A/N: Here's the next chapter, everyone. I am so glad that the western, complete with sexy cowboys, is still alive and well, judging by the amount of reads and comments this story has received. Please make sure you vote, fan and comment, to move this story up the ranks. Thanks so much to everyone!
Margaret Mary O’Malley was a great judge of character. Her late husband had said so nearly every day, right up until the afternoon he’d been killed in a marauding Indian attack several years earlier. And Margaret Mary had believed him.
“Margaret Mary, me-darlin’,” he’d say with that twinkle in his sky blue eyes that she dearly loved to gaze into and missed seeing ever since his death, “ You can tell a weasel of a man from a prince even before he opens his mouth, and that’s the truth. Ye have The Sight, my love, and that’s no blarney.”
Whether that was really true or not Margaret Mary couldn’t really say, being God-fearing and all. But she did realize she understood people.
So when the dusty, lanky stranger showed up on her boardinghouse doorstep asking for a room one day, looking defeated and trail-weary, it only took the Irish woman a split second to agree. Gazing into his silver, snake charmer’s eyes she’d seen death, suppressed anger, and sorrow. And while each of those emotions examined separately might have tempted her to turn him away, taken collectively Marge found herself accepting him as a boarder, with her usual stipulations.
“Rent’s due on Fridays. You miss the deadline, sheriff’s out here haulin’ your sorry carcass off to jail for trespassin’ the followin’ morning. Meals are at seven, noon, and six. I expect clean hands and boots, and no spurs at the table or in the house. There’s no smokin’ in bed, no entertainin’ anyone in your room, and if you chew, make sure you don’t miss the spittoon; I don’t cotton to stains on my clean floors.”
Taking a breath while steadily holding the gunman’s gaze, Margaret Mary was surprised to see a glint of humor behind those icy orbs, most likely put there by her rules. Well, the next one would wipe that amusement right off his face…
“And when you’re in the house your guns get locked in my downstairs safe. Everyone’s. No exceptions. If that’s a deal-breaker, then adios.”
Yup, there it went. The gunfighter’s face turned to stony disbelief, blue eyes widening as he carefully licked his lips in preparation to speaking. Margaret Mary found herself wondering which argument he would use—
“You’ll take my gun?”
Margaret Mary’s Kelly green eyes sizzled into his while she replied unequivocally, “Yessir. There’s no need to have one in your room. Ain’t nobody comin’ into your space, Sir. Not in my establishment. An’ I have a shotgun at my disposal for any thievin’ varmints. Can shoot the rattle right off a rattler at thirty yards, so don’t you go worryin’ none about your virtue, Mister. It’s safe with me.”
Margaret Mary laughed uproariously at her own joke while the gunman settled his hypnotic stare onto her. Wouldn’t matter; she’d stared down tougher hombres than this man, and would do so again.
Meeting him look for look she continued, leaning a negligent shoulder against the white painted door jam, “Now, you can keep your gun if you want to bed down out in the barn with your horse; which, by the way, you have to take care of yourself. I have the feed, but muckin’ and feedin’ is your responsibility.”
The gunslinger shrugged, commenting dismissively, “That’s fine; I do it anyway. But…my gun?”
His frown was comical to Margaret Mary. Lordy, but men treated their weapons like—well, like an extension of themselves!
“That’s what I said. Make up your mind, Sir; I have a boarding house to run.”
Once more their gazes collided; his gunmetal grays no match for the half-century old Irish woman.
Shrugging in defeat the gunman said briefly, “Fine. You’ve got a deal.”
He bent to methodically start untying the gun from his muscular thigh with slim, tanned fingers. Margaret Mary let her held-in breath out on a sigh…
Now, a week later, while slapping the last offender of cleanliness up on the clothesline strung out behind the gabled, two-story home she’d transformed into that successful boarding house, Margaret Mary, Marge to just about everyone, paused in her early morning chore to watch the gunslinger make his familiar trek out to the barn to feed his horse.
