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Authors: Elaine Levine

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BOOK: Logan's Outlaw
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Once, long ago, he'd visited White Bull's tepee during just such a working night. The village had been quiet, the children all sleeping soundly. The men had gathered in one tepee, the women in another. And while there was much laughing and storytelling as the men shared a pipe, they sometimes would grow silent and listen to the stories the women shared. Their quiet voices carried in the cold, windless night, bringing to the men the myths that were the foundation of women's lives in the tribe.
It was the echoes of those stories embedded in the beaded pieces as much as the works themselves that Logan sought out. Over the years, he'd learned which bands produced the highest quality art, learned which infused their work with the energy that was addictive to him. Each band he traded with for beadwork made the same basic array of products, but each produced a different feel, a different arrangement of the miniature trade beads, used colors in different ways. The larger works were actually depictions of their warriors' exploits, of new sons born to the tribe, of funny exploits of village contraries, all told in geometric symbols—a code few white men knew.
Logan took his time examining each piece. When he sensed White Bull and his head wife were satisfied that he had given the work the appreciation it was due, he settled down to barter.
The pieces were highly popular at several of his trading posts, especially the ones on the edges of civilization visited by whites who didn't dare venture into the deep western reaches of Indian country. He paid generous prices for the goods, knowing it was the best way to ensure he'd con-knowing it was the best way to ensure he'd continue to get quality work.
He'd liquidated his entire inheritance for the seed money to start up a series of trading posts. He helped the women artists help their people. It wasn't much. It wasn't enough even. But it was the difference he could make. And as the various bands of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho families settled on reservations, it became ever more critical that they be able to supplement their income. He met with them each spring to purchase the products they'd spent the winter creating. And he met with them each autumn to sell them the beads, threads, and needles they needed for the work.
Finally, when the trade was completed and the last pipe smoked, Logan packed up his new possessions and returned to the Millers' home. He let Mrs. Miller select the moccasins she liked for her sister and a few other things for herself; then he crated the remaining items and addressed them for delivery to his main trading post on the Missouri River.
There remained, now, nothing keeping him from catching up to Mrs. Hawkins. He'd never known anyone who'd affected his life as much as she had in as short a time. She was in trouble, he had no doubt of that. Life had dealt her a bad hand, several times in a row, and yet she still sat at the table and played the game.
That was courage.
And it was what drove him to find her. He ached to share his future with someone who could feel life as intensely as he could. She'd had no time to heal and mourn before this mad dash off to Cheyenne. He couldn't fix what was broken in her, but he could stand beside her, shelter her, protect her while she put the pieces of her soul back together. If he was lucky, she would step out of her past and see him.
He grinned, feeling foolish and possessive and happy. He'd kept a few pieces from his trade with White Bull as gifts for Sarah and couldn't wait to give them to her.
He took his leave from the Millers and started for Cheyenne. It was a new direction in his life and it felt good.
 
Sarah stepped through the arches at the entrance to the Inter-Ocean Hotel and out onto the busy sidewalk. The morning was bright and hot as she made her way toward the sheriff's—she was glad for the shade Mr. Taggert's hat provided. She tightened her grip on the papers she held as she sent a surreptitious look around the area, trying to see whether anything seemed odd, whether someone looked out of place, whether she was being watched.
Nothing caught her eye. Her stomach tightened as she approached the sheriff's office. What she was doing now was the conclusion of a yearlong nightmare. She looked forward to handing the stolen deeds over to the law and letting the sheriff unravel her husband's innocence or guilt. Then she would be done with it. Free to start a new life. Somewhere. Somehow.
It wasn't yet 9:00 a.m.—his office hadn't opened for the day. She walked over to a bulletin board of news alerts and wanted posters, absently reading the messages there to pass the time. Smack dab in the middle was a poster with her face and name on it, claiming she was wanted for forgery. It offered a thousand-dollar reward if she were returned to the authorities in Yankton, Dakota Territory.
