Where in this wild stretch of Texas had Ollie gotten her hands on a gun?
Daisy broke into a run, the hem of her skirt threatening to tangle with her long legs. If she managed to trip she’d leave these widow’s weeds in the dust so fast she’d show up in nothing but her bloomers. That would give her neighbors something to talk about.
She reached her destination without mishap. From the number of horses hitched outside the establishment, the banker had an unusual amount of customers this morning. Saturday often brought cowhands into town to collect their pay and waste it in the saloons. She’d been so busy at the mercantile she hadn’t noticed if the overland stage had already arrived and brought in more visitors to High Plains. Just how many hostages were involved? she wondered.
“Protect my child from herself, Lord,” Daisy whispered as she forced down panic. No need to burst through the door and startle anyone. That might get someone hurt. Instead, Daisy dusted her skirt, adjusted her bonnet and squarely braced her shoulders for the trouble ahead. Her fingers shook as she reached for the doorknob.
She was tall enough to see above the curtains that covered the door and front windows. From the sight of raised palms, her daughter still had the weapon aimed at somebody.
Please make these men the forgiving sort, Daisy prayed.
“Hand that gun to the banker immediately, Olivia Jane Trumbo,” she ordered, opening the door, “or you’re going to get a good talking-to all the way ho—” She stumbled as the door swung open faster than she had pushed it.
A dark-haired, blue-eyed woman stood there, blocking Daisy’s way and flicking open a lace fan held in one hand. Two more steps corrected the awkward momentum that almost spilled Daisy, giving her a whiff of fragrance that smelled like a spring breeze dancing through a meadow of wildflowers. A pleasant surprise amid the stuffiness of too many warm bodies gathered in one place.
“Your name, please?” asked the lady in a cultured voice sounding younger than her appearance. Dressed in a tea gown the blue of her eyes, her hair swept up in some fancy do, she seemed overdressed for a simple visit to the bank. “That little hoodlum told me not to let anyone in here but her mother.”
“That would be me,” Daisy informed her, wishing she had taken a little more time with her appearance this morning, “and she’s no hoodlum. Olivia just sometimes goes about things different from most folks.”
This was as much her fault as Ollie’s. She’d wanted Ollie to be older before she learned about the death of her father, but Ollie had started asking questions about Knox several months ago. Someone had obviously opened the subject of his death up for discussion. Her child finally asked why she still wore widow’s weeds since Old Miz Jenkins said the proper mourning period should be only two years, not three. Daisy simply replied that the material was still sturdy and they didn’t need to be wasteful.
Since finding out about her daddy, Ollie had a burr under her saddle, insisting she didn’t want to be hugged on too much. Daisy tended to give her daughter time on her own so she wouldn’t feel overprotected or smothered with attention. Too much time this morning had allowed the seven-year-old to get her hands on a gun and arrive at this crazy hostage scheme.
“Olivia Jane, where did you get that gun?” Daisy demanded.
“Better step aside and let her in,” Ollie warned, nodding her honey-colored head. “She used my gettin’-in-trouble name.”
Daisy moved past the beautiful lady and around some baggage next to the door.
“Did you say her last name is Trumbo? Were the two of you related to Knox Trumbo?” asked the stern-faced man who stood by himself to the left of the teller’s cage. He started to edge closer, his forehead furrowed as his gaze swept Daisy from hem to bonnet.
On a different day, she might have taken the time to study him closer, admiring his good grooming and such, but all she could do was concentrate on reaching her daughter’s side rather than answering him.
“They’re his widow and child,” informed the banker behind the teller’s cage. “Daisy and Olivia.”
Ollie waved the gun at the woman with the fan. “Don’t move any closer, mister, or I might accidentally hurt your lady friend here. It won’t take Mama but a minute to make up her mind about all you fellas then I’ll let’cha go. If she likes you, you can talk to her plenty in a minute.”
The seven-year-old’s head rose then fell as she took in the sight of him from hat to boot tip. “She’s got a real fondness for clean people, though. I should know. I got dirty bathwater to prove it all the time.” Ollie nodded toward the cowboys standing to the right of the cage. “And since you’re the only fella wearing Sunday clean, ’cept Sam, you got a pretty good chance out of all of ya to get on my list. Sam don’t count, though. He’s the banker. He’s got to dress good.”
Daisy cringed at her daughter’s outspokenness.
The clean-looking man didn’t back up the few steps he’d gained but seemed willing to wait her out. Cautious, Daisy decided. A wise man.
“Take a quick look, Mama, then I’ll be ready for some sense.” Ollie’s gaze locked with Daisy’s and confirmed that she understood totally the kind of talking-to she was about to get from her mother.
Daisy realized Ollie was deliberately avoiding an answer about the gun, so she went ahead and studied the well-groomed stranger long enough to make sure he meant no harm to Ollie. He dressed like a businessman and clearly spent more of his hours indoors than out, but broad shoulders and his muscular frame appeared strong enough to handle himself if someone wronged him. She hoped to end this situation before anything such as that took place.
“The sooner you and your daughter are finished, ma’am—” his voice held a timbre deep and resonant, making her wonder from what part of the country it had been cultivated “—the sooner my sister can return to my side and we can go about our business.”
That put a whole new light on his intentions. Daisy couldn’t fault him for wanting to protect his own. She respected such a man and would have shown him a friendlier disposition if they weren’t in such tense circumstances.
“I’m sure these fine gentlemen mean me no harm at all,” cooed his sister, flashing the cowboys a smile and fanning her face. “Please, take your time, Mrs. Trumbo.”
Ollie’s hands started to shake just from the sheer weight of the gun. Daisy faced the lineup of cowhands, deciding it best to get on with her daughter’s ploy so this could be ended as quickly as possible. Though one or two cowboys focused intently on Ollie, none appeared too worried about their safety. A red-haired cowhand in the front of the line was actually grinning.
“How about me?” the banker asked. “Can I move now that your mother’s here, Ollie?” Sweat stained his thinning hairline and darkened his shirt near the armpits.
Daisy didn’t give Ollie time to answer. “You go about your business, Sam. We apologize for this and promise it won’t happen again, will it, Olivia?”
Ollie’s twin braids swung back and forth as she shook her head. “I better not promise, Mama, ’cause I might be lying. Sometimes I do that ’fore I know what comes over me. Old Miz Jenkins says that’s ’cause I’m young and still got a bunch’a sins to sow. I don’t know what that means, but when she says it everybody around her pew gives her an ‘Amen, sister.’ You don’t want me breaking one of them commandments if I can help it, do ya?”
“I most certainly do not.” Daisy frowned, though several of the cowhands laughed and she noticed a grin flash across the brother’s face.
She should have been happy most were taking this with such good humor, but Daisy couldn’t until she had control of the gun.
Ollie took a deep breath and finished her discussion with Banker Cardwell. “Besides, you don’t have to worry no more anyway, Sam. Mama said all your