The man was certainly a contradiction. He killed people for a living, yet day after day she’d witnessed him leave the house after requesting his gun and head straight out to his horse, choosing to groom, feed, and clean out its stall before he even came in for breakfast. She hadn’t seen many men do that; livestock came second to most men’s creature comforts, but the gunman was an exception. Marge admired that trait. After all, hadn’t her husband cared for his animals just as much?
With those thoughts swirling in her head and the laundry all strung out on the line behind her like soldiers awaiting orders, Marge hefted the empty basket under one arm and headed down the slope in order to way-lay the gunfighter with a request she hoped would benefit them both.
Dust motes floated in the early morning sunlight as the older woman entered the barn. The pungent odor of new hay and healthy equine assailed her nostrils while she deliberately dragged her booted feet on the dirt so as not to startle the gunman and get shot for her trouble.
The muted jingle of the horse’s halter and low, murmured words uttered from McQuade’s lips led Marge straight to the gunfighter occupied in methodically currying the large, bay stallion secured in the opening of the animal’s stall.
Lean, hard arm muscles shifting under the blue work shirt and black vest McQuade wore caught Marge’s attention. Capable, tanned hands smoothed over the horse’s shining coat, causing the animal’s skin to shiver in response to its master’s gentle touch, a gentle caress probably extended to his lovemaking skills, Marge mused.
Realizing with a jolt the bend her thoughts were taking and that she was admiring the play of muscles displayed under the snug shirt the gunslinger wore, Marge crinkled her nose at that feminine weakness and announced her presence by clearing her throat and saying, “Excuse me, Mr. McQuade?”
Without looking up or slowing in his chore, apparently already uncannily aware of her presence, the gunfighter interrupted, “It’s Sonny.”
“Yes. May I ask you a favor?”
Sonny McQuade paused and glanced up at Marge under his hat brim, hands resting on the horse’s withers.
Silence.
Snared in the hired gun’s unwavering gaze, Marge shifted her feet nervously, reassembled her backbone, and replied, “Would you be able to drive me into town today? I have supplies to pick up and don’t really want to lift them all by my lonesome. Unless, of course, you already have plans?”
Marge blinked guilelessly up at McQuade, knowing damn well all he did every morning was tend his horse, eat his breakfast alone, then saddle up and ride away for a good portion of the day, only to return and repeat the process.
The boardinghouse matron couldn’t fathom where he disappeared to day after day but, mentally shaking her head to clear her ponderings, Marge’s eyes focused on McQuade once more, finding him studying her with narrowed, silver eyes, attempting to discern any ulterior motives.
Apparently coming up with nothing he shrugged, strong shoulders bunching under the vest, and said laconically, “’Course, Ma’am; if you’ll just let me finish with Red here, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
At her small nod he returned to brushing out the stallion.
Marge found herself pivoting about and heading back up to the house. At least if he showed up in town with her he might have a chance of gaining some respectability within the narrow-minded settlement he seemed to have chosen for his home.
##
“I still don’t understand why you asked that…hired killer to dance, Callandra West! People’s tongues have been waggin’ this entire week since the celebration, and it’s been all about you! You know how everyone in this town feels about Obadiah, the old bastard, so for his widow to start dancin’ with an outlaw, well, you catch my drift?”
Samantha Peyton whispered whenever she used a swear word, and today in the back of the general store was no exception as she hissed at her sister amongst the bolts of calico. Sam knew what Callie had suffered in her farce of a marriage, but the older sister also understood the workings of the town of Round Rock better than her younger sibling. On the outside Obadiah West had resembled a pillar of society, with no one except Callie understanding the true rottenness of his soul, and now Sam, after the fact.
Biding her time before answering, Callie fingered some white eyelet with a resigned sigh; she’d have no reason to buy something so frivolous. That material was usually reserved for wedding night nightgowns and Callie knew for a fact she’d never need fabric for that event again! No sirree. One time in that hellish predicament was enough for Callie. She considered herself a fast learner.