Sarah's blood turned to ice. They'd gotten to the sheriff. There was no refuge to be had through him. In fact, whoever was after her knew she was here, in Cheyenne. She had to go, had to leave today. But where? The thought of leaving the safety of the town and riding off, unprotected, into the prairie filled her with terror.
She considered and quickly discarded the idea of hiding in her hotel room and waiting for Mr. Taggert. If her husband's enemies hadn't found her yet, it wouldn't take them long to ask the various hotel clerks if she were staying with them. Besides, it was too dangerous a situation for her to involve Mr. Taggert. She had to disappear.
Intending to hurry back to the hotel and make a plan—just get off the street before someone recognized her—she pivoted and slammed into the hard chest of a man. The three oilskin pouches she carried shot out of her hands. She gasped and swooped down to collect them even as he knelt beside her. She quickly retrieved two of them.
“Beg pardon, ma'am,” he said, handing her the third. She lifted her gaze and caught sight of his sheriff's badge, then looked no further.
“Thank you,” she said with a nod, hoping Mr. Taggert's hat obscured her face. She stepped around him and continued down the sidewalk, forcing herself to move in an unhurried stroll.
In her hotel room, she paced back and forth, trying to come up with a plan. She couldn't take a stage out of town because she had to bring her horse wherever she was going; she would need him at the other end of her trip and he couldn't keep up with the pace a stagecoach set with its constantly refreshed horse teams. Nor could she leave town by herself.
Then one name popped into her head: Jace Gage. She remembered what the captain had told her about the gunfighter who lived in Defiance. If she could learn how to use her gun, at least she'd have a fighting chance of defending herself if—or when—her pursuers actually caught up with her. Maybe, after she'd lain low in Defiance, her trail would be harder to follow. But how to get there?
She took another turn around the room. There had to be freight wagons that took supplies up to Defiance. It was just a matter of finding which wholesaler supplied the town. Maybe she could ride along with one of those teams on its next run. If it wasn't leaving immediately, then she could take lodging under a false name, stay hidden in her room.
She looked at her satchel. She couldn't run around town lugging her bag—it would bring even more attention to her. Nor could she risk letting the papers out of her sight. She needed pockets to store the papers and her money. With what she'd reserved from the Fort Buford wives' donation, what Mr. Taggert had given her, and the extra cash the lieutenant had not used to pay for her room, she had almost twenty dollars. It was enough to get her through her stay here in Cheyenne and the trip to Defiance, as well as to hire Mr. Gage for a few hours of instruction and to rent a room while she was up there.
With a plan firmly in mind, she took out her sewing kit and set to work modifying her undergarments.
Chapter 7
Logan took the room key the clerk handed him. “Thanks. And what room is Mrs. Hawkins staying in?”
“Mrs. Hawkins?” the clerk repeated, giving Logan a disdainful lift of his eyebrow. “Are you the gentleman who guaranteed her room?” The tone in his question made Logan's hackles rise.
“I am.”
“Please wait at the end of the counter, sir. I will need to have you talk to the manager.” He disappeared into a room behind the counter, emerging just moments later. “This way, sir.”
Logan followed the clerk into the back office and sat in a chair the clerk indicated. After a brief introduction, the hotel manager presented Logan with a bill for damages.
“What is this? Why am I being charged for a new mattress, bed linens, lamps, and such?”
“The woman who stayed in that room, a Mrs. Hawkins, left it in tatters.”
Logan frowned. “I'm not following—”
The manager, a thin, smallish man with spectacles on his nose, gave Logan a pained expression. “She sliced through the mattress, the sheets, the blanket. Lamps were knocked over, dressers were turned over, the washbowl was destroyed. We did not rent her the room in that shape, sir. And we cannot use it again until the debris has been cleared away.”
Logan held the man in a cold stare. “What makes you think Mrs. Hawkins did this?”
