A Lawman's Christmas_ A McKettricks of Texas Novel - Linda Lael Miller [24]
She undressed quickly, since the little room was cold, and donned her flannel nightgown, returned to the kitchen carrying a lighted candle stuck to a jar lid and dipped water from the stove reservoir to wash her face. When that was done, she brushed her teeth at the sink and steeled herself to make the trek to the outhouse, through the snowy cold.
When she got back, she locked the door, used the candle to light her way back to the bedroom, blew out the flame and climbed into bed with her daughters.
She was tired, but too excited to fall asleep right away.
She had ten precious dollars.
The Wildflower Salve Company had offered her honest work.
She’d as good as—well, almost as good as—spent an evening with her cousin and dearest friend, Piper.
And Marshal Clay McKettrick had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
THE JAILHOUSE, CLAY SOON discovered, was a lonely place at night.
He’d already had supper over at the hotel dining room—chicken and dumplings almost as good as his ma’s—and he’d paid a visit to Outlaw, over at the livery stable, too. He’d even sent a telegram north to Indian Rock, to let his family know he’d arrived and was settling in nicely.
That done, Clay had filled the water bucket and set up the coffeepot for morning, then filled the wood box next to the potbellied stove. There being no place to hang up his clothes, he left them folded in his travel trunk, there in the back room, where the bed was. Most of his books hadn’t arrived yet—he had a passel of them and they had to be shipped down from Indian Rock in crates—and he couldn’t seem to settle down to read the one favorite he’d brought along on the train, Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days. He must have read that book a dozen times over the years, and he never got tired of it, but that night, it failed to hold his interest.
He kept thinking about Dara Rose Nolan, the gold of her hair and the fiery blue spirit in her eyes. He thought about her shapely breasts and small waist and smooth skin and that flash of pride that was so easy to arouse in her.
And the same old question plagued him: Why in the devil would a man with a wife like that squander his time in a whorehouse, the way her husband had done?
Nobody could help dying, of course, but they had at least some choice about where they died, didn’t they? It was simple common sense—folks didn’t turn up their toes in places they hadn’t ventured into in the first place.
Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, anyhow, Clay strapped on his gun belt, shrugged into his duster and reached for his hat.
He was the marshal, after all.
He’d just take a little stroll up and down Main Street and make sure any visiting cowpokes or drifters were minding their manners. If anybody needed arresting, he’d throw them in the hoosegow and start up a conversation.
What he really needed, he supposed, stepping out onto the dark sidewalk, was a woman. Someone like Dara Rose Nolan.
Maybe he’d get himself a dog—that would provide some companionship. He’d have to do all the talking, of course, but he liked critters. He’d grown up with all manner of them on the ranch.
Yes, sir, he needed a dog.
He hadn’t even reached the corner when he heard the first yelp.
He frowned, stopped to pinpoint the direction.
“Dutch, you kick that dog again,” he heard a male voice say, “and I’ll shoot you, ’stead of him!”
Clay, having located the disturbance, pushed his coat back to uncover the handle of his .45 and stepped into the alley.
It was dark, and the snow veiled the moon, but light struggled through the filthy windows of the buildings on either side, and he could make out two men, one holding a pistol, standing over a shivering form huddled close to the ground.
“Hold it right there,” Clay said, in deadly earnest, when the man with the pistol raised it to shoot. “What’s going on here?”
The dog whimpered.
“Nothin’, Marshal,” one of the men answered, in a drunken whine. “The poor mutt’s