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  George dismounted in time to catch Charlie in his arms. “You shouldn’t have left camp like that.”

  “It’s okay, everyone else is asleep.” She buried her face against his shoulder, and he barely heard her say, “I was so scared.”

  “I’m here. So is—” He looked over her head to make sure they were alone. “So is Noelle. Where’s Bart?”

  “That’s why I’m scared. He’s in jail. So are Frank and Captain Steve. They’re going to swing. Georgie, why would they put them on a swing?”

  “I’ll tell you after we get them back.” Oh Jesus. George felt sick. “Why are they in jail?”

  “Remember Mr. Ogden?”

  “The alderman from back home?” Ogden was a minor politician who always wore a black broadcloth suit.

  “Yes. Well, this man was dressed just like him, and he said Bart and Frank killed Mr. Fox and also one of the men who started shooting at us.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I know that.” She sounded annoyed. “I was there.”

  He tugged a lock of hair that dangled behind her ear. She’d been pleased to have her hair cut short. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Bart put me up on Socks and told me to head for the wagons, they’d be right behind me. But before he and Frank could mount up, the sheriff came and arrested them. No one pays attention to kids, so I heard the whole thing. I rode back to camp lickety-split and told Captain Steve. He got real mad and said a lot of naughty words while he hitched our mules to the wagon. He drove it to this spot, then rode back and got Mrs. Fox’s wagon. She…she wasn’t much help, Georgie.”

  “She’d lost her husband, pequeña. So if you were here with the wagons, how did you find out that Captain Steve was arrested too?”

  “I…uh…I followed him back to town.” She peeked up at George through her lashes. “Like I said, no one paid any attention to me. He hit the man…I think it was an accident. He was talking to someone else, lost his temper, and was going to punch him, but he hit the man dressed like Mr. Ogden instead, and the sheriff arrested him. I went behind the jail and talked to Bart through the bars. He told me to get back to the wagons and wait for them, they’d get free and come back. But then you and Noelle came back instead.”

  “Yeah. We came back. Noelle, check the camp. Make sure Thomas is okay and the Foxes.”

  “Okay.” She darted off.

  “He is, Georgie. Captain Steve left me in charge, and I took care of everyone.”

  “Good girl.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to go get them.” He removed the rifle from its scabbard and checked it. He’d never seen one like it before, but it was fully loaded, and that was the most important thing.

  “You can’t go dressed like that.”

  “No, I can’t.” He climbed into their wagon and pulled out the carpetbag that contained the clothes he’d worn in New York.

  Charlie joined him and helped undo the buttons at the back of his dress. “What about your hair?”

  “I’ll make sure nobody sees me.”

  “But if they do?”

  Charlie was worried—she’s not quite eight, he reminded himself—and he paused in tucking his shirt into his trousers. “I’ll borrow Noelle’s hat and stuff my hair under it.”

  When he left the wagon, he found Noelle standing there with Socks saddled and the kid’s rifle scabbard attached to the pony’s saddle.

  “Salida is too tired to make that trip, Georgie. Socks can carry you.” The pony was almost as tall as Salida. “Here.” Noelle handed him her hat. She must have overheard what he’d said.

  “Thanks, Noelle.” He put it on and tucked his hair under it. “How do I look?”

  “Like you did back home. Be careful, Georgie.”

  He pulled her into a hug. “I will. I promise.” His heart tugged as he realized he’d just given her the same vow he’d given their Mama. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You two are in charge.” He hugged Charlie. “I’m so proud of you. Stay safe.”

  “We will.”

  He adjusted the stirrups and swung onto Socks’s back, then rubbed her neck. “All right, girl. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  Except for the lights and the tinny music coming from the saloon, the town was dark and quiet. George rode behind the shops until he came to the building with the barred window. He urged Socks as close as she could get, then kicked free of the stirrups, got his feet onto the saddle, and rose.

  “Bart?” he whispered.

  “George?” There was a scrambling sound, and then Bart’s face appeared behind the bars. “Thank God you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you? Those bastards didn’t hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Noelle?” Frank’s face appeared next to Bart’s.

  “She’s fine too. She’s back at the camp. Steve?”

  “He’s in the next cell. Too many people saw what he did for the bastard who runs this town to have an excuse to hang him too, so Weatherford just plans to have him beaten.” Bart snorted. “He probably intends for Steve to meet his maker anyway. It’ll be three against one, from what we heard.”

  “Have a little faith, Bart,” Steve said.

  Bart growled but didn’t say anything to that.

  “How are you?” George asked.

  “We’re okay.”

  “When is the trial?”

  Frank laughed, although it was a dismissive sound. “What trial?”

  “They’re not…” George ground his teeth together. “Why not?”

  “Weatherford has too many men who’ll swear we shot first and for no reason. The rest of the townsfolk figure we need hanging.”

  “Dammit, I was there. No one else was around, and those varmints started shooting first.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The good people of Willow Crick are willing to believe Weatherford.”

  “But you’re a lawyer.”

  “Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

  A door inside the jail opened, and George ducked down out of sight, balancing precariously on the pony’s back as a deep voice growled, “What’s all the yacking going on in here?”