Glancing up at her concerned sister, Callie attempted to ease Sam’s mind; her older sibling worried a lot about her, and Callie appreciated the fact, even though she didn’t think she warranted Sam’s concern.
“Sam, I’ve been a widow for over a year now. The town has to get over the fact I was once married to their favorite son and let me get on with my life. Last Saturday was such a wonderful day; I felt carefree for the first time in months. Probably since Mama and Papa died, truth be told.
“So, if I felt like dancing with a handsome man, even if he was a gunfighter, well, the town will just have to accept the fact they don’t own me. I lived with a man that thought that. Never again.”
Immediately contrite Sam squeezed her sister’s arm gently, replying lowly, “I know, Sis. But the townspeople didn’t know. If you want to be a part of this town, you need to tread lightly.”
Callie’s eyes flashed. She was done with worrying about what other people thought. It was high time they cared about what she thought, what she felt. And she said so, whisper hissing like a snake.
“Did Obadiah tread softly, Sis? Did he? I wore his care all over my body and the town turned a blind eye to what I’m sure they all guessed! I don’t give a flying fig for what anyone thinks anymore. I’m living my life for myself, and the start of that new life is coming in on today’s train. It’s what Papa would have wanted if he were still alive.”
Sam’s eyes widened in immediate eagerness even as she backed off lecturing her sister. Callie had had a rough marriage, and the inner scars would last much longer than the outer ones. But if what she guessed was true…
“It’s that horse you bought isn’t it? From Tennessee? The kind Papa always wanted but couldn’t afford?”
Sam’s mind cast back to a time when their parents were still alive, when Mama and Papa considered changing their failing cattle ranch into a horse ranch so that Papa could buy, sell and train quality horses to the entire West. The Indian attack cut short his dream, as did Callie’s subsequent marriage, to her vision, but now it looked as though her desire was finally coming to fruition.
Excited all at once, Sam began jumping up and down as she chirped, “It is the horse, isn’t it? The stallion! Oh, my! You’re on your way, little sister! You’ll be on your way! Wait to Will hears about this! How long have you known he was coming?—“
Before Callie could answer, grinning at her sister’s exuberance, the faint train whistle blew from out on the prairie, maybe five minutes out of town. Both girls couldn’t resist squealing, holding onto each other’s hands.
“What’s so excitin’, girls?”
Callie and Sam turned to face Marge O’Malley, who’d somehow managed to come up behind them unnoticed. Callie, more reticent due to her past marital situation, glanced to her sister for the response.
Immediately rushing into the silence, Sam gushed, “Oh, Miz O’Malley, Callie has a delivery comin’ on the train that we’ve both been waiting for so impatiently! Willie? Rosemarie? Get out of the candy jar and get on over here!”
This last was delivered by raised voice as Samantha Peyton shot Mrs. O’Malley an apologetic look and excused herself to round up her two youngsters where they buzzed around the candy display like bees around a hive.
Callie smiled expectantly at the Irish boardinghouse matron, waiting for the anticipated question.
“What type of delivery, may I ask?” Marge studied the young widow before her, guessing at the pain she kept hidden from everyone in town. After all, wasn’t Marge a contemporary of the late Obadiah West? Hadn’t his first wife died young, under suspicious circumstances?
But Miz Callie West hadn’t been one to visit town much during her marriage, nor talk to too many people, either. She’d remained unapproachable. However, Marge had had her suspicions…
“A horse. The type of horse my father wanted to buy but never got the opportunity to do so. I’m starting that horse farm he always wanted, in his memory, thanks to my husband’s late generosity. I think it’s fitting, don’t you?”
Callie’s eyes challenged Marge to disagree, as did her poker-stiff posture. Ah, the girl was ready to take on the world now that she only had herself to answer to. But, a horse farm in cattle country? Good luck with that!...
However, Marge replied soothingly, “Most definitely, Miz Callie. Most definitely. I wish you luck. Do you need any help gathering the animal? I brought Mr. McQuade along to help me with my supplies, but I could loan him out if you need a man’s strength.”
