Luther, I’ve got to go. If my pa finds out—”
“I’m stuck in this hole until the circuit judge gets around again, and all you’re worried about is your pa.” Luther waved him closer. “Get over here, boy.”
He glanced up and down the alley again, then ventured closer to the window. “What?”
“I’m getting powerful thirsty in this here cell,” Luther whispered. “How ‘bout you bring me a bottle?”
“No. I can’t do that.” Deuce backed up a step.
“You owe me, boy.” Luther pointed an accusing finger at him. “On account of you, I got shot, arrested and thrown in this here jail. I coulda got you in with the biggest gang in the state. Scully would have taught you everything he knowed about outlawing. You’d have been somebody, boy. And look at you now, shoveling up after horses in your pa’s livery. What kind of life is that?”
Deuce shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know, Luther.”
“Come back here after dark and bring me a bottle.”
“I’ve got to go.” Deuce pulled the mare down the alley.
“You better be back here! You owe me!”
He didn’t answer, didn’t even look back, just hurried through the alley and over to the Eldon Hotel. Deuce put the mare in the small paddock, then stuck his head inside the open kitchen door. It smelled of freshly baked bread.
Etta Mae turned from the stove, dripping water. “Hmm? Yes? What is it, dear?”
Aware now of how long he’d been away from the livery, Deuce bounced anxiously on his toes. “Is Miss Kelsey here?”
“Oh, no, dear.” Etta Mae turned back to the stove. “She went out to visit her pa this afternoon. Seems he’s not feeling well. And she was just out there yesterday, too.”
“When will she be back?”
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t expect her back. She took her carpetbag with her. Left some time ago.”
“Just tell her the mare is in the paddock.”
Deuce went down the alley, but in the opposite direction, away from the jail. He ran all the way back to the livery.
Clay ducked into the express office and walked up to the counter. The sheriff had told him—three times—when the stage would be through Eldon, but he wanted to check the schedule himself, as well as some other facts.
Otis Bean, the senior agent, looked up from his neatly arranged desk. A green visor crowned his bald head, and black armbands fit loosely around his crisp white shirtsleeves. In the corner, at a much smaller desk, sat a young man, his dark head bend forward, diligently shuffling through several stacks of papers; junior agents worked hard on their way up.
Otis Bean peered over the top of his spectacles. “Yes?”
Clay braced his hands against the counter. “I’m Marshal Chandler. I need to talk to you about the stage robberies.”
Otis looked Clay up and down, and his expression soured. “Well, you can be sure it had nothing to do with my stagecoaches—I don’t care what Jack Morgan says. He might own everything in this town, but he doesn’t own this office.”
“Seems a mite peculiar, don’t you think?” Clay hung his thumbs in his gun belt. “The only time the stage is robbed, Jack Morgan’s payroll is on it.”
“Hoodlums.” Otis tossed his head. “Don’t blame me if you law people can’t keep the stage lines safe for decent folk to travel.”
Clay inclined his head. “Makes me wonder who else knew the payroll would be on the stage. Morgan says he never sends it out on a regular schedule, just to keep anybody from learning the routine.”
Otis’s body went rigid. “Now you listen here, Marshal, I’m senior agent of this office, and I know my job. And so does Ernie.” He jerked his thumb toward the young man seated in the corner. “If somebody is shooting their mouth off about Jack Morgan’s payroll going out, it’s not coming from this office.”
The man had worked himself into such a snit, Clay felt inclined to believe him. “I’d like to see the journals for the days the Morgan payroll was stolen.”
Otis’s spine stiffened. “That is private information meant only for the stage lines.”
Clay straightened and squared his shoulders. He tapped the badge on his chest. “Not anymore.”
His eyes narrowed, and then he slapped his palms against the desktop and rose. “Ernie!”
The young man jumped from his chair. “Yes, Mr. Bean?”
“Get the records for the days of the last four stage robberies. Give the marshal whatever he wants.” Otis turned and glared at Clay. “And I should hope this will actually result in an arrest”
Ernie gathered the ledgers and brought them to the counter for Clay, then hurried back to his desk. Otis stood watching Clay as he leafed through the pages showing the routes, schedules, passenger rosters, and cargo manifests.
The bell jangled and the door opened. Clay glanced up to see a tall young woman in pale blue step inside. Her brown hair was carefully coiffed, and she looked like an easterner. Her eyes flashed as her gaze swept the three men.
“Well, good morning, gentlemen.”
She purred the words, like a cunning cat on the prowl, and sauntered over to Clay. She tapped the badge on his chest with her fan and smiled lazily up at him. “I do believe you must be that marshal I’ve heard so much about.” She tossed an impatient glance at Otis Bean. “Introduce us.”
Otis’s lips curled downward. “I’d like to present Mallory Morgan. This is Marshall Chandler. Mallory is Jack Morgan’s daughter.”
He touched the brim of his hat politely. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Mallory uttered a deep, throaty laugh and eased closer, holding her gaze steady on Clay’s. “Yes, Marshal, quite a pleasure.”
The young woman exuded a sensuality that perme. ated everything around her. All done up as she was, in that proper dress with the tight fitted bodice and the bustle that swayed provocatively, he sensed a recklessness about her, the kind that in his younger days he would have sniffed after like a dog on point; the kind he now knew could cause a man a world of trouble. Especially when packaged as the daughter of the town’s richest man. Clay eased back a step.
Mallory smiled sweetly and touched Clay’s chest with her fan again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you men from your work. I’ll just have a word with Ernie.”
Her gaze turned to Otis, and her brows arched, as if she were daring him to object He didn’t, and she giggled softly and wound her way back to Ernie’s desk, her bustle swaying.
Clay turned back to the ledgers, talking quietly with Otis. After a moment, he glanced up. Ernie, flushed and breathless, was on his feet. Mallory stood inches away, purring softly to him.
