The Marshal Meets His Match

Glancing down, she noted a red neckerchief, faded blue shirt belted into dusty brown canvas duck-cloth trousers and well-broken-in boots. All of which clothed a broad shouldered, lean muscled form. Hearing a chuckle, her eyes snapped upward to find a full-blown smile showcasing pearly white teeth. Feeling a blush burning its way up her cheeks, she frantically tried to recall what had been said. Now was not the time to be distracted by a handsome face.

“I said, when a gentleman introduces himself, a lady is supposed to reciprocate.” The dimple winked at her again, highlighting his smirk.

Meri was growing tired of that smirk. “Well, there’s your problem—you’re not a gentleman!” Spinning around, she faced Franks who hastily straightened grinning features. “I thought you said he was ‘helpin’ out’ around here?”

Franks hearty laugh boomed out. “He’s helpin’ out cuz his horse is here, but he is de new marshal shore ’nuff.”

The marshal stepped into her field of vision. “And don’t let me catch you trying out that stunt you pulled with Abe on my horse, or I really will run you in for horse theft. That is, after I get done pickin’ you up off the ground when he tosses you on your head.”

Her back stiffened at the insult. “I’ve never met a horse that could toss me on my head!”

He cocked his head, frowning slightly as if searching his memory. “I seem to recall you being tossed not more than a few minutes ago and by a horse, too, if my memory serves me correctly.” A twinkle lit the hazel eyes, and Franks chuckled.

“Abe didn’t toss me! You startled us!” Meri fought the urge to stamp her foot. She had no idea why they thought this was so funny. Gritting her teeth, she looked at Franks and scraped together the ragged remnants of her dignity. “Thank you for the use of Abe. I can see you’re busy, so I’ll run along.”

“No need to go runnin’ off in such a all-fired hurry. I was hopin’ to sit an’ chat a spell.” Franks’s eyes glinted with suppressed laughter as he glanced between Meri and the new marshal.

“I’m supposed to meet Faither at the mercantile. He’s probably waiting on me.” Meri planted a quick kiss on Franks’s cheek and beat a hasty retreat down the aisle to the livery entrance.

“Bye, Miss Meri,” said Franks.

“Good day, Miss Meri,” echoed the marshal.

Meri froze momentarily before turning slowly. “A gentleman does not call a lady by her first name unless given express permission. The name is Miss McIsaac to you!”

Wyatt grinned. “See, that wasn’t so hard was it?”

Meri huffed disgustedly and dropped the haughty tone. “What wasn’t so hard?”

“Acting like a lady and introducing yourself.”

The man was as annoying as a splinter in a wool sock. “Don’t you have work to do, Marshal? Or is harassing people your only job?”

Hooking his thumbs behind his belt, he rocked back on his heels. “I’ve already apprehended a dangerous horse thief this mornin’. All in all I’d say not a bad day’s work, Miss McIsaac.”

Meri shot a quick glance at Franks. “I said you didn’t know enough about him. When the town council learns how delusional he is, they’ll fire him on the spot. He’ll have so much time on his hands you can put him to work mucking out all the stalls. He should be good at it, judging by what he’s shoveled out since I arrived!”

Taking advantage of the instantaneous silence, she spun on her heel and marched out of the barn, biting back a victorious smirk of her own. Finally! The last word!

But as she cleared the doorway, she heard Franks speak. “Hoo whee, Marshal, you dun riled her up sumpin’ fierce! Her mamma would’a warshed her mouth out with soap for dat!”

Color flew high in her cheeks as she continued her march away from the livery stable, followed by the irritating sound of the marshal’s laugh. Franks was right. Her mother wouldn’t have been happy about the last comment she’d let fly. Catriona McIsaac had always admonished that just because ranch life could be crude and dirty, one’s speech didn’t have to be crude and dirty. Meri let out a deep breath as her shoulders slumped. She should not have lost her temper, but—honestly! The man had called her a horse thief! Between that, her lately volatile emotions and...and those unnerving eyes, it had been like waving a red flag at a bull, and she’d attacked.

Something Mrs. Van Deusen had said earlier flitted across her memory, stopping Meri in her tracks.

“...the new marshal has arrived, and you have to meet him. I’ve told him all about you.”

No! Oh, no, no, no!

