The Rustler

“I’ll answer the door!” Owen said, and rushed off through the dining room.

Sarah gripped the back of a chair, swayed. She should have told Charles, when he invited himself to supper, that it wasn’t a good time for her to entertain. Her father was indisposed, and she was frantic with worry over the situation at the bank. But she’d wanted so to pass an evening in Owen’s company.

“It’s the deputy!” Owen shouted from the entry hall. “Should I let him in?”

Sarah laughed, though her eyes stung with tears. She hurried out of the kitchen and through the dining room.

Wyatt Yarbro stood smiling and spruced up just over the threshold. He wore a clean white shirt, black trousers, and polished boots, and the holster on his hip was empty. He’d dusted off his black hat, which he held politely in his hands, and his dark eyes danced with a sort of somber amusement.

“Do come in, Mr. Yarbro,” Sarah said. “This is my—nephew. Owen Langstreet.”

“We’ve met,” Mr. Yarbro said, stepping past the boy, who stared up at him in fascination.

“He’s not Wyatt Earp,” Owen said.

“I’m aware of that, Owen,” Sarah replied, gesturing toward the coat tree, with its many brass hooks. “Hang up your hat, Mr. Yarbro.”

Wyatt did as she’d asked.

An awkward silence fell.

“Let’s have a seat in the parlor,” Sarah said, flustered, leading the way.

Owen followed, and so did Wyatt.

“Nice place,” Wyatt said.

“She lives here with her papa,” Owen informed him, gravitating toward Sarah’s piano, which was her most prized possession. “He wears blue pants with yellow stripes on them and thinks I’m a drummer boy.”

“Is that so?” Wyatt asked affably, and when Sarah dared to look back over her shoulder, she saw that he was watching her, not the child.

“Sit down,” Sarah said. “Please. I’ll get some coffee.”

“No need,” Wyatt said, waiting until Sarah sank into her mother’s threadbare slipper chair before taking a seat on the settee. He was leanly built, but the house seemed smaller somehow, with him in it, and warmer.

Much warmer.

Owen perched on the piano stool. “May I spin?” he asked.

Wyatt chuckled.

“Spin all you want,” Sarah said, smiling a wobbly smile.

Owen moved the stool a few more inches from the piano, sat, gripped it with both hands, and used one foot to propel himself into blurry revolutions.

Sarah felt dizzy and had to look away, but her gaze went straight to Wyatt Yarbro, and that made her even dizzier. He’d shaved, and his cologne had a woodsy scent. His white shirt was open at the throat, and it was not only pressed, but starched, too.

Wyatt glanced curiously around the well-appointed, seldom-used room. “Where’s Mr. Langstreet?” he asked.

“He’s been delayed,” Sarah said.

Owen used his foot to stop the piano stool. He looked happily flushed, more like the little boy he was than the miniature man who blithely referred to himself as a “bastard.” “He got a telegram,” Owen said importantly.

“Imagine that,” Wyatt said, though not unkindly.

“In Philadelphia, we have a telephone,” Owen added.

“Don’t hold with telephones myself,” Wyatt replied, mischief sparking in his dark eyes. “I figure if folks have something to say to each other, they ought to write it in a letter or meet up, face-to-face.”

“Papa says someday everybody will have a telephone.”

“Does he, now?” Wyatt asked easily.

As though to speak of the devil was to conjure him, Charles chose that moment to ring the doorbell. Sarah excused herself to answer, and Wyatt stood when she rose from her chair.

He might have been an outlaw, but someone had taught him manners.

Sarah was a little flushed when she opened the front door to Charles.

“Good evening, Sarah,” he said, stepping past her when she hesitated to move out of the way. “I apologize for being late. Business. One can never escape it.”

Doc Venable descended the front stairs, rolling down his shirtsleeves. His hands and forearms still glistened with moisture from the sink upstairs, where he must have washed up for supper.

Sarah made introductions all around, out of deference to the doctor. Wyatt and Charles had already met; Wyatt’s expression thoughtful, Charles’s elegantly aloof.

Charles looked down on Wyatt, Sarah realized, as a ruffian, and she felt a swift sting of fury. Her cheeks throbbed with it.

Supper seemed interminable. Sarah was afraid, every moment, that her father would appear, oddly dressed and confounded.

“I thought you said you couldn’t cook,” Wyatt teased, helping himself to another piece of fried chicken and then adding gravy to his mashed potatoes. “Tastes fine to me.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, inordinately pleased and not a little embarrassed. By some miracle, she’d managed not to burn the chicken, and the mashed potatoes were thicker than the gravy, as they were supposed to be.

Charles maintained a chilly silence; he clearly resented Wyatt’s presence, tossing a disdainful glance his way every now and then. Finally, he took a sip from his water goblet and condescended to remark, “Very nice.”

“Is Aunt Sarah your sister, Papa?” Owen asked.

“Eat your supper,” Charles told him.

“Is she?”

“No,” Charles snapped.

“Then she must be Mother’s sister. They don’t look anything alike.”

Sarah stiffened in her chair. Wyatt saw the motion, and stared diplomatically down at his plate.

“In Sarah’s case,” Charles said, plainly irritated and red at the jawline, “the title of ‘aunt’ is honorary. She’s—a family friend.”