  “If it’s gonna be our last night, Sheriff, why shouldn’t we talk over old times?”

  “Well, keep it down. I gotta get some rest. It’s gonna be a big day tomorrow.” He sounded smug, and George wanted to punch his teeth down his throat. The door closed, followed by the grating sound of a key in the lock.

  George rose and peeked into the cell. Beyond was a barred door that separated the cells from the front of the jail. “You three must be mighty desperate hombres,” he muttered.

  Bart reached out to touch his hand. “Go back to the wagons, Georgie. We’ll figure some way to get us out of here.”

  “I’ve got an idea. What time is the hanging?”

  “Weatherford wants to make a big thing of it, so he’s planning sometime in the afternoon.”

  “Okay. Try to get some rest.”

  “George, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m gonna see what I can do to get the sheriff to let you go.”

  “George—”

  He reached through the bars, pulled Bart’s face close, and kissed him as best he could. “I love you, querido. Never forget.” He dropped down into the saddle and headed Socks back to the camp.

  * * * *

  George dragged out the tin tub, bathed off the dirt and sweat of the past few days, washed his hair—how did women deal with this on a weekly basis?—and spent the rest of the night working to make the bruises on his face less noticeable with compresses. By morning what was left to see would be hidden by the powder Mrs. Fox offered him.

  He got a few hours’ sleep, then saddled Salida, put on his fanciest dress with its bustle and padded bodice and put up his hair. With that done, he slid Papa’s knife into his garter and rode into town.

  Chapter 46

  Bart paced the cell he and Frank were locked in. Steve w
as in the other cell, dozing on the lower bunk. How could he be so relaxed?

  At least he knew that George and Noelle were alive and back at camp. Even if he had to hang, they were alive.

  He shuddered at the memory of what had happened only a couple of days before.

  * * * *

  Gunshots exploded, Albert Fox dropped like a stone, and a third man clutched his chest and fell off his horse. Bart didn’t give a thought to him; he felt his stomach climb up to his throat as two of the nastiest-looking men he’d ever seen grabbed George and Noelle and rode off with them.

  He was desperate to get Charlie out of this insane town so he could ride after George. He scooped her up and threw her onto Noelle’s pony.

  “Go back to camp. Tell Captain Steve to go after George and Noelle. Don’t worry about us; we’ll be okay.” He took his hat off, hit Socks’s rump with it, and turned to see how he could help Frank.

  “We’ve got to go after them.” Frank was white, and Bart didn’t know if that was because he’d killed a man—who’d have thought a lawyer could shoot like that?—or because Noelle had been kidnapped.

  They caught up the reins of their horses, but before they could mount, an officious little man dressed in clothes that would be more suitable for back east approached them, strutting across the main street. “What’s going on here?”

  “Those men kidnapped my wife and her brother.” Bart expected the man to offer help.

  “Did anyone see this happen?” The man gazed around at the small crowd that had suddenly cropped up.

  “No sir, Mr. Weatherford. Didn’t see no woman or kid neither.”

  He turned back to Bart. “What you’ve told me is nothing more than a cock-and-bull story. I think you rode into town looking for trouble.”

  “What? No! Why would we?”

  “How should I know that?”

  “I’m telling you, those men started shooting at us for no reason. They killed the man we came to town with—”

  “I doubt that. You’re probably outlaws, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a quarrel between you and shot him yourself.”

  Bart sent a scared look toward Frank. This was insane. George and Noelle were being taken farther and farther away as this stupid man yammered at them.

  “We can prove it,” Frank said. “We stopped at the mercantile just a little while ago.”

  “Sheriff, send someone to the mercantile, if you please. Bring Jacobsen here.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Weatherford.”

  “Look, send someone after those men.”

  “No.”

  “Fuck this,” Bart muttered. He put his foot in the stirrup. The only thing that stopped him from swinging into the saddle was the sound of hammers being cocked.

  “You’re only making things harder for yourself,” Weatherford said with a smirk. “Luke, take their weapons.”

  Bart had never been in a situation like this, and he would have torn apart each one of these men if it hadn’t been for the guns pointed at him and Frank.

  “There’s no need to go off half-cocked,” Frank said. “I’m sure we can get this sorted out—”

  “Here’s Jacobsen, Mr. Weatherford.” The sheriff led the store clerk to them.

  The clerk’s eyes met Bart’s, then darted everywhere else.

  “Jacobsen, these men say they were in the mercantile earlier.”

  “N-no, sir, Mr. Weatherford. I…I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Lock these two up.”

  “Wait! You can’t! He’s lying!”

  The sheriff signaled three men, and two of them caught Bart by his arms, while the third went after Frank. Bart knew it wasn’t a good idea to struggle against them, but God alone knew what was happening to George.

  “Take it easy,” Frank said softly. “Steve is going after them.”

  Only he wasn’t, because at that moment he came galloping up. “What’s going on?” he demanded in the voice that had no doubt caused the men of his regiment to fall into line.

  Bart wanted to shout at Steve that he should be going after George and Noelle, but it was too late to say anything.

  They were all in jail.

