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Lawman in Disguise (Brides of Simpson Creek)

By Laurie Kingery

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LAWMAN IN DISGUISE
By Laurie Kingery
CHAPTER ONE
Simpson Creek, Texas, June 1870


He was at the end of his strength, and he supposed this barn behind someone's Simpson Creek house was as good a place to die as anywhere else. At least Ace, his horse, was apt to find some forage before he gave up on his master and wandered off. He only hoped that if the law connected the riderless horse to the bank robbers, they wouldn't be able to find him here, or they'd be apt to string him up before he could explain.
Weakened by the loss of blood, his dismount turned into an ungraceful collapse into the aisle between the stalls, observed by no one but a trio of chickens scrabbling along in search of bugs and stray oats. The chickens fluttered and clucked in alarm when he collapsed, and he groaned as the fiery pain of his wound punished him for the violent movement. Ace sidled away uneasily before spotting the mound of hay in the corner with a bucket atop it, then he ambled toward it, his injured rider forgotten.
Though his vision was blurry, he could see that he was lying right in front of an open stall. Its straw bedding looked far from new, but it would at least be a little softer than the dirt. Smothering more groans, he crawled toward it.
He hoped whoever found his dead body wasn't too upset by the discovery. It would have been nice to have a cold sip of water before he breathed his last, but one couldn't have everything... As soon as he reached the dark haven of the middle of the stall, oblivion overtook him and he closed his eyes.
***
He awakened with a start some time later to the sound of the barn door creaking open and footsteps trudging toward him. How much later it was, the man wasn't sure, but the light from the barn door hadn't faded much, so he guessed it to be late afternoon.
"Dumb ol' eggs," he heard a boy's voice mutter. "Why do I always hafta be the one to gather 'em?"
The man froze. If the boy was hunting eggs, his search might very well bring him into this stall, and he would be discovered. But there was no time to find another hiding place, and he sure didn't have the strength to run. Was his horse still in the barn? He listened, and sure enough, he could hear the beast's teeth grinding away at something at the end of the barn. Maybe he'd be able to reach Ace and flee before the boy could set up the hue and cry…
"Hey, fella, where'd you come from?" he heard the boy call out, and knew that the kid had spotted his horse. "Ma ain't gonna be happy you found her bucket of chicken feed. Let's move you into a stall, and I'll pull that heavy saddle off so's you can rest for a spell while I find out where you come from."
He heard Ace's snort of displeasure as he was pulled away from the source of his snack, the clop of his hooves down the aisle, the creak of stall door opening on rusty hinges. It was lucky the kid had chosen another stall; maybe he'd escape detection after all. Then he heard the boy's sudden intake of breath, and his shocked mutter, "Is that blood?"
His wounds must have leaked blood onto the saddle.
The stall door slammed, and he heard the gelding shift restively. The boy's footsteps quickened, and came closer, as each stall door was opened and shut. His vision had been fuzzy around the edges when they'd entered the barn, but he thought there'd only been about four stalls…
He wished there'd been enough hay to cover himself with or something to hide behind, but he doubted it would have worked, anyway. Stifling a groan, he crouched with the intent of grabbing the boy and putting his hand over the kid's mouth until he could convince him to keep quiet--
--Then the door of the stall where he lay was yanked open. "Mister! What are you doin' there? Stay where you are, or I'll beat your brains out!" the boy cried with surprising ferocity. He had grabbed up a piece of wood that looked as if it had played a role in stickball games, and was swinging it around in a threatening manner, as if he'd be only too glad to make good his threat. He looked to be about twelve or so, Thorn thought, a boy on the cusp of adolescence and feeling the need to prove himself.
"Quiet down, b-boy, I…I won't…won't hurt you," he muttered, reaching for him, but the boy danced back out of his reach. He knew he wasn't up to clambering to his feet and grabbing him, but the boy kept a wary eye on him, obviously ready to act if the intruder tried anything.
"Won't h-hurt you," the man repeated, hoping he was convincing. "Need…help…" He sank back into the hay, feeling the sweat dripping from his forehead.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, daring to come closer as he stared at the man.
"My name's Thorn," he said. "What's yours?"
The boy's expression was fearful, as if he thought possessing his name would give the man some power over him, but evidently he thought it was only seemed fair to supply his came since the man had admitted his own.
