The Rustler. Linda Miller Lael

      Wyatt and Rowdy exchanged glances, and one of them chuckled.

      Fiona smiled and walked away.

      “Give my regards to your father,” Rowdy said, as Sarah turned to go, once again at a loss for words. The next time she saw Fiona, she’d have plenty to say, though.

      “I’d better see Miss Tamlin home,” Wyatt said, and before Rowdy could protest that Lark had dinner waiting, he’d taken Sarah’s arm and escorted her halfway to the road.

      Since it would be rude to tell him she could get home just fine on her own, Sarah bit her lip and marched along, resigned, carrying the plate like a crown on a velvet cushion.

      An old spotted horse with a long cut on its side ambled along behind them, bridle jingling, reins wrapped loosely around the saddle horn.

      Sarah looked back.

      “That’s just Reb,” Wyatt said.

      “What happened to his side?”

      “He had a run-in with a steer a while back. He’s healing up fine, though.”

      Sarah wanted to ask a thousand other questions, but all of them jammed up in the back of her throat. She was sweating, her hair felt as though it would escape its pins at any moment, and she could almost feel the flames of Brother Hickey’s beloved hellfire licking at her hem.

      Mr. Yarbro donned his dusty hat, which made him look like a highwayman out of some dime novel. Sarah was painfully conscious of his hand, cupping her elbow, and the way he moved, with a sort of easy prowl.

      “Are you really a bad cook?” he asked, visibly restraining a grin.

      “Yes,” Sarah admitted, with a heavy sigh.

      He chuckled. “Guess that’s why you’re not taken,” he said. “No other explanation for it, with looks like yours.”

      Sarah was scandalously pleased, and determined to hide the fact. She didn’t think about her appearance much, given the busy life she led and her naturally practical turn of mind, but she knew she was...passable. Her hair was dark, and she kept it shiny with rainwater shampoos, vinegar rinses and a hundred brushstrokes every night. She had good skin, strong teeth, exceedingly blue eyes and a slender but womanly figure.

      For all that, she was an old maid, too plainspoken and too smart to suit most men. Most likely, Mr. Yarbro was merely dallying with her.

      “My looks are in no way remarkable, Mr. Yarbro,” she said, “and we both know it.” She paused. Then, ever the banker’s daughter, started adding things up in her brain. “Are you an outlaw, like your brother was?” she inquired bluntly.

      “I used to be,” he said, surprising her.

      She’d expected another answer, she realized. A lie, falling easily from those expressive lips of his. Faced with the stark truth, she didn’t know what to say.

      Wyatt laughed and resettled his hat.

      “What did you do?” Sarah asked, once she’d found her voice. They’d entered Stone Creek proper by then, passing Rowdy’s office first, strolling along the sidewalk past the mercantile and her father’s bank. The sun was setting, and old Mr. Shaefer was lighting the gas streetlamps, one by one.

      “Robbed a train or two,” Wyatt said.

      “My goodness,” Sarah remarked.

      “You’re safe with me, Miss Tamlin,” he assured her, grinning again. “I’ve seen the error of my ways and I’m determined to take the high road, like my brother did. Are you planning to head back to the creek for the dancing and the fireworks?”

      Sarah shook her head, bemused.

      “Then I reckon I won’t bother to, either.”

      So he hadn’t been taken with Fiona, then. Inwardly, Sarah gave a deep sigh.

      All too soon, and not nearly soon enough, they’d reached the gate in front of Sarah’s house.

      He opened the gate for her, stood back politely while she passed through it. When she looked over her shoulder, he touched the brim of his hat.

      “Good night, Sarah Tamlin,” he said. The glow of a nearby streetlamp cast his fine features into shadow. The paint horse waited politely on the sidewalk, nibbling at the leaves of Sarah’s favorite peony bush.

      Sarah swallowed, rattled again. “Good night, Mr. Yarbro,” she replied. Then she turned and hurried along the walk, up the porch steps, into the house. When she pulled aside a lace curtain to peer out, the train robber was gone, and so was his horse.

      * * *

      WYATT ATE TWO PLATES full of supper, admired Lark, who was pretty, made the acquaintance of the other younger brother, Gideon, he’d nearly forgotten he had, and dandled the baby on his knee for a while. The little kid was cute, if a mite fractious in temperament. His name was Hank, and he looked just like Rowdy.

      The big kid, Gideon, gave Wyatt a suspicious once-over and took off for the festivities down by the creek. It was full dark by then, and fireworks spread like chrysanthemums against the sky. Wyatt, Rowdy and the baby sat on the porch steps in front of Rowdy’s small house, conveniently located in back of the jail, listening to the crickets, the sound of distant merriment, and the tinny tune of some saloon piano. Lark was inside, doing the things women did after they’d served a meal.

      “You’ve done well for yourself, Rob,” Wyatt said quietly, using his brother’s given name. “A fine woman, a steady job, a son. I envy you a little.”

      Rowdy leaned back on the porch step, resting on his elbows. Silvery light from the fireworks caught in his fair hair. “No reason you can’t have the same,” he said.

      “No reason except two years in a Texas prison,” Wyatt replied. He’d told Sarah straight out that he’d robbed trains, but he hadn’t mentioned the stretch behind bars. With a woman, a little honesty went a long way.

      “Everybody’s done things they’re not proud of, Wyatt.” Rowdy shifted, looked reluctant. “About Sarah—”

      “What about her?” Wyatt asked, too quickly.

      Rowdy considered a little longer before answering. “She works in her father’s bank,” he said. “Every cowpoke between here and Tucson has tried to court her, but she’s having none of it. I think she’s one of those—well—career women.”

      “Career women?” Wyatt echoed. During supper, he’d learned that Lark had inherited a whole railroad from her first husband, and she ran it from Stone Creek, by mail and telegram, with a baby balanced on one hip. “You mean, like your wife?”

      Rowdy colored up a little. “Lark’s different,” he said. “Womanly.”

      Wyatt considered the fire he’d glimpsed in Sarah’s blue eyes, her slender waist, her delectable breasts, ripe for holding in a man’s hands. He imagined taking the pins from her ebony-colored hair and watching it fall to her hips in heavy, silken waves. She was “womanly” enough for him, and then some.

      “I might as well tell you,” he told Rowdy, “that I intend to marry Sarah Tamlin as soon as I’ve got steady wages coming in.”

      Rowdy’s mouth fell open. “Wyatt, you just met her. She’s got a temper, and she plays poker.”

      Wyatt chuckled. “Poker? Even better!”

      “She smokes cigars,” Rowdy said.

      “I might have to break her of that,” Wyatt replied, enjoying the image of delicate little Sarah puffing on a stogy.

      Rowdy thrust out a sigh. “Wyatt, what I’m trying to tell you is, she won’t have you. You’re an outlaw. She’s a blue-blooded banker’s daughter with a college education.”

      “And I’m not good enough for her?”

      Rowdy