Mortified consternation swamped the last dregs of temper. She should have never left the ranch this morning. Faither had better be done with his business, because she wanted to slink out of this town as fast as possible. Mrs. Van Deusen could find some other unsuspecting female to throw at the new marshal. Meri wanted absolutely no part of him! Not that he’d want anything to do with her after this morning. It was going to be hard enough to come back in for church services, to say nothing of the picnic.

Dread slithered down her spine, and she groaned. Just the thought of sitting in the same church building with that man made her feel queasy enough maybe she’d just stay home from church for a while. She definitely wouldn’t have to feign not feeling well! And who needed a picnic, anyway? Staying away from town was sounding better all the time.

Crack!

The sound of a gunshot slammed into her ears. Meri’s heart stopped as the direction of the gunfire dawned on her.

She broke into a dead run.

Chapter Two

Wyatt examined the repaired holster before strapping it around his waist and holstering his pistol. “Looks good, Franks. I figured I’d have to replace the whole thing, but I can hardly see where you fixed it. Thanks.”

Crack! The gunshot interrupted Franks’s reply.

Wyatt pivoted toward the barn door, wishing for his rifle from his office.

“Wait! You might need dis.” Franks tossed a rifle to Wyatt, a second rifle in his other hand.

“Thanks.” Wyatt snatched the rifle out of the air and sprinted out of the barn, hearing Franks pound the ground behind him.

As they turned the corner onto the main street, Wyatt dodged the running figure of Miss McIsaac. Where did she think she was going?

“Stay back!” He barked as he passed her. He spared a split-second glance over his shoulder, pleased to see her slow down. Good. He didn’t know what was going on, but the fewer spectators he had to deal with the better.

A man jumped astride a horse to ride away from the bank, throwing hot lead around and forcing curious onlookers to scurry for cover. Wyatt threw up his rifle, slamming the butt of the gun into his shoulder. As he laid his finger against the trigger, someone ran between him and the mounted gunman. He jerked the barrel of the rifle up and held his fire. He had no clear shot, but the shooting horseman needed to be stopped before someone was killed.

Wyatt pulled his pistol and fired twice in the air, aiming far above innocent heads. The bullets came nowhere near the gunman, but he sank his spurs into the horse’s sides as he yanked violently on the reins and plunged down an alleyway.

The shooting stopped, and heads poked out of doorways like so many prairie dogs. “Anyone hurt?” Wyatt shouted as he ran toward the bank.

“No. But I think the bank’s been robbed.” An unidentified voice yelled back.

Wyatt slammed the bank doors open, Franks and several other men hot on his heels. No one was in the front room, but the door to the office stood open, and the banker was slumped on the floor just inside it. He moaned and tried to sit up as Wyatt entered. He gave the banker a quick glance then looked around the office.

“Franks, help him.” He pointed to the banker and moved to a second man lying motionless and bleeding on the floor beside the massive desk.

There was blood on the floor around the white-haired man’s head and more blood staining his side, but he was breathing. The wound on his side was bleeding freely, and Wyatt pulled off the red neckerchief he wore, wadding it up and pressing it against the wound to staunch the blood. “Somebody fetch the doctor!”

A commotion sounded at the office door. “Faither! No!”

The piercing cry pulled Wyatt’s eyes up. Miss McIsaac sank to her knees on the other side of the bleeding man, her face a mask of disbelieving horror.

“Is this your father?”

A silent nod was his only answer as her eyes frantically ran over her father’s form. Her hand gripped a tiny hideout pistol. Where had that come from? More important, what had she planned to do with it? Take on the bank robber herself? Probably. “If you’ll put that gun away, I need you to hold this while I check on the banker.”

Miss McIsaac looked at the pistol as if seeing it for the first time, blinked, then tucked it away in a pocket. She looked back at him, shock darkening her eyes.

Wyatt grabbed her unresisting hand and placed it over the bloody neckerchief. “Hold this down as tight as you can. It’ll slow the bleeding. The wound doesn’t look too bad, but he’s got a gash on the back of his head, as well. Looks like he hit it on the desk when he fell.”

Her face drained of color, and he heard her breath hitch in her throat. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?” He deliberately forced a hint of scorn into the question.

It worked. The muscles along her jaw clenched as she took a deep breath, and when she spared a glance at him, some of the spark was back in her eyes if not in her voice. “I don’t faint.”