  * * * *

  “Bart!” The voice was soft, but Bart still heard it. Jesus, what was George doing outside the jail?

  He climbed on the top bunk and peered through the bars. George was seated on Salida this time, wearing one of those fancy dresses Bart had complained about because the bustle didn’t let him get a grip on Georgie’s rump.

  “What are you doing here? I told you to go!”

  “And leave you to hang for something you didn’t do? No way in hell. Till death do us part, remember?”

  “I don’t want you to die!”

  “I don’t want you dying either. Get ready to make a move.”

  “What are you—Get out of here, the sheriff is coming.” He sprawled across the bunk and propped a hand under his chin, hoping he didn’t look nervous.

  Then he realized it wouldn’t matter. If they were supposed to die in a matter of hours, of course they’d look nervous.

  “What’s going on?” the sheriff demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  He curled his lip at them and walked out, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

  Bart hopped down from the bunk. “What do you think George is going to do?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know, but he’d better do it soon if we’re to get out of here and rescue Steve.”

  Three of Weatherford’s men—the same three who’d dragged them off to jail—had come to get Steve a while ago, smirking and saying Weatherford wanted them at the livery stable early so the men in town could come by for the show.

  They were certain they could overcome Steve.

  Before Bart could begin pacing again, he heard the door to the jail open, and he stared at Frank.

  “Sheriff McCloud?” It was George, his voice soft and breathless.

  “Yeah?” His brusque voice turned inviting. “Yeah. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  “I’m new to town, and I just had to meet you. I heard what a brave deed you did the other day, arresting those wicked men who murdered that poor man.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  “You’re too modest.” They could hear the swish of George’s skirts as he crossed the floor, and the seductive tone of his voice, although they couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Oh God, Frank, I hope he knows what he’s doing.” Bart thought he was going to puke. George used that same tone when they made love.

  Frank gripped his arm. “Give him some credit. He got himself and Noelle out of that fix.”

  Bart nodded and listened, but he gripped the bars as if he could tear them apart by sheer force of will.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, ma’am?”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee…with you, Sheriff. But please. My name is Georgiana.”

  It got quiet in the office, and then there was a crunch and a sodden sound. Bart wanted to call out and ask what was happening, but he didn’t dare.

  George came hurrying into the room, holding up a ring of keys. His bonnet hung down his back and his hair was a little disheveled.

  “Are you all right, hummingbird?”

  “It went like clockwork.” George grinned at him. He found the key that unlocked their cell.

  Bart shoved the door aside, swept George into a hug, and ran his hands over him. “I was so worried for you.”

  “It’s okay,” George whispered into his ear. “But I’ve got to get out of these dresses soon.”

  He gave a huff of laughter. “I think you’re right. I never worried like this when you wore pants. You’re gonna have to do something to soothe my nerves.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure, querido.”

  Bart cradled George’s face in his hands and touched his cheekbone. George couldn’t help wincing.

  “What did they do to you?” Bart demanded.

&
nbsp; “It’s nothing.”

  Bart snarled, and George cupped his chin.

  “I promise you, it’s nothing. And they’re both dead.”

  “The sheriff?” Frank asked.

  “He’s alive.”

  “No, I mean where is he?”

  “He’s on the floor in the office. Why don’t you get him in the cell and lock him up?” George handed Bart the ring of keys, and the three of them went to the front of the jail. “I’ll keep a lookout.”

  Bart scowled down at the sheriff until he saw his hands cuffed behind his back, the bruise that bloomed on his jaw, and the blood that soaked his stringy brown hair. “That’s my hummingbird. Frank, grab his legs, would you?”

  “Got ‘em.” Frank grinned too. “Bastard.”

  They carried the sheriff through the door to the cells. Bart lost his grip—accidently, of course—and the sheriff’s head hit on the floor with a thud.

  “Whoops.”

  Frank grinned and shook his head. “Let’s get this bastard locked up.”

  They weren’t gentle about tossing the sheriff into the cell. Bart closed and locked the door.

  And then the shots started.

  Was this nightmare ever going to end?

  Bart raced into the office and grabbed a rifle from the rack on the wall. Frank took one as well, and they burst through the door.

  George stood on the wooden walk, holding a rifle Bart hadn’t seen before. Lying in the dirt of the street were the three men who’d come for Steve earlier. Their blood pooled in the dirt.

  And they were very, very dead.

  Chapter 47

  Bob McCloud, sheriff of Willow Crick, heard something in the back of the jail, and he stalked over to glare through the door that led to the cells. The wagon master had been taken out about half an hour earlier, so only two prisoners were left there. One lounged on the top bunk, while the other sat stiffly on the lower one…well, he would too if he was facing a noose.

  “What’s going on?” he snarled. Nothing like making his power known.

  “Nothing.”

  He glared at them and turned back to his office. He was the sheriff, goddammit, not some glorified nanny. He should be down at the livery stable watching the interfering nuisance of a wagon master get the tar whaled out of him. Bob had handpicked Asa, Cal, and Luke to do Horace Weatherford’s dirty work. They enjoyed it, and Bob and Ori got a kick out of watching them tear apart some poor fool.