Marge didn’t miss the faint pink stain rising to Callie West’s cheeks at the mention of the gunfighter. My, my, the girl definitely was not immune to the gunman’s rugged good looks at all. Perhaps there had been more to her inviting the man to dance than simple kindness after all.
But the young widow only said, “Thank you, but I need to learn to take care of my own business. Besides, I brought young Noah along to help if I needed any.”
Marge perked up at the mention of the sixteen-year-old’s name. The youth’s parents had been killed in the same marauding Indian attack that had taken Callie’s parents’ lives and Mr. O’Malley’s a few years ago. It was good the young man had found a home at the West homestead, although tongues would wag now that he was near to a grown man, living at the widow’s place, just the two of them… The town of Round Rock had some mighty narrow minds…
“Where is that boy? How is he doin’?”
Marge’s smile was genuine, and Callie relaxed as she replied easily, “He’s out waitin’ at the train station with my wagon—“
She was interrupted by the train whistle, much closer now, so Callie immediately excused herself in order to pay for her supplies with her sister and hurry out to the train and her much-anticipated purchase. Marge decided to mosey on out and watch the goings-on at the station as well. After all, it wasn’t every day a prime piece of horseflesh got delivered by train!
The arrival of the noonday train once a week remained a momentous occasion in Round Rock, since it seemed to bring a little slice of the East coast every time it whistled its way into town. Adults, children, and even dogs and chickens all gravitated toward the depot when the big, black steam engine huffed to a stop, the conductor hollering the station name over the squeal of brakes on steel.
Clouds of vapor billowed through the air, as did excited conversations as townsfolk milled about, waiting for whatever surprise lurked within the cars, though it was a rare visitor that ever disembarked at Round Rock. Even the sheriff ambled over from his post at the checker game set up in front of the saloon. He nearly always could be found hovering over the old men involved in the daily contest, a firm believer of letting trouble come find him instead of vice versa.
Spying Miz Callie West and her sister nearly skipping over to their buckboard wagon, Sheriff Benson altered his course to intersect with the lovely widow’s, hoping to capitalize on their several dances from the weekend before. She certainly was a sight for sore eyes…
Before he could get to her side, however, activity down at one of the rear cars snagged his attention as well as everyone else’s, for it seemed to be the unloading of something large, judging by the ramp being hastily dropped in front of one of the boxcar’s doors.
Suddenly a neigh rang out from within the car, setting Miz Callie to lifting her skirts and running to that end of the train. Her sister, niece and nephew, and half the town brought up the rear. And then the owner of the neigh appeared at the top of the ramp, causing a collective gasp at its appearance, as well as a cease in activity.
The animal was beautiful; no two words about it. Long necked, sleek skinned, and the color of chocolate melting on a summer’s day, the tall horse commanded the attention of every onlooker in the vicinity. As it stood holding court at the opening of the boxcar, held on a lead by a squat, gray-haired elf of a man, the steed regally tossed its head once or twice, snorting uneasily while eye-balling his audience even as he descended the wooden ramp placidly enough behind his handler.
Callie was the first to arrive at the ramp, beckoning a tall, lanky youth from the crowd to join her next to the horse and its guide as the duo made their way to the ground. Sam and her children kept a respectful distance, although Willie let loose his mother’s hand in view of his great age and independence, and little Rosemary kept whispering questions that no one took the time to answer. Finally she subsided with two fingers in her mouth, silent.
Everyone watched in consternation as the widow West shook hands with the bandy little man holding onto the horse, exchanging pleasantries as well as paperwork. At the gentleman’s nod Callie turned to the teenage boy now beside her, tilting her head as a request for him to take the animal’s lead from his handler. Everyone present could see the youth’s face light up at the opportunity, reaching cautiously for the horse’s halter even as Callie stepped away momentarily to talk to the man.
“Noah, just hold him for a moment while I settle up with Mr. Armitage.”
At the boy’s wide grin Callie smiled and continued, “I didn’t think you’d mind. I won’t be but a minute.”
The widow turned to ask Mr. Armitage about his trip with the stallion.