She might be foolhardy, but she was tough, too. He disliked leaving her with her wounded father, but he had a gunman to follow before he got any farther away. He pushed to his feet and took a last look at her lowered face as she focused determinedly on her hands. Her lips were moving soundlessly, but she was keeping steady pressure on the makeshift bandage.

“Doc’s comin’,” someone cried from the back of the crowd.

Relieved, Wyatt went to try to glean information from the banker.

* * *

Wyatt wondered if he smelled as rank as the men wearily riding alongside him. Then again maybe the odor came from himself alone and not his companions. Three days chasing an elusive quarry wasn’t conducive to rest, much less keeping clean, and he would dearly love a bath, food and sleep; not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately it might be a while before he was able to acquire any of them. The townsfolk were going to want to know the results of the three-day chase. Returning to town with nothing to show for the posse’s efforts but weary horses, weary bodies covered in trail dust and a glaring lack of a culprit and loot was not an auspicious beginning to his career as Little Creek’s marshal.

In the minutes following Mr. McIsaac’s removal to the doctor’s office while men had scrambled for horses, Wyatt had fired questions at the assembled crowd. The banker had been too shaken up to give any helpful information, and none of the onlookers could add anything to what Wyatt had seen himself as he was running toward the bank. Armed with this pitiful lack of information, but a veritable arsenal of assorted firearms, Wyatt and the hastily assembled posse rode out of town, hot on the trail of the bank bandit.

Following the tracks of the fleeing horse and rider until night had forced a halt, they’d made a cold, dark camp lest the bandit had circled around to take a few shots at them in the glow of a campfire. Canteens of water and strips of jerky had provided their meal before they’d taken turns standing guard or grabbing a few hours of sleep. As soon as the sky had begun to lighten, they’d continued their pursuit, but had lost the trail when it had merged with a sea of tracks left by a passing cattle herd being pushed toward the Denver stockyards.

Splitting up the posse, they’d spent the rest of the day cutting for sign on both sides of the cattle trail. They’d even caught up with the herd, but the drovers had denied seeing either hide or hair of anyone but themselves and the posse.

Another day of tedious searching for sign had ended in failure when a heavy rainstorm had rolled through leaving them wet, cold, tired and discouraged. Wyatt had hated to head back empty-handed and without any idea of the whereabouts of the bandit, but washed-out sign, dwindling supplies and a dispirited posse had left no other option.

Twilight descended as they rode into town, and Wyatt thanked the men for their participation before the posse broke apart, each man heading for his own home while Wyatt continued toward the livery. His horse deserved a good feed and some rest. It had been a hard ride for them both.

Franks met him at the front doors of the livery. “From de looks ob things, I specs you dun lost dat fella.”

“That about sums it up.” Wyatt wearily scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rasp of three days’ growth of beard. “How’s everything here in town?”

Franks unsaddled, rubbed down and fed the weary horse as he talked. “Well, Mr. McIsaac’s still out cold, and Doc is shore ’nuff worried. Miss Meri ain’t left his side de whole time. De banker is okay, but he’s sayin’ he cain’t do nuttin’ ’bout the loss ob de money, and we’d better hope you foun’ it. Everythin’ else has been quiet like.”

Wyatt gave Franks a quick rundown of the fruitless search before adding, “I think I’ll check in at Doc’s office then try to find a meal and my bed, if no one needs me. Thanks for the use of that horse. He was a good fella. I appreciate you keepin’ one handy for me until Charger recovers from our trip up here.” Wyatt shook Franks’s hand, bid the man good-night and made his way to the doctor’s house.

A light was burning in the front window, and he tapped softly on the door. Dr. Kilburn opened it and, upon seeing who it was, quietly invited him in. “Did you catch him?”

“No. We lost his tracks,” Wyatt ruefully admitted. He had a feeling he was just beginning to hear this question. He changed the subject. “How’s McIsaac?”

Doc shook his head. “I wish I knew. I removed the bullet from his side, and it isn’t such a bad wound, barring infection. It’s the blow to his head that has me concerned. He hasn’t shown any sign of consciousness, and I’m worried there might be swelling inside his skull due to the severity of the blow he took when he fell. It’s become a waiting game, unfortunately.”

“May I see him?”