"Billy Joe…H-Henderson," he quavered, in a voice on the edge of deepening into manhood. "What happened t' you? Did you get attacked by Injuns?"
Thorn felt his lips curve upward slightly at the question, and Billy Joe looked embarrassed, as if he had already realized his guess was ridiculous. If Comanches had attacked, the whole town would have heard the war whoops and the commotion of an attack, and there'd be more victims than just this one man. Besides, he didn't have any arrows sticking out of him—he hadn't been scalped…
He saw the boy's face change the moment he realized the truth.
"You're one of them bank robbers, ain't you?" the boy breathed, clearly awed. "You got shot makin' your getaway, right? You're a real live outlaw."
Thorn started to shake his head, then stopped and stared at Billy Joe, trying to think what to tell him.
"Don't worry, I won't tell nobody," Billy Joe whispered, crouching low and holding out his hand to the man. "I want to be an outlaw too when I grow up, so I won't turn you in. I seen the outlaws gallopin' away after the holdup--not close-like," he told Thorn quickly, as if he thought Thorn would worry that he could identify all of them. "But my friend Dan was just comin' out of the mercantile with his ma, across from the bank, and he told me all about what he saw. Wait'll I tell him you was hidin' out in our barn," he said, obviously feeling honored.
"You just said you wouldn't tell anybody," Thorn pointed out. "I could be in danger if you did."
The boy looked startled. "Oh, I wouldn't tell till after you got away," he hastened to assure Thorn. He still looked nervous, and Thorn realized in that moment how he must look to the boy, with his shirt blood-spattered shirt, his eyes probably wide and wild, and his face pale from the loss of blood.
"You are one of them outlaws, aren't you?" Billy Joe persisted.
Thorn nodded, watching the boy. "Yes, I was with the gang that robbed your bank today."
"Ain't my bank, Mr. Thorn—my ma and me, we don't have so much as a plugged nickel in it. We ain't got enough money to keep any in a bank. So why are you all bloody?" Billy Joe asked.
"I got shot during the robbery," Thorn admitted. "I lost a lot of blood."
"I gotta get you some help," Billy Joe told him. "The doctor—"
"No, you can't bring the doctor here!" Thorn cried in alarm, jerking his hand out, though he knew he couldn't stop Billy Joe if the boy took off. "He'll bring the law…"
"But I can't just let you die!" Billy Joe insisted.
And then they both froze at the sound of footsteps coming toward the stall.
"Billy Joe, where are you?" called a female voice. "Didn't I tell you I needed the eggs before I could cook our supper?"
Billy Joe froze, staring at Thorn, and he stared back, equally dismayed. But there was nowhere to hide. The boy's lips silently formed the words My ma.
"Billy Joe, who were you talking to?" his mother demanded, her footsteps just outside the stall. "If one of your no-account friends is here distracting you when you should be doing what I asked, he'll just have to go home. I—"
She pushed open the stall door, then shrieked as she spotted Thorn crouching in the straw. Thorn saw her wrench the stick out of Billy Joe's hand and take a firm hold on it—as if a stick could protect them from a desperate man.
"Who're you? And what are you doing, talking to my son?" she demanded. "Billy Joe, run and fetch the sheriff!"
But Billy Joe remained rooted to the spot. "Ma, Mr. Thorn—he won't hurt us," he said. "He promised."
It sounded to Thorn as if the boy was making a valiant effort to make his tone reassuring, not frantic and whiny like a little kid.
"He's wounded, that's all. Ma, we gotta help him, we gotta!"
Thorn saw the woman's eyes narrow as she listened to her son, then she aimed that narrowed gaze back at him. There was not an ounce of belief in her eyes that he was anything but a low-down polecat.
Smart lady, he thought. I wouldn't believe the boy either, after looking at me. He braced himself, expecting to see the woman yank her son out of the barn by his collar, if necessary. Shortly after that, the sheriff would appear and the jig would be well and truly up.
He raised both arms, wincing at the effort. He couldn't raise the one that was wounded all the way up. "I really don't mean any harm, Mrs. Henderson, ma'am. just rode in here looking for…" A quiet place to die, he thought, but he didn't want to say that and alarm her further. The idea of a dead body in her barn might cause the lady to swoon. He hoped it wouldn't make her madder that he'd used her name. "Peace and quiet..."
