The Outlaw's Return

His eyes twinkled. “She’s a smart dog.”

“Would you like to come with us?”

He snorted. “For scraps?”

“Scraps for her. Pot roast for you.” She tried to sound businesslike. “I really do own a restaurant.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“The best in town. It’s called Mary’s Café.” She raised her chin. “It’s mine, and I’m proud of it.”

“You should be.” Still he didn’t move.

“Come on.” She aimed her chin down the street. “Your dog won’t take no for an answer.”

A smile tipped on the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like you won’t, either.” Looking pleased, he stepped off the boardwalk and strode to her side. With Fancy Girl between them, they headed to the café with Mary hoping they hadn’t been seen.

J.T. smelled like dirt and mistakes, and he knew it. Apparently so did Mary. Her nose wrinkled as he stepped to her side, so he widened the gap between them. Fancy Girl smelled better than he did. He didn’t understand why his dog had taken such a strong liking to Mary, but he felt the same urge to follow her home.

As they walked down the boardwalk, she made small talk about the weather. J.T. responded in kind, but his mind wasn’t on the July heat. He couldn’t think about anything except the changes in Mary. She still had a saucy attitude, but the lines around her mouth had softened into an easy smile and her brown eyes had a sheen of happiness. She wore her hair differently, too. The curls were still honey-blond, but she’d tamed them into a simple twist. Her dress, a demure lilac, could have belonged to a schoolmarm.

Six months ago, he’d have mocked her plain dress and the prim hairstyle. He’d have teased her into being his Fancy Girl again, maybe into his bed.

Not now.

Not today. He thought back to how he’d left her and he had to wonder… What would have happened if he’d stayed with her? Would they be running a saloon with Mary singing and J.T. pouring drinks? He could resist the temptation to drink if it meant proving himself to Mary. His other worry—being called out by an old enemy, someone like Griff Lassen—would never leave, but time would ease the threat. Today, though, everything had changed. Mary didn’t need him at all. With no reason to stay, he decided to buy supplies and ride west. Whether or not those supplies would include whiskey, he couldn’t say.

With Fancy Girl in front of them, he kept pace with Mary as she turned down a side street. In the distance he heard the blast of a train whistle. They were near the depot, a good spot for business from hungry travelers. She indicated a storefront between a tailor and a telegraphy office. It was painted butter-yellow and had green trim. A sign read Mary’s Café.

“This is it.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Stepping inside, he saw cream-colored walls, tables set with red-checked linens and an assortment of chairs that didn’t match but somehow went together. Every surface sparkled, even the floor. A man could relax in a place like this. Apparently so could a dog. Fancy Girl ambled to a corner near an unlit potbelly stove, circled three times and curled into a ball.

J.T. took off his hat and hung it on a hook by the door. “You’ve got a nice place.”

“Thank you.” She raised her chin. “I’ve worked hard to get it started.”

In her eyes he saw the old Mary, the one who’d fight for what she wanted. He also saw bluish circles fanning down her cheeks. She was still beautiful, but he’d never seen her look so weary.

How hard did she have to work? Did anyone help her with the cooking and the washing up? The woman he’d known in Kansas hadn’t been the least bit inclined to kitchen chores. Thanks to J.T.’s faro winnings, they’d ordered lavishly at the Abilene Hotel and he’d bought her pretty things for the fun of it. She’d grown up poor, and he’d liked surprising her. He wondered how she’d gotten the money to open a restaurant. Was she beholden to the bank? Or maybe she had a business partner, a man with money. The thought made him scowl.

She’d clam up if he quizzed her, so he beat around the bush. “How’s business?”

“Good.” She indicated a table by a wall decorated with paintings of mountains. “Have a seat. I need to light the stove.”

Instead of sitting, he followed her into the kitchen. In the crowded space he saw two massive iron stoves, a row of high tables against the back wall, three baker’s racks full of pies and bread, and cooking utensils hanging from rods suspended from the ceiling. Basins were leaning against the back wall, clean and ready for the next load of dirty dishes.

J.T. saw the pride Mary took in her business, but he also saw hours of drudgery. In Abilene she’d slept until noon, even later sometimes. Judging by the aroma, she’d baked the bread before church.

Maybe he did have something to offer her. He couldn’t promise her a life of leisure, but running a saloon would be easier than serving full meals. He wanted to blurt the invitation to come with him to California, but first he had to rekindle the old sparks between them. Leaning against the doorframe, he crossed one boot over the other and watched her set a match to the banked coals. When they caught fire, he shook his head. “You must work day and night.”

She shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with hard work.”

“No,” he replied. “It’s just…tiresome.”

She gave him a quelling look, then removed a jar from the ice box, poured the contents into a pot and carried it to the stove. Facing him, she said, “This will take a few minutes. Let’s sit out front.”

As she stepped through the doorway, her skirts brushed his boots. He followed her to the table, then moved ahead of her and held her chair. He didn’t know what it would take to sweep Mary off her feet, but fancy manners had always impressed her. He slid in her chair, then moved to sit across from her.

The instant he hit the chair, Mary popped to her feet. “You must be thirsty. I’ve got sweet tea or cider. Coffee is—”

“Mary, sit,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you serving me.”

She sat, but she looked uncomfortable.

At last, J.T. had the upper hand. Hoping to put her at ease, he used the crooked grin that had never failed to charm her. “What brought you to Denver?”

She shrugged as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Denver is famous for its opera houses. I wanted to see it for myself.”

Her gaze stayed steady, but he saw a flash of pain. He survived as a gunslinger because he could feel danger coming. What he saw in Mary’s eyes troubled him deeply. “I’m surprised you’re not singing somewhere.”

“It didn’t work out.”

J.T. knew this woman. Short answers weren’t her style. Unless he’d lost his instincts, she was hiding something. He kept his voice mild. “But you love to sing. You’re good at it.”

She moved the fork a quarter inch. “I sing in church now. That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t think so.”

Suddenly wary, she turned to the window and stared out the shining glass. When she didn’t speak, J.T. thought back to the early days of his search and his visit to the Abilene Theater. The new manager had heard of Mary but didn’t know where she’d gone, and her acting friends had moved on. When she’d left the rowdy cow town, she’d done it fast and quietly. He’d assumed she’d run from a broken heart. Now he wondered if she’d had another reason. “Talk to me, Mary.”

She took a breath, a deep one. “You’re right. There’s more to the story. After you left, I had a run-in with Sam O’Day.”

J.T. knew all about Sam and his brother, Harvey. They were bounty hunters, and they behaved like animals. “What happened?”

“I shot him.”

“You what?”

“I shot Sam O’Day,” she repeated calmly. “Do you remember the pistol you gave me?”

“Of course.” The two-shot Deringer had over-under barrels, pearl handles and a gleaming nickel finish. They’d taken a buggy ride to nowhere, and he’d discovered she didn’t know how to shoot. He’d taken the pistol out of his boot, taught her to use it and told her to keep it handy. They’d kissed for an hour and he’d pushed for more. She’d said no, but a month later he’d convinced her to change her mind.

With her chin high, she described the encounter with O’Day. He’d been drunk enough to get thrown out of a brothel. When he’d seen Mary leave the theater alone, he’d called her names and cornered her in the alley. “He grabbed me,” she said calmly. “I told him to let go, but he wouldn’t.”

J.T. saw the fear on her face, the determination that had enabled her to fight for her life. He knew how she felt, because as a boy he’d been pinned down in an alley with a knife against his scrawny chest. His older brothers had been vicious. “It’s a bad feeling.”

“It is.” She took a breath. “I had your gun in my pocket. When he tore at my dress, I shot him. He died.”