“You can peek in the door, but be quiet about it. Miss Meri had just dozed off when I checked on them a few minutes ago. She hasn’t slept much since it happened, and I’d like her to get some rest.”

Wyatt nodded, and Dr. Kilburn led him down a short hall and quietly opened a door. A lamp glowed softly, throwing its feeble beam on the two figures occupying the room.

Mr. McIsaac, his head swathed in white bandages, was lying motionless and silent on the small bed. His face looked unnaturally pale even in the dim light of the lamp’s lowered flame. Wyatt threw up a quick prayer for God’s healing and turned his gaze toward the room’s other occupant.

Miss McIsaac—he liked Franks’s “Miss Mary” better—the woman who’d hopped on a bareback, bridleless horse to go flying across the field, snagging his attention like no gussied up, eyelash-batting, flirting female had ever done. He’d found himself distracted and thinking about her at the oddest times while tracking with the posse, remembering her reaction when she’d fallen off the horse at his feet. He’d expected tears and pouting but she’d come up fighting, and he’d kept at it just to watch her spine stiffen, her chin come up and her brown eyes spark and sizzle.

Tonight, though, the fiery spirit and ramrod-straight spine were missing. The slender young woman drooped sideways in the large rocking chair, weary distress creasing her sleeping features. Her head leaned awkwardly against her shoulder and the back of the rocker in a way that was sure to leave a crick in her neck by morning. Someone had draped a blanket over her, but her slender hands gripped the arms of the rocker. Even in sleep there was a tension about the fragile-looking figure and an obvious lack of peace that made his heart ache.

Wyatt forced his gaze back to Mr. McIsaac. He was not in Little Creek to be distracted by a female. He was here to do a job and continue to squirrel money away toward his goal. He’d seen the stress the families of army soldiers and lawmen had undergone. Long ago he’d decided not to put someone he loved through that and to avoid female entanglements until he was no longer in a dangerous profession. When he found a place to settle down and pursue his dream of raising prime horseflesh, then he would think about a family. Until that happened, however, he was riding alone. And enjoying it.

A hand on Wyatt’s shoulder reminded him Doc was waiting. Stepping back, he allowed the man to softly pull the door closed and followed him to the front room.

“Now, young man, you go find yourself a meal and a bed. There’s nothing you can do here tonight, and I’d like to catch some sleep myself before anyone else decides they need me.”

Taking his advice, Wyatt bid the doctor good-night and left the house, praying as he walked through the dark, quiet town for God to heal Mr. McIsaac, to give Miss McIsaac strength and to help him bring the thief to justice. He reached his office and decided a meal and a bath could wait; sleep was more important. Retreating to the small rear room that held his few belongings, Wyatt wearily shed hat, boots and pistol holster. Placing his pistol and rifle within easy reach, he flopped across his bed and let out a gusty sigh. Like the doctor, he wanted rest before anyone else needed him. Dumping the questions and worry swirling through his mind at the feet of his Heavenly Father, he was sound asleep within minutes.

* * *

Please, God, don’t take him, too! Please don’t take him, too!

Time slowed, and the ticktock of the bank clock grew louder and slower until it was all Meri could hear as she desperately pressed the blood-soaked cloth against the bleeding wound and struggled to pray. She jerked when a second pair of hands covered hers, and she glanced up wildly.

“You can let go now.” Dr. Kilburn’s kind, bearded face peered into hers as he lifted her hands away. “I need to take a look.”

Meri sank onto her heels, clenching bloody hands together while he examined her father. After a cursory look at the wounds, he pulled a thick cloth from his bag, folded it into a square pad and pressed it over the gunshot wound. Looking up, he motioned to two men who hurried over with a litter, and Meri scrambled to get out of their way.

“Take him to my office. Tell my wife to prepare for surgery. I’ll be right behind you as soon as I examine the banker.” Turning to Meri he added, “You walk alongside and keep pressure on that pad to slow the bleeding.”

Unseen hands lifted Meri to her feet as she struggled to make her limbs obey her brain. Moving to her father’s side, she frantically tried to keep up with the litter bearers as blood spurted over her hands. The harder she pressed, the faster the blood poured.

“Stop. Please stop!” But there was no one around to hear. She was kneeling over her father in the middle of a deserted street.

