Lawless Love (Lawmen and Outlaws) by Andrea Downing Page B

mouth as she worked to make several turns around his wrists. Feeling safe to lay the gun aside out of his reach but within hers, she fed the dally through and tied a fancy knot, leaving the rest trailing behind him. Then she seized the gun again. “If you have half a brain, I reckon you’ll be outta this before night fall.” She stood and looked down at him. Tall, lanky, but for a lawman, he sure could use a shave and a haircut. His eyes were soft, a gentle man’s eyes, not hard like some she had known though steel existed behind them. She could see that. He scrutinized her as well, and the urge to run her finger along his jaw line hit her a moment before the urge to bend and kiss him took hold.
    “Don’t come after me, Marshal,” she whispered. “I don’t want to see your ugly face again.”
    ****
    Sheriff Brady, his face like a walnut, leaned back in his chair with feet propped on the desk. Dylan studied his fellow lawman keenly. The smell of river water pervaded the air, and when Brady coughed, his chair jerked indicating it might tip over. The sheriff brought his legs down and clasped his hands in front of him, eyeing Dylan as the marshal turned over the stack of Wanted posters and studied them.
    “You say the description you got was that he was young with fair coloring?”
    “Yeah,” Dylan answered, “but I have to admit that ain’t a whole lot to go on, nor is it definite that was the guilty man.” Dylan shifted in his chair.
    The sheriff ran a hand across his face as if trying to suppress a smile.
    “Morgan wasn’t a popular man over in Twin Pines, and the folks what said they saw a rider leading Morgan’s horse through town at a run might’ve been trying to mislead me. But fact is, whoever took the horse could be responsible for Morgan’s death—plus, horse stealing alone is a hanging offense. That’s the sum of it.” Dylan squirmed again, his wet pants rubbing uncomfortably.
    “Horse threw ya, huh?”
    “Yeah. Crossing the river.” He flipped another poster over and focused on the next one.
    “Funny your shirt didn’t get wet.”
    “Didn’t go in that deep.” He turned another page with intense studiousness. “Look, whoever it was, I was on his trail until about five miles back from the river, then the tracks went cold. All I have to go on is he was young, fair and—”
    “You said all that, Marshal. And I can tell you, there ain’t no one fittin’ that description round here, nor no one in those posters neither. And those posters go a coupla years back to ’82 and ’83. Someone young and fair-haired don’t make a whole lot of evidence in my book. Horse coulda been running wild, and he lassoed it in.”
    “Coulda been. But then why wouldn’t he stop and ask to see whose it might be?”
    “No idea. But I can tell ya, ain’t no one ’round here like that. Not any man I couldn’t account for, anyway. Some young ’uns, perhaps, but none of them are horse thieves. Or killers.”
    “How do you know?”
    “’Cause I know. I know every dang family hereabouts, and I know who’s good and who’s not so good. We got some real fine families here and no horse thieves.” Brady sat back and yawned. “You got a place to stay tonight? Barbershop’s down the street, and you can get yourself a hot bath before you settle.”
    Dylan shuffled the Wanted posters and sat back. The sheriff’s suppertime was probably near, and the man wouldn’t want him, smelling like he did, at his table. “Hot bath sounds good, but I better get me a place for the night. Anywhere in town you can recommend?”
    “Saloon does rooms—”
    “Too noisy. No hotel?”
    “There’s the Everhart’s boarding house a short spit out of town. They may have a room.”
    A picture of some old, gray-haired spinster ran through Dylan’s mind. Clean rooms, quiet like the grave, a home-cooked meal. Decent comfort. “Sounds good to me.”
    ****
    “You!”
    “You!”
    Lacey retreated behind the door. Her gun belt