Stepping up beside Sam and Marge O’Malley, who had paused beside the young family as well, Sheriff Benson asked Callie’s sister, “Is that horse your sister’s?”
His amazed expression met Sam’s, who felt the need to explain to the lawman even if her sister felt no compunction to do so.
Glancing briefly at Marge, Sam replied to Sheriff Benson, “Y-yes, Sheriff. Callie’s startin’ up that horse farm our Daddy always wanted, and this is the first horse. Ain’t he a beauty?”
Marge O’Malley nodded at the rhetorical question even as the sheriff frowned, wet his lips and queried, eyes resting on the widow West as she turned from Mr. Armitage, business concluded, “An’ how’s she gonna do that, I wonder?”
“I’m gonna stud him out, Sheriff; that’s how. And I’m gonna train him up the cavalry way and start a horse-training business as well. I am so done with cows!”
Finished with the handler and pointing out the saloon for him to wend his thirsty way towards, Callie overheard the question and responded to the sheriff’s inquiry. Leaving the beautiful animal with Noah, who gently stroked the horse’s dark nose in silent rapture, Callie moved to her sister, Marge, and the sheriff.
She ruffled her niece’s and nephew’s hair while intercepting the sheriff’s frown at her easy usage of the word ‘stud,’ a subject no well-bred woman, married or not, broached. Well, he might as well get used to her unorthodox behavior and speech! After all, Callie was nobody’s woman but her own now!
“Impressive, Miz West,” Marge commented, admiring the young widow’s courage for starting a new business from scratch, one that she, Margaret Mary O’Malley, secretly thought would become a rousing success. She wished she could have done something less predictable than becoming a boarding house matron, but such was the opportunity she’d been afforded. And she was doing well, all things considered…
“Stud him out? You? By yourself? Why that’s just plain—“
Callie was spared the sheriff’s puritanical tirade by a mangy dog suddenly running through their midst, the animal intent on catching a wayward chicken running at an angle to him with useless wings spread. Unfortunately, although they did put a halt to the sheriff’s disbelieving bluster, both pieces of livestock were heading straight for Callie’s new horse, barking and cackling frantically, dodging legs and skirts along the way.
Like just about every other teenage boy his age, Noah paid no attention to his surroundings or the impending disaster, instead simply pet the new horse over and over down its neck in mesmerizing frequency. Normally that would calm any ordinary horse in this situation, but Callie’s new acquisition was anything but ordinary and skittish in its foreign surroundings, to boot.
Therefore, when the dog and chicken ran under the animal’s belly, all hell broke loose.
Instantly Callie’s new purchase snorted, neighed, and tossed its head, effectively pulling free from the daydreaming Noah. With its newfound freedom the horse reared and kicked simultaneously, clearing the immediate area promptly and scattering men, women and children with its response.
“Whoa! Whoa, boy!” Noah shouted, glancing quickly at Miz West, afraid of repercussions from the widow while grappling for the loose lead rope as the frightened horse continued to rear and dance, and the dog and chicken ran amuck below his flashing hooves.
Callie jumped into the fray, tripping over the fowl as it ran squawking for dear life, the mongrel nipping at its heels. Sam wisely grabbed both her children and herded them out of harm’s way, watching in dismay as the horse evaded both Noah’s and Callie’s attempts at capture, throwing its head this way and that as it gathered itself to flee, muscles bunching under gleaming, quivering skin.
Even the sheriff jumped for the rope dangling from the horse’s halter, missing just like everyone else, instead catching Callie in his outstretched arms before she landed face first into the dirt.
“Catch him, someone, please! Catch him! He’s my life!— “pleaded Callie as she slammed against Benson, but the horse was off like a bullet, its trajectory planned, its destination preordained…to freedom.
Caught in the sheriff’s arms, Callie stared around his shoulder, tears in her eyes while she pushed against him in an attempt to futilely chase the frightened beast as it cleared a path through the train station crowd. People began shouting.
“Look out!”
“Catch him!”
“Who let that horse loose?”
With all the commotion no one reached for the animal. They simply pulled aside in stupefaction as Callie’s future, her livelihood, readied itself to disappear into the unknown, the flatland, forever.
Until a tall, shadowed figure stepped out of the rear of the milling crowd, right into the path of the stampeding horse. Bending his knees slightly in preparation of who knew what, gaze trained on the madly approaching steed, arms extended out at chest level, the savior crouched while the horse bore down on him, eyes rolling, mouth foaming…
And then the figure reached out, miraculously catching the wildly dangling rope as the horse catapulted past, the man taking a few running steps beside the snorting animal and then vaulting himself onto its bare back like a native.
His sudden weight startled the stallion into faltering; giving its rider the chance to lean low over its neck as if speaking into a woman’s ear, perhaps whispering just the same kinds of nothings he would use to calm a skittish maiden.
Whatever he said worked for, between his hands on the rope and his cheek close to the horse’s head, the rider slowed its headlong rush from a gallop, to a canter, to a walk down the main street.
Eventually the rider turned the horse with a gentle tug and a tap of heels. The stallion responded, snorting and tossing its head, obeying without hesitancy, making the turn toward the train and revealing at that moment that its rider was none other than the gunfighter, Sonny McQuade, sitting astride with his back straight and hat low over his eyes, body moving as one upon the horse’s back.
People stepped aside without speaking, mouths agape, staring up soundlessly at the gunman as he rode straight to the widow West, who pulled out of the sheriff’s arms wordlessly and stepped forward, hastily wiping frustrated tears from the corners of her eyes while maintaining eye contact with the gunslinger.
He halted before her with a low “Whoa” and a gentle pat on the horse’s neck, swinging one muscled leg over the animal’s withers and sliding effortlessly to the ground before the young widow.
Retaining his hold on the lead while reaching forward to pass it to Callie, Sonny McQuade asked mildly, faint humor glinting in those icy blue eyes, “This horse belong to you, Ma’am?”
Returning a watery smile, the widow murmured a low, “Thank you,” peering up into the gunfighter’s now expressionless face under the hat brim and taking the rope from his warm, calloused fingers.
At their touch, Callie’s eyes widened fractionally, even as the man’s narrowed on hers, a silver arrow honing onto her face with piercing accuracy. Immediately Callie glanced away, flustered at McQuade’s direct gaze and his hero’s actions; her own eyes casting about until they rest on the dejected Noah, standing to the side in abject misery.
Seeing the youth’s glum expression Callie’s attention sharpened, realizing the young man blamed himself for the horse’s stampede.
Recognizing it would most likely take the entire trip home to convince the teenage orphan it was not his fault the horse escaped, Callie once more looked at the gunfighter before her and repeated, “Thank you for rescuing my horse. I am indebted to you.”
She held his penetrating gaze without squirming, feeling herself flush nevertheless.
After a drawn out silence, McQuade inclined his head briefly, saying in his gravelly voice that sent shivers of awareness down Callie’s spine and made her skin feel tingly and uncomfortable on her body, “Then I may come by some time to collect payment. Good day, Ma’am. Sheriff.”
With a finger to his brim, McQuade nodded to the widow and the lawman standing behind her and moved past, only to pause next to the discouraged youth.
Touching him featherlike on the sleeve to garner the boy’s attention, once gotten, the gunfighter said quietly to him, “It coulda happened to anyone. Let go of the guilt and learn from it, boy. No harm was done. Now see that Miz West gets home safely, y’ hear?”
Immediately Noah nodded, eyes brightening somewhat at the idea the gunfighter, the hired killer, had just spoken to him, the orphan, the nobody. As McQuade moved on past, away from the huddle of curiosity seekers, Noah straightened his spine importantly, smiling slightly as he caught Miz West’s eyes.
She returned his grin, wondering what McQuade had said that brought that beam upon her stable hand’s face even as she passed the sheriff, unaware of that man’s suspicious glare spearing between the shoulder blades of the gunslinger’s retreating back, and her own.