“Please, God, don’t take him, too. I can’t lose him. Don’t take him, too!”

A rooster crowed as Meri searched for something else to staunch the bleeding. The rooster crowed again, and Meri jerked awake, a cold sweat covering her skin from the vivid dream. Aching from the rocking chair and the unaccustomed inactivity of the past few days, she slowly pushed herself to her feet and gingerly stretched protesting muscles and joints before straightening the nightgown and wrapper Mrs. Kilburn had loaned her. A tap on the door warned her, and she turned as Dr. Kilburn and his wife entered.

“Good morning, dear. I have breakfast almost ready. You have a few minutes to wash and freshen up if you like. I also washed and pressed your clothes for you. They’re hanging in the spare room.” Mrs. Kilburn smiled softly at Meri as she issued the invitation before hurrying back to her kitchen.

Meri delayed leaving the room, hovering over the doctor as he examined her father. “Still no change,” he muttered.

“Is there anything we can do?” Meri asked in frustration as she looked at the pale, quiet figure of her father.

“Yes. We can pray for God’s healing and wait for it to occur. Your father had a pretty big shock to his system, but so far he’s holding his own.” The doctor moved away from the bed and patted Meri’s shoulder reassuringly. “Go freshen up and get some food in you. I’ll leave the door open. We’ll be close enough to hear if he stirs.”

Meri allowed herself to be ushered from the room to the spare room across the hall. By the time she’d finished her morning ablutions, dressed in the neatly pressed skirt and blouse and headed for the kitchen, another voice had joined those of Dr. Kilburn and his wife.

Pastor James Willis was sitting at the table drinking coffee but stood when she entered the room. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so early, I wanted to check on Ian and see if there’s any way I can be of assistance.”

“Doc says all we can do now is pray and wait.” The words felt like shards of glass in her throat.

“They’ve been keeping me apprised of Ian’s condition—” he waved his hand toward Dr. and Mrs. Kilburn “—and the church family has been lifting him up in daily prayer, but what can we do to help you?” Pastor Willis gently asked.

“I don’t know...” Meri choked as the pressure of the past three days suddenly clawed its way up her throat and overwhelmed her. The need to get away before she screamed and made a complete fool of herself robbed her of any semblance of social skills.

“I’m sorry, I... Excuse me!” Meri rushed out the door of the kitchen into the backyard.

“What about your breakfast, dear?” Meri heard Mrs. Kilburn ask as she cleared the door.

“Let her go. Food’s the last thing on her mind right now.”

Dr. Kilburn’s voice faded as Meri left the yard, running blindly. She didn’t know where she was going; she just followed her feet as they carried her away from the place where her father lay unconscious.

Adrenaline had carried her through the past couple of days, but the uncertainty of her father’s health could not be ignored any longer. The doctor said wait and pray.

She’d been waiting.

She’d been praying.

Why wasn’t God listening? She’d prayed and waited and waited and prayed through her mother’s illness but lost her anyway. Now here she was again, in the same position with her father. She couldn’t go through this again. She couldn’t!

Fear and grief met with the fury of a mountain thunderstorm and raged in Meri’s chest. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her eyes and throat burned. She needed to get away from curious eyes. She needed to be on the range where she could run and scream. Where no one could hear and accuse the “old maid” of finally snapping.

Where could she go? For that matter, where was she?

Disoriented, Meri glanced around and realized she’d run from Pastor Willis, straight to the church building. Well, maybe praying at an altar would be more effective than the silent, incoherent pleas ricocheting around her brain the past three days.

Trying the handle of the spick-and-span little white building, she walked inside, pausing to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The room that rang with preaching and singing on Sundays, and the schoolchildren’s recitations the rest of the week, was unnaturally quiet and dim. The sun had just started peeking over the horizon, not yet bright enough to illumine the interior.

Collapsing onto the nearest bench, her eyes fastened on the flag at the front of the room as her mind tried to find the words to pray. Gradually her ragged breathing began to quiet.

“Heavenly Faither...” The words echoed hollowly in the empty room. “I don’t know what to say that I haven’t already prayed. I don’t want to lose Faither. I’ve already lost Mither. Isn’t that enough for a while?” The anger in the question surprised Meri. She was scared and sad, not angry. Meri’s voice rose though she tried to temper her tone. “Please! You have to heal Faither!”