The Rustler. Linda Miller Lael

our clothes.” His gaze sifted over Wyatt’s borrowed duds, which had seen some use, clean though they were. “A good day to you—Deputy.”

      With that, the confab ended, and Langstreet shepherded the boy toward the town’s only hotel. Owen looked back, once or twice, curiously, as if trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.

      Wyatt made for the bank. A little bell jingled over the door as he entered.

      Sarah, standing behind the counter, looked alarmed, then rallied.

      “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

      Wyatt took off his round-brimmed black hat and tried for an easy smile, but the truth was, the inside of that bank felt charged, like the floor might suddenly rip wide open, or thunder might shake the ceiling over their heads. “Everything all right, Miss Tamlin?”

      She blinked. “Of course everything is fine, Mr. Yarbro. Whyever would you ask such a question?”

      “Partly because it’s my job.” He indicated the star on his shirt. “I’ll be looking after Stone Creek while Rowdy’s out of town. And partly because I just met a boy named Owen Langstreet down by the depot.”

      She paled. “What did he tell you?”

      “Just that his father means to take the bank away from you.”

      Sarah tried to lasso a smile, but the rope landed short. “This bank belongs to my father, not to me. Mr. Langstreet is merely a—a shareholder. There is no need to be concerned, Mr. Yarbro, though I do appreciate it.”

      Wyatt nodded, went to the door, replaced his hat. “I’m a friend, Sarah,” he said. “Remember that.”

      She swallowed visibly, nodded back.

      Wyatt opened the door.

      “Mr. Yarbro?”

      He stopped, waited. Said nothing.

      Sarah’s voice trembled. “I wonder if you’d join us for supper tonight? Six o’clock?”

      “I’d like that,” Wyatt said.

      “We’ll be expecting you, then,” Sarah replied brightly.

      Wyatt touched his hat brim again and left.

      Walking back along Main Street, toward Rowdy’s office, he was intercepted repeatedly; evidently, word had gotten around town that while Marshal Yarbro was away, he’d be watching the store. Folks were friendly enough, if blatantly curious, and Wyatt offered them no more than a “howdy” and an amicable nod.

      Thoughts were churning inside his head like bees trying to get out from under an overturned bucket. He meant to leave Stone Creek. He meant to stay.

      He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do.

      Distractedly, he counted the horses in front of every saloon he passed—the town had more than its share, considering its size—saw no reason for concern, and went on to the jailhouse. Now that he had a supper invitation from Sarah, his spirits had lifted, though he was under no illusion that she’d asked him over out of any desire to socialize. She didn’t want to be alone with Langstreet, that was all; she was terrified of him, and it was more than the threat of losing control of the bank.

      Back at the jail, Wyatt collected his bedroll and saddlebags from the cell where he’d passed the night and headed for the small barn out behind Rowdy’s house. He’d bunk out there in the hayloft, he’d decided, with Reb and the other horses. He’d be behind bars again soon enough, if Rowdy and Sam caught up with Billy Justice. Soon as Billy heard the name Yarbro, he’d put paid to any hope Wyatt had of living as a free man.

      He could lie, of course. Say he’d never crossed paths with the gang, let alone helped them rustle cattle. His word against Billy’s. Sam might even believe him—but Rowdy wouldn’t. No, Rowdy’d see right through to the truth.

      Inside the barn, Wyatt tossed his few belongings up into the low-hanging loft, and the sweet smell of fresh hay stirred, along with a shower of golden dust.

      Reb nickered a greeting, and Wyatt crossed to the stall to stroke the animal’s long face. “You like it here, don’t you, boy?” he asked. “Time you led the easy life.”

      Wyatt added hay to Reb’s feeding trough, then to those of the other two horses. He carried water in from the well to fill their troughs.

      Rowdy’s spare horse was a buckskin gelding named Sugarfoot. He looked capable of covering a lot of ground—he and Sugarfoot could be a long way from Stone Creek in a short time. Maybe he’d leave a note for Rowdy, on the kitchen table, along with the badge, saying he was sorry and promising to send payment for the horse as soon as he got work.

      He closed his eyes against the emotions that rose up in him then—shame, frustration, regret—and a hopeless yearning for the kind of life his younger brother had. Rowdy would understand; he’d been on the run himself. But if he found out about Wyatt’s brief association with Billy’s gang, he might come after him, not as a brother, but as a lawman.

      And there was more.

      He’d never see Sarah again, or poor old Reb.

      He sighed, shoved a hand through his hair.

      After a few moments, he made for the house. He’d been kidding himself, thinking he could stop running and put down some roots. Now, he was going to have to cut himself loose, and it would hurt—a lot.

      Entering by the kitchen door, Wyatt noticed the envelope propped against the kerosene lamp in the center of the table right away. Took it into his hands.

      Rowdy had scrawled his name on the front.

      After letting out a long breath, he slid a thumb under the flap, found a single sheet of paper inside, along with three ten-dollar bills.

      Thanks, Wyatt. It’s good to know I can count on you. R.

      Wyatt swore under his breath. He didn’t doubt Rowdy’s gratitude, but he suspected the marshal had an additional motive—he wanted to make it harder to leave.

      He checked the clock on the shelf under the far window—it was nearly noon—and saw another slip of paper, folded tent-style. A rueful grin hitched up one side of his mouth. He hadn’t gotten this much mail in a long time.

      The second note was from Lark.

      Wyatt—Help yourself to the food, and if you run out of anything, use our account at the mercantile to buy what you need. Make yourself at home.

      He folded the note carefully and tucked it under the edge of the clock, his throat strangely tight, his eyes burning a little. He jollied himself out of the melancholies by looking around for a third note, from Gideon, or maybe even Pardner.

      Neither of them had written a word, though.

      He went to the larder, a wooden box with a metal handle, opened it up, and found cold meat inside. There was half a loaf of bread, too, so he made himself a sandwich and walked through to the little parlor beyond the kitchen. He hadn’t passed much time in a real house since he’d left the homeplace for the last time.

      His ma had cried that day. Begged him to stay and work the farm.

      He’d ridden out instead. He’d had better things to do, he’d thought back then, than plowing fields and milking cows. No, he’d preferred to rob trains with Pappy.

      “Fool,” he said aloud, admiring but not touching the framed photographs set up on a wooden table near the windows. Lark and Rowdy, posing solemnly on either side of a Grecian pillar. Little Hank, bare-ass naked on a fur rug, in the saddle in front of a grinning Rowdy, cradled in Lark’s arms in a rocking chair.

      The soreness in Wyatt’s throat got worse, and he had to blink a couple of times. He retreated from the row of pictures, scanned the rest of the room. There were two other doors, one open, one closed.

      The open door led to the bathroom, a swanky one with a flush