“The room was checked out to her. Who else would have done it?”
“I sent her here because I thought she would be safe. I thought you had sufficient protocols in place to protect a woman traveling alone. She was attacked in your hotel and you're worried about replacing linens? Where is she? Did you kick her out?”
“I-I don't know. The maid service discovered the mess this morning. I don't know where she went.”
Logan stood up and leaned his weight on two hands as he glowered down at the hotel manager. “Did you notify the sheriff ?”
“No. We prefer to keep dealings such as these to ourselves. We don't need the City Council thinking we harbor hooligans at our establishment. The fewer reports of mayhem and trouble on these premises, the better.”
“So, a woman, traveling alone, is attacked in your hotel and not only do you not offer her aid, but you don't contact the sheriff. What the hell kind of establishment are you running?”
“We don't know she was attacked, sir. There is no evidence to support that theory.”
“Have you cleaned her room yet?”
“No.”
“Take me there now.”
“What about the bill?” The look Logan gave him was enough to make him change his mind. In fact, he couldn't get Logan out of his office fast enough. He rang for his clerk even as he stumbled through an apology. “Never mind, Mr. Taggert. It will be our pleasure to take care of this matter without troubling you further.”
The room Sarah had stayed in was in a shambles. Furniture was flung about the space, drawers pulled free and tossed away from the dresser and nightstand. Lamps lay broken on their sides. A maid was trying to mop up the spilled oil before the damage could spread to the room below. Bed linens lay in heaps about the room. And beneath it all was what was left of Sarah's satchel, ripped apart, her meager possessions tossed everywhere.
“Get out,” Logan ordered the maid and the porter.
He had to be in the room alone, had to put the pieces back together to figure out what had happened. The one thing that kept him from panicking was that there was no blood. Whoever had done this had either not found Sarah or had taken her alive. But if she'd been captured, she hadn't gone willingly. If she had been here when they'd come, she hadn't helped them in their search or there would have been no need to tear the room apart. And if she hadn't been here, then she was on the run.
He stared at the disarray in the room. What were the vandals looking for? Had they found it? Bella had said Sarah's room had been ransacked at the fort. Someone was hunting her. She was out there, alone and in danger. Why the hell couldn't she have trusted him, told him what was going on? Christ, he'd saved her life—and her dignity—several times over the last few weeks. He'd proven himself to her, hadn't he?
Logan began gathering up her things. Some of her clothes were shredded, some weren't. He made a pile of the items that could be salvaged. Underclothes. Stockings. A blouse. He held the pieces to his nose and breathed in her scent, sweet like fresh air and sunshine. Like flowers after a rain shower. That was Sarah. She couldn't smell like that and be a criminal, could she?
He thought of the merry dance his own mother had led his stepfather on, looking beautiful in the fancy clothes she ordered from a modiste on the biannual trips she insisted upon taking to Denver. Her hair was always artfully arranged, her nails polished and long. She presided like a grande dame over a family of men who had no interest in society, who only cared about cattle and range wars. She'd had many affairs, and even that had failed to make his stepfather take notice of her. Logan had watched his mother's machinations throughout the years of his childhood, vowing he would never fall for such tricks as an adult—neither hers nor those of his stepfather.
Yet here he was, crazy about a woman who, at best, had been so mistreated in life that she couldn't bring herself to trust him, and at worst, was neck deep in unlawful activities that had clearly turned against her.
He shoved a hand through his hair, taking a fresh look around the room. What was missing? Perhaps that, more than anything else, would tell him what he needed to know to make his next steps. He looked at the pile of her things. Her coat, her gun belt, and her bedroll—that was all that was not here.
He gathered the things that were not destroyed and stuffed them into a pillowcase, then left. Maybe the sheriff would know if something had happened in town yesterday. Logan walked into the sheriff's office. A man with a badge looked up.
“Can I help you, mister?”
