate sat a cup of steaming coffee she’d poured as she’d heard him walking through the house.
“Aw, this smells like heaven to me,” Omar said. Grinning, he stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and hugged her against him, his hands managing to cover both of her breasts. “After I eat, if everything is to my liking, we might just roll back in that feather bed and I’ll show you the kind of morning any woman wants to wake up to.”
“Please, this is hot,” said Emma, holding the tin pan of hot biscuits with a thick kitchen cloth. Her skin crawled at the feel of him against her. But she kept calm, wrenched herself away from him, set the pan of hot biscuits on the table, and said, “There, sit down…let me get your eggs and bacon for you.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m all set to dig in!” Omar said, rubbing his hands together.
After she’d set the food before him, Emma pulled a chair out across the table from him and seated herself with a hot cup of coffee of her own. She watched him eat for a moment, then said, “After breakfast, I think it would be a good idea if you leave.”
Omar stared at her blankly as he chewed a mouthful of food and swallowed it. “I hope you didn’t forget the peaches.” He gave his wide grin. “I love peaches after a good meal.”
“Yes, I remembered the peaches,” Emma replied, keeping her temper in control in spite of wanting to scream out that she knew he’d stolen her coins and searched her house while she was gone. “See?” she said evenly, nodding toward the jar of golden peaches sitting on a shelf on the wall.
Omar nodded and continued eating.
“Did you hear me, Omar?” Emma asked quietly, sipping her coffee.
“Yeah, I heard,” said Omar. But he forked more egg into his mouth and ate in silence for a moment longer, putting her off, she decided. Finally he said, “I’ve been thinking. You don’t really want me to go.” He offered a knowing smile and added, “Not after last night.” He winked suggestively. “You’re just playing a little hard to get. But that’s all right—an older woman like you. I figure you need to go that extra step to make sure a man is interested.”
Emma just stared at him, her finger crooked in the coffee cup handle. She couldn’t believe only three days ago she’d been so starved for affection…. Forget it, she told herself. What’s done is done. Now to get rid of him…
“Omar, I hope you will take this the right way, but I just don’t want a man in my life right now. You see, after losing my—”
“The right way?” He wiped his mouth, using his sleeve instead of the napkin she’d laid out for him. “Let me tell you something about the right way. Running your mouth while a man is trying to eat his breakfast is not the right way. Keep that in mind.” He pointed his finger at her. “Keep this in mind too. You might not have wanted a man, but you’ve got one. I know you’ve been on your own for over a year, so it’s going to take you a day or two to get used to me being here. But now you best get used to having a man tell you the way things are going to be from now on.”
Emma turned loose her coffee cup. “Omar, leave. This is my home. You are not welcome here.”
“Hmmmph.” Omar forked another mouthful of eggs, chuckling at her as he chewed. “I’m not going no-damn-where. I’m the man of this house now.” He thumbed himself on his chest. “Now shut up and get those peaches.”
Emma felt herself about to lose control. She held on, clenching her jaw, and said in a tone that was little more than a growl, “Get them yourself.” She started to rise from her chair.
But Omar came half up from his chair quickly. His powerful hand swung sharply, backhanding her across her face. She flew sideways from the overturned chair and lay half conscious for a few seconds shaking her throbbing head.
“See? That’s what sassing me will get you every time,” Omar said, settling back into the chair and casually swabbing a biscuit around on his plate as if nothing had happened. “That was just a little slap—sort of an attention getter, because you didn’t know any better. So, now, let’s try it again. Get those peaches for me.”
Emma shook off the hard slap, struggled to her feet, walked to the shelf, and took down the jar of peaches. Without a word, she set the jar on the table. Seeing the harsh look in Omar’s eyes, she picked up the jar, lifted the sealing wire, and twisted the lid off.
Omar smiled. “That’s more like it. I’ll say one thing, you older women catch on fast, having been with a man before.”
As she turned and left the kitchen, she heard him say behind her, “It might be that you’re one of them who can’t get the day started without a good slapping—sort of an eye-opener,” he chuckled. “Hell, maybe you’re one of them that like it rough. Are you? Because I don’t mind accommodating a woman’s peculiar needs.”
Emma didn’t answer. She walked silently into the bedroom and returned with the gun Omar had left in its holster hanging from a bedpost. Omar looked at the gun and gave her a short laugh. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”
“Yes,” Emma said with resolve. She struggled at trying to cock the hammer.
Omar watched, taking a bite of biscuit and chewing it slowly as he shook his head. “Use two hands, fool,” he said. Then as if speaking to himself he said, “This is why a woman should never be allowed to carry a gun.” He swallowed his food, took a sip of coffee, and watched unconcerned as she continued to struggle with the heavy gun. “Here, want me to cock it for you?” he asked.
But as soon as he said it, Omar heard the hammer click back and saw Emma raise the gun barrel toward his head.
“All right, put it down now before I have to slap you again…this is how folks get hurt.”
The single shot hit him in the center of his forehead and sent his chair toppling backward. As the contents of his skull streaked up the wall ten feet behind him, he hit the floor still seated perfectly, a stunned look on his face, eyes and mouth open wide, arms outstretched on the floor.
“There’s that,” Emma said aloud, her voice calm and even. “You had no idea who you were messing with, cowboy.”
With the heavy gun still smoking in her hand, she stepped around the table and looked down at Omar, wondering what to do next.