tobacco stained teeth. “Just wait until Lew finds out what you done. You killed his brother, he’ll kill you.”
“Don’t doubt he’ll try,” Mason commented grimly. He kept his hand steady on his six-shooter, ready to draw because with men like this you just never could be too careful. Better safe than sorry was his motto.
“Lew’ll succeed too, don’t think he won’t.” Otis threw himself at the bars, knocking several roast beef sandwiches to the floor in his fury. Spittle congregated in the corners of his mouth and with his black hair wild, he looked as uncivilized as he smelled. “Count on it, Marshal. You’re as good as dead. All of you.”
“And so is that pretty gal, too.” A calmer, more rational voice spoke from the back of the cell. A tall, brawny outlaw, cousin to Lew and Lyle Folsom, stood up from his bunk, fists clenched, eyes furious. “She’s the reason Lyle is dead. I saw it. I saw you kill him, you coward. Shot him in the back of the head to save that little whore.”
Mason’s entire body jerked with instant, crimson rage. It hazed his vision, charged through his blood, made him want to pummel the man and defend Callie’s honor. But wasn’t that what the outlaw was doing, trying to bait him into action? Into unlocking the door, fighting, making an escape possible? Not going to happen. Mason gritted his teeth so hard, pain jabbed through his jawbone.
“She sure was a tiny little thing,” one of the outlaws in another cell remembered, as if fondly. He sighed, like a man who’d been too close to a dream. “I got a hankering for her. You know I like the pretty little ones.”
“That’s true, Hank,” another outlaw agreed. “Would you have taken your knife to her too?”
Images of the dead woman they’d found and buried haunted Mason. His stomach clenched, sickened, remembering another outlaw who’d regarded another woman just as coldheartedly. The memory jumped into his mind, unbidden, unwanted. That drizzly autumn afternoon when he’d just finished teaching school for the day. That had been back when he’d had a normal life, when he’d been a different man. Opal had surprised him, showing up while he’d been cleaning blackboards intending to walk home with him.
The memory from long ago had dimmed, grown fuzzy around the edges, but the happiness of that innocent time wrapped around him. Opal at his side, listening as he told her about his day with his students, her laughing at his stories, reporting on how well her vegetable garden was growing and of the baby afghan she was knitting.
She had a month yet to go until her confinement, so she’d been out looking at fabric in both the mercantile and the dry goods shop, trying to decide what to buy for the baby clothes she was planning to make.
He’d held the door to the bank for her and they stood in line together, waiting for the first available teller. He would never forget that cozy feeling of being with her, of being in love, or the low music of her laughter a few minutes before her life ended.
Heart heavy, he blinked, the memory was gone and he was following Deeks and Matt out of the jail, locking the heavy iron barred door that separated the cells from the office, a safety precaution with the types of prisoners they usually had. The jail walls were two layers of unusually thick stone blocks, which resisted most dynamite blasts.
That didn’t stop the tingle at the back of his neck or the twist of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. The jail wasn’t impenetrable, and he’d bet good money that the men in those cells were biding their time, as calm as they were, until the rest of their gang returned.
Well, Mason resolved, hand on his gun. He and his men would be ready.
Callie studied her reflection in the Cheval mirror in the far corner of Miss Lindylee’s dress shop. It was hard to admire the dress when her gaze kept slipping upward to her face, where the black and purple bruise barely visible beneath her
“Don’t doubt he’ll try,” Mason commented grimly. He kept his hand steady on his six-shooter, ready to draw because with men like this you just never could be too careful. Better safe than sorry was his motto.
“Lew’ll succeed too, don’t think he won’t.” Otis threw himself at the bars, knocking several roast beef sandwiches to the floor in his fury. Spittle congregated in the corners of his mouth and with his black hair wild, he looked as uncivilized as he smelled. “Count on it, Marshal. You’re as good as dead. All of you.”
“And so is that pretty gal, too.” A calmer, more rational voice spoke from the back of the cell. A tall, brawny outlaw, cousin to Lew and Lyle Folsom, stood up from his bunk, fists clenched, eyes furious. “She’s the reason Lyle is dead. I saw it. I saw you kill him, you coward. Shot him in the back of the head to save that little whore.”
Mason’s entire body jerked with instant, crimson rage. It hazed his vision, charged through his blood, made him want to pummel the man and defend Callie’s honor. But wasn’t that what the outlaw was doing, trying to bait him into action? Into unlocking the door, fighting, making an escape possible? Not going to happen. Mason gritted his teeth so hard, pain jabbed through his jawbone.
“She sure was a tiny little thing,” one of the outlaws in another cell remembered, as if fondly. He sighed, like a man who’d been too close to a dream. “I got a hankering for her. You know I like the pretty little ones.”
“That’s true, Hank,” another outlaw agreed. “Would you have taken your knife to her too?”
Images of the dead woman they’d found and buried haunted Mason. His stomach clenched, sickened, remembering another outlaw who’d regarded another woman just as coldheartedly. The memory jumped into his mind, unbidden, unwanted. That drizzly autumn afternoon when he’d just finished teaching school for the day. That had been back when he’d had a normal life, when he’d been a different man. Opal had surprised him, showing up while he’d been cleaning blackboards intending to walk home with him.
The memory from long ago had dimmed, grown fuzzy around the edges, but the happiness of that innocent time wrapped around him. Opal at his side, listening as he told her about his day with his students, her laughing at his stories, reporting on how well her vegetable garden was growing and of the baby afghan she was knitting.
She had a month yet to go until her confinement, so she’d been out looking at fabric in both the mercantile and the dry goods shop, trying to decide what to buy for the baby clothes she was planning to make.
He’d held the door to the bank for her and they stood in line together, waiting for the first available teller. He would never forget that cozy feeling of being with her, of being in love, or the low music of her laughter a few minutes before her life ended.
Heart heavy, he blinked, the memory was gone and he was following Deeks and Matt out of the jail, locking the heavy iron barred door that separated the cells from the office, a safety precaution with the types of prisoners they usually had. The jail walls were two layers of unusually thick stone blocks, which resisted most dynamite blasts.
That didn’t stop the tingle at the back of his neck or the twist of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. The jail wasn’t impenetrable, and he’d bet good money that the men in those cells were biding their time, as calm as they were, until the rest of their gang returned.
Well, Mason resolved, hand on his gun. He and his men would be ready.
Callie studied her reflection in the Cheval mirror in the far corner of Miss Lindylee’s dress shop. It was hard to admire the dress when her gaze kept slipping upward to her face, where the black and purple bruise barely visible beneath her
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