“I'm looking for a woman who checked into the Inter-Ocean a few days ago. She went missing yesterday. The room she was staying in had been ransacked. I was wondering if there had been any trouble in town in the past few days? Any odd men come through?”
“Sir, this is Cheyenne. We have trouble every day. What's the name of the woman you're looking for?”
“Sarah Hawkins.”
“The forger?” He walked outside and pointed to a wanted poster pinned to the bulletin board. “This the woman?”
Logan stared long and hard at the poster. That was Sarah, all right. “When did you get this?”
“About a week ago.”
“Who brought it?”
The sheriff shrugged. “A courier. What's your interest in the matter? You a bounty hunter?”
“Mrs. Hawkins is my wife.”
“Oh! Well, Mr. Hawkins—”
“Name's Logan Taggert. We were married in the Sioux tradition. She didn't feel it was binding, which is why we're not together. In case you happen to run across her, she's about five foot five, a hundred and ten pounds or so, with white-blond hair and brown eyes. If you find her, keep her here. She's mixed up in something and I don't know what, but it's got her on the run.”
The sheriff uttered a curse under his breath. “I did see her. She was here. Wearing a brown homespun skirt and a god-awful hat.”
“That was her.”
“I bumped into her. She was carrying some pouches, which I knocked loose. I helped her pick them up and she ran off.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yep. Looked pretty scared, too.”
“Why do you suppose a woman who was wanted by the law stopped by to see the sheriff ?” Logan asked.
“Dunno. Maybe when you catch up to her, you could let me know. Where will I find you if I do hear anything more about her?”
“How far did you say Defiance is from Cheyenne?”
Logan remembered hearing Sarah ask the captain at the fort. He'd thought no one went there except to make trouble or visit the lumber camps.
“Defiance. I'll be heading up to Defiance tonight. Send word to the sheriff there.”
The sheriff nodded. “You one of the Circle Bar Taggerts?”
Logan didn't immediately answer. It had been a long time since he'd thought of himself as one of them. “Yes, I am.” He'd go up to Defiance to find Sarah, but he'd be damned if he'd make a stop at the old homestead to visit his stepfamily. “Mind if I take that poster?”
The sheriff ripped it off the board and handed it to him. Logan folded it and put it in a pocket as he made his way over to the livery. He could take a fresh horse and leave now, but he'd taken a liking to the little mare, given the circumstances he'd acquired her under. He'd ridden hard to get here. His pony was too tired for the long ride ahead of them. So was he, for that matter. They both needed a brief rest before starting out that evening.
A hostler came over to take his horse. “Did you happen to see a woman come through here yesterday with a horse like this one?”
The hostler gave him a sharp look. “She came through, all right. So did a couple other men, looking for her.”
“Who were they?”
“Mister, it's my job to look after horses, not poke my nose in anyone's business. I'll tell you what I told them. She said she was heading down to Denver to take a teaching job.”
Sarah tied her pony to the hitching post by a two-story house with a sign out front that read
MADDIE'S BOARDINGHOUSE.
She knocked on the door. Footsteps sounded inside, then a slightly heavyset woman in her late fifties greeted her.
“Do you have a room available?” Sarah asked.
“I do.” She stepped back and let Sarah enter. “I charge a dollar a day. You get three meals and a bath once a week.”
“All right.”
Maddie led her to a desk with a ledger on it. “How long will you be staying with us, Miss—?”
“Mrs. Hawkins,” Sarah said before she could stop herself. Well, too late now. Hopefully by the time her husband's associates looked for her here, she would be long gone. “A week.” Another seven dollars gone.
Sarah paid for the week in advance and signed the ledger. “Do you happen to know a man named Jace Gage?”
“I do. What's he to you?”
“I was hoping to take shooting lessons from him.”
“You in trouble?”
“No. I'm just a widow who would like to know how to protect herself.”
“So am I, but I don't feel the need to wear a gun.” Maddie gave her an assessing look. “Jace owns the lