“Out of my way, Sheriff, or I shall swat you with my parasol.”
“Now, ma’am, that’s Rance Logan I’ve got penned up back there. Most dangerous gunman Kansas ever seen, ‘cept fer maybe Black Jack Bartlett hisself.”
“And well I know it,” Abigail Spotz railed. “That’s the very reason I’m here. I’ve been duly appointed by the Wichita Women’s Gardening Auxiliary to ascertain whether the black-hearted outlaw Rance Logan is appropriately restrained. The womenfolk of this town shan’t rest or safely walk the streets until I do so. Now move aside.”
Gage seemed to stifle a cough. “With all due respect, ma’am, your husband and I have made certain the womenfolk of this town get their good night’s rest—”
“I don’t give a hoot what my husband does, Sheriff. Then again, perhaps it would be prudent of me if I did so from now on. After all, was it not my husband who hired that...that...gunslinger to protect our ranch from those loathsome farmers and cattle rustlers? A common criminal, he is, born of this vast wasteland, and descended upon us all to reap the rewards of dishonest endeavor.”
“Er...why, yes, ma’am, I suppose he is that, now, ain’t he? But Rance Logan’s been known statewide, even up near Denver way, fer his expert shot. I heard rumor he run shotgun guard fer the Wells Fargo line’s gold shipments back east at one time. Even ‘fore that, weren’t no other gun to be had fer the price. Still ain’t, what with Black Jack up ‘n’ vanished like a scared coon. Nobody’d mess with Logan, I tell ya. I even heard tell he were one o’ them decorated Union soldiers. Hell, nobody’d blame yer husband fer hirin’ him, ma’am, ’specially with them rustlers and farmers up ‘n’ stealin’ all yer grazin’ land. Ye need a man like Logan te tend to them folks, ma’am.” The clang of spittle meeting with cuspidor filtered through the dusty hall. “Yep. But ain’t no tellin’ when them loner sorts’ll snap an’ just go off an’ murder an innocent man fer no good reason. Been givin’ ol’ Cameron a time of it, I hear, disobeyin’ an’ whatnot.”
Abigail Spotz sniffed. “That’s my husband’s business, Sheriff, not mine. Now, if you please, I believe there is a body lying just outside your front door here. Perhaps you’d best dispose of it before the crows do. I’ll be just a moment with Mr. Logan.”
Rance could almost hear Gage’s overlong nails scratching the hair on the back of his neck. “I don’ know, ma’am. Leavin’ Cameron Spotz’s wife in a jail with an outlaw like Logan...kinda makes me all nervous. Ma’am, yer husband would hang me hisself if somethin’ happened to ya.”
“I suppose he would have to now, wouldn’t he?” Abigail Spotz paused. “Suppose I just sit right here until you return from your tidying-up out there. Even Rance Logan wouldn’t be capable of harming me at this distance.”
Another clang echoed from the cuspidor. “All right now, ma’am, if ya promise te jest set down here.”
“Take your time, Sheriff, and do bury the poor man. It’s hotter than blazes today.”
Not two moments after the jailhouse door banged shut on its hinges, Abigail Spotz’s skirts rustled down the hall. She paused just as she reached Rance’s cell. Beneath the swaying fringe of her plumed hat, her dark eyes widened as they moved over him. “God, look at you,” she whispered.
“Morning, Mrs. Spotz.” Rance forced the words from his dust-clogged throat. “A fine day for a hanging.”
Abigail Spotz pressed a white-gloved hand to the lace at her throat and paled considerably, despite the flash in her eyes. “Even as we speak, my husband is securing the hemp to that twisted old tree on Boot Hill. They’ll be here for you within the hour.”
Rance felt his teeth bare in a feral smile, an inept testament to the rage igniting within him. “And how is your husband, ma’am?”
“Don’t call me that, Rance. No matter what my husband might have done to you, you know I was no part of it.”
“He bought the jury, Abigail. He bought Gage and every last witness he could find to see me thrown into this jail. The judge had no choice but to hang me. I’m inclined to believe, ma’am, that your husband wants me dead.”
Abigail closed her eyes as if weighing her decision, then spun about and yanked a brass key ring from a hook upon the wall. Rance watched her trembling hands attempting to shove key after key into the cell padlock. “You disobeyed him, Rance.” A strangled cry escaped her when the keys fell to the dirt floor with a clang. She sank to her knees and plunged her pristine white-gloved hands into the dust to retrieve the ring.
Rance studied her bent head, the streaks of gray generously marring the deep chestnut hue. Her shoulders were narrow, slightly stooped, growing more stooped with each day she endured beneath Cameron Spotz’s hand.
You disobeyed him.
“You’re right.” Rance felt his lips twisting snidely. “I refused to murder innocent farmers who had rightfully settled on grazing land, their land. That’s a sorry excuse for framing a man for cold-blooded murder and seeing him hanged.”
“Not for Cameron it isn’t. You were his paid gun. Cameron sees no farther than that. And he intended to make you pay for disobeying.” A rare youthful smile spread across her features when at last one key swung the cell door wide. She took three steps, then skidded in the dust, eyes blinking, suddenly refusing to meet his. She looked almost young somehow, as if her covert mission here had wiped clean all traces of the bitterness that had seemed so much a part of her. Gone were the deep lines at the corners of her mouth, the shadows beneath her eyes, the telltale strain in her neck. Abigail Spotz must have been a beauty when Cameron enslaved her as his wife twenty years before.
“Try the small key on the shackles,” Rance said hoarsely, his throat working against the bile burning in his throat. Paid gun... As notorious, as ruthless and cold-blooded as they come. A man known only for his prowess with a gun. A man with a past both murky and riddled with speculation, a past he refused to acknowledge or refute, and thus a man feared by many, perhaps too many, who would suffer little remorse at lining their pockets to see him hanged. An odd distinction indeed for a man in a town like Wichita, which teemed with every sort of unsavory character. A town that the powerful Cameron Spotz all but owned. He’d proven it today.
“There’s more to it,” he said. “There has to be.”
“Don’t think on it,” Abigail said quickly, stepping a pace back when his shackles fell cleanly to the floor. Her gaze traveled a fidgety path to his as he flexed the stiffness from his arms and hands. “Y-your horse is picketed about a quarter mile back of the jail. He gave me a time of it, but we managed.” She slipped one hand into her folded silk-and-lace parasol and withdrew a shiny black six-gun that shook in her small hand. “I found this among your things.”
Rance wrapped his fingers around the weapon, feeling the solitary comfort only heavy cold steel could provide him. He shoved the pistol into his waistband. “I could kill him, you know. You’ve given me the means, Abigail, and I’ve got more than ample reason. For what he’s done to me, to those innocent farmers, to you— I could do it, Abigail. You’d be free of him.”
As if intent upon ignoring him, she rummaged in the folds of the parasol. “Here.” She shoved a worn wide-brimmed black hat at him. “Take this. You’ll need it under the hot sun. Oh...and this.”
The leather pouch she produced weighed heavily in his palm, the coins inside tinkling softly. A small fortune, no doubt. “Abigail, I don’t need your money.”
Again, she stuck her head into the parasol, ignoring the pouch in his outstretched hand. “You might