The Rustler

“Oh,” Owen said, looking dejected. He laid his fork down. He’d been sawing away at a drumstick for the last twenty minutes; Sarah had wanted to tell him it was all right to eat chicken with his fingers, but refrained. “I was thinking maybe I could visit her at Christmas, but if she’s not really my aunt—”

“You may visit me whenever you want,” Sarah told him, aware that she was overstepping, and not caring. When she got Charles alone, she’d have a word with him about this “bastard” business, and leaving a ten-year-old boy at boarding school over the holidays.

Owen’s face brightened, causing his freckles to stand out. “Really?”

“Enough,” Charles said coldly. “Philadelphia is a long way from Stone Creek. Have you forgotten that we just spent a week on a train?”

Owen subsided as suddenly as if he’d been slapped.

Doc Venable cleared his throat and turned the conversation in a new direction. “I understand you’re keeping the peace around town while your brother is away, Mr. Yarbro,” he said.

Wyatt shifted in his chair, oddly uncomfortable with the remark. “Yes, sir,” he said. “And I’d appreciate it if you called me Wyatt.” His gaze moved to Sarah. “You, too, Miss Tamlin.”

Sarah blushed.

“My, but we are a friendly bunch, aren’t we?” Charles asked drily. His nostrils were slightly flared, and the skin around his mouth looked tight.

“I reckon most of us are, anyhow,” Wyatt said quietly.

“Can I call you Wyatt, too?” Owen wanted to know.

“Sure,” Wyatt said. “Long as I don’t have to call you ‘Mr. Langstreet.’”

Charles reddened.

Owen giggled with delight. “Nobody calls me ‘Mr. Langstreet,’” he said. “I’m only ten.”

Wyatt’s lips twitched. “You could have fooled me,” he replied. “Like I said this afternoon, I’d have said you were forty if you were a day. Just a mite short for your age.”

Charles favored Sarah with a pained look. Again, she wondered why he’d brought Owen to Stone Creek, when he seemed, at least at the moment, barely able to tolerate the child’s presence.

“You ever seen a man as short as Owen here, Doc?” Wyatt asked, well aware that he’d gotten under Charles’s skin and clearly enjoying the fact.

“Can’t say as I have,” Doc said, regarding Owen thoughtfully.

Owen beamed.

“Is everyone ready for dessert?” Sarah asked brightly.

She served strawberry preserves on shortbread, and poured coffee for the adults. Earlier, she’d longed for the evening to end. Now, she realized that Charles was the only unwelcome guest. Doc, Wyatt and Owen had lifted her spirits with their banter.

Charles was the first to lay his table napkin aside, push back his chair, and stand. “I’ve got a meeting tomorrow in Flagstaff,” he said. “It came up unexpectedly. Sarah, I wonder if I might speak to you in private.”

Sarah felt a prickle of dread, but she welcomed the chance to talk to him about Owen, out of the boy’s earshot. “Certainly,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Owen remained in his chair, his eyes fixed on his plate. He seemed to have shrunk a full size, and his head was bent at an angle that made Sarah’s heart hurt.

She proceeded to the front door, Charles following.

“I can’t leave the boy alone at the hotel,” Charles said, before she had a chance to speak. “Will you keep him while I’m away?”

Sarah nodded, surprised. She’d expected some kind of harangue.

“I might be gone for several days,” Charles warned.

“I’ll look after him,” she promised. “Charles, I—”

Something ominous flickered in Charles’s eyes.

Sarah straightened her spine. “He refers to himself as a bastard. Owen, I mean.”

“He’s precocious,” Charles said, taking out his pocket watch and checking it with a frown. “And he lies constantly.”

“Is he lying about Christmas? Having to stay at school alone while everyone else goes home for the holiday season?”

Charles’s mouth took on a grim tension. “It isn’t always convenient to have a ten-year-old underfoot,” he said. “Marjory’s nerves are—delicate.”

“Convenient? Charles, he’s ten. A child.”

“Marjory—”

“Damn Marjory!” Sarah whispered furiously. She was in no position to anger Charles, given the shares he held in the bank, but her concern for Owen—her son—pushed everything else aside. “What do I care for the state of your wife’s nerves?”

“They’ll hear you,” Charles said anxiously, inclining his head toward the dining room. “Do you want the cowboy to know you gave birth to an illegitimate child when everyone in Stone Creek thought you were getting an education?”

“Oh, I got an education, all right,” Sarah said bitterly.

Charles consulted his watch again. “I have to go,” he said. “I have paperwork to do, before tomorrow’s meeting.”

Good riddance, Sarah thought. She’d gotten a reprieve, as far as the bank was concerned, but another part of her was alarmed. Was this “meeting” with the other shareholders? Several of them lived in Flagstaff, a relatively short train ride from Stone Creek. Suppose Charles had asked around town, heard about some of her father’s recent escapades, and made the decision to take over control? Alone, he couldn’t do it. With the help of the other shareholders, though, he could be sitting behind her father’s desk the morning after next.

With the first smile he’d offered all evening, Charles ran his knuckles lightly down the side of Sarah’s face. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he said, as though he thought she was pining over his departure. “A week at the outside.”

A week with Owen. A week to cover her tracks at the bank.

She tried to look sad. Might even have said, “I’ll miss you,” as he seemed to expect her to do, but since she would have choked on the words, she swallowed them.

He bent his head, kissed her lightly, briefly on the mouth.

She stepped back, secretly furious.

“Still the coquette,” Charles remarked smoothly. “You’re not fooling me, Sarah. I remember how much you liked going to bed with me.”

Sarah’s cheeks pulsed with heat so sudden and so intense that it was actually painful. She would surely have slapped Charles Langstreet the Third across the face if she hadn’t known the crack of flesh meeting flesh would carry into the nearby dining room.

“Good night, Mr. Langstreet,” she said.

He grinned, turned, and strolled, whistling merrily, down the porch steps, along the walk, through the gate.