"That may be, but your horse has helped himself to an entire bucket of chicken feed," Mrs. Henderson replied tartly, jerking her head toward the other end of the barn. "Billy Joe, put that beast into another stall until I have time to sort this out. I can't afford to buy more feed."
"Sorry, ma'am, I'll pay you for it, soon as I can," he murmured.
The woman made a dismissive gesture, as if she was accustomed to empty promises and had no use for them. "So how did you get shot? The truth now—I'll know if you lie," she said. She was actually rather pretty, in a quiet, care-worn sort of way, or she would be, if she ever got some rest. She had hair of a hue he'd heard called ash blonde before, and deep-set gray-blue eyes that saw right through a man's bluster. But even with the tiredness that etched her face, she had a quiet sort of dignity he respected.
"I got shot at the bank when the men I was riding with robbed it," he said, locking her gaze with his while hoping against hope she would read the message in his eyes that there was more to it than that. "I promise you, I intend no harm to you or the boy, nor will I steal anything. I…I just couldn't ride any farther."
Her eyes left his and focused on his blood-stained shirt. "How badly are you wounded?"
"I was hit in the shoulder and the leg, and bled a lot. I think the leg wound may just be a graze. With a little care and luck, though, I won't get lead poisoning," he added, with more confidence than he actually felt. But he hadn't expired yet, so maybe there was hope. "Soon as I'm fit to ride, I'll leave here."
Daisy Henderson heard the unspoken question within his statement—would she provide the care and let him stay hidden here, and hope luck allowed him to survive?
"Oh, so you're a gentleman bank robber, is that right, Mr. Thorn?" she retorted, allowing an edge of scorn in her voice. "So you weren't the one who shot the bank president, or the teller?"
"Ma," her son protested, clearly embarrassed that she doubted his new hero. "He's hurt, and I think we should take him at his word."
She rounded on her son. "Billy Joe Henderson, I'll thank you not to question your mother when I'm doing what I must to keep us safe," she said. She wasn't at all happy about the admiring tone in her son's voice in regard to the wounded man at their feet, and the way her son seemed to want to protect an outlaw.
"But Ma…" Flushed and crestfallen, the boy stared at the hay under his boots.
A glance at the wounded man showed traces of discomfort in his eyes as his gaze shifted from her to her son.
"Billy Joe, mind your mother," he said gently. "She only wants what's good for you, and she has no reason to believe what I'm saying." He turned back to Daisy. "And no, I wasn't the one who shot the bank president or the teller. I was as surprised as the ones who got shot when the lead started flying. Griggs—that's the leader of the gang--had said there was to be no shooting unless it became necessary. And it wasn't necessary from my point of view—none of the bank employees had offered any resistance. The gang shot them purely for their amusement, far as I could tell," Thorn said. "But after we turned to leave the bank, I heard a bang and it felt like someone had punched me, and then there was this stinging in my shoulder. I looked around, and saw that the bank president was suddenly holding a revolver, of all things, aimed it at me—funny, since I'd put myself in range by trying to stop one of the gang from shooting anyone else. Then another of gang shot the bank president in the shoulder in retaliation, and it was time to us to skedaddle. So I figure your town doctor—if you have one—is pretty busy right now, just tending the bank president and the teller. He doesn't need another patient."
Daisy ignored that objection for now. "Billy Joe, go back into the house and stay there—right now," she said firmly, when the boy seemed to loathe to leave. "You're to stay out of the barn until I decide what's to be done."
Billy Joe's upper lip jutted out rebelliously, but after uttering a big sigh, he turned and trudged out of the barn, much to Daisy's relief. She sighed and looked after her son for a moment before turning back to Thorn.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with him," she murmured. "He's been through a lot in the past couple of years…"
Thorn looked puzzled. "Ma'am, if you think your husband would object to me staying here in your barn till I'm able to travel, I can move on," he began, and she saw that he was watching carefully for her reaction. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd prefer to wait to move till nightfall, though…"
She'd hoped he wouldn't guess her situation, but he was too clever. "I…I probably shouldn't tell you this," she said, avoiding his eyes. "But I won't lie. I'm a widow…have been for a couple of years now," she added, when his gaze dropped to her clothes, that were shabby and threadbare, but definitely not the black of more recent mourning. "So there's no one else to object to your presence. And that's why I said Billy Joe had been through a lot lately…"
I should have said, "We've been through a lot lately, she realized as soon as she had spoken. It sounded like she didn't miss her husband much, though that was the truth.
"I'm sorry for your loss," the wounded man said automatically. "And you're not happy to hear your boy talking like an outlaw was someone to look up to," he concluded for her.
"No, I'm not," she agreed, and thought he saw too much with those dark, knowing eyes. She met his gaze with her chin upturned, daring him to object.
"And I can understand that," he told her, looking as if he wanted to say more about why he understood that. "Mrs. Henderson, I can't tell you the whole truth—for the sake of yours and the boy's safety and my own—but I can tell you I'm not an outlaw, and you have absolutely nothing to fear from me, like I said. If you'd be willing to let me hide here, I'll leave as soon as I can after that and you can forget you ever laid eyes on me."
Should she take him at his word or not? Why should she take a chance that he was telling her the truth?
"Again, I know you have no reason to believe what I'm about to tell you, but I'll say it anyway—I'm a Christian law-abiding man, Mrs. Henderson. The Bible is my guide."
"Then why are you—" she began, then caught herself. "Never mind—you said you couldn't say, so I won't press you to give me an answer you can't give. I'll just say that I'm a Christian woman, too—we go to church every other Sunday, which is all I can get off from work, whether Billy Joe's wanting to go or not. And I try to get him to go without me when I'm working. I'm trying to be the best ma I can to him. I'm hoping if I 'train my child up in the way he should go,' as the Bible says, he'll turn out to be a better man than his father was."
He stared at her, and she guessed he was wondering if she was always so forthright with strangers. But she had always used that very plain-speaking as a sort of armor against the world.
"I have an idea," he began with some hesitation, "if you're going to let me stay, that is—you might use that permission to motivate your son, since he wants you to help me. Tell him I can only stay if he does whatever you say, whatever he's been reluctant to do…But that's up to you, ma'am, of course—you know your son best, and I hope you don't mind the suggestion."
She blinked in surprise, then considered what he'd said. "You know, what you've said is actually a good idea," she said after a moment. "Very well, Mr. Thorn…you may stay--for now."
"Much obliged, ma'am. I won't give you cause to regret it."
But could he really promise that? If her neighbors found out she was harboring a fugitive, she'd never survive the scandal…
She asked another question to distract herself from that worry. "Umm, you didn't say, exactly--is Thorn your first or your last name?"
"First name," he said, and his face twisted as if the name caused him to feel bitter. "Last name is Dawson."
He must have seen the skeptical look on her face. "I'm telling you the truth, Mrs. Henderson."
"All right then," she said. "But I can't have you dying on me. Having a dead outlaw's body in my barn would be a little hard to explain in a day or two. Simpson Creek does have a doctor, and I insist on having him see you. I have no nursing experience, so I need his guidance, if you're to recover. You can tell him the same thing you told me," she added quickly, guessing he was about to protest. And that made her irritable. She was trying to help him, and he wanted to question that?
"And you needn't look so doubtful," she snapped. "Dr. Walker isn't your usual small-town quacksalver. He knows all the latest things in medicine, and I've seen him save folks that were at death's door. He doesn't use all those snake oil remedies like calomel, either."
"All right, all right," he said, waving a hand in surrender. "Have him come."
She saw him wince and guessed that the movement set up fresh, stabbing waves of pain lancing through his wounded shoulder.
"I'll send Billy Joe for him," she said. "And don't worry, I'll tell him to go straight to the doctor's house, and not to breathe a word of your presence here to any of his no-account friends." She could easily picture Billy Joe, flushed with triumph at having a "real gen-u-ine" outlaw in his barn, bragging to all his friends. As Daisy turned to leave the stall, she said a little prayer that Billy Joe was obedient enough to follow her command. Until she knew whether to believe the man who lay in the stall when he said he wasn't an outlaw, she didn't want him to end up with his neck in a noose if either of those wounded died.
But if he wasn't an outlaw, what was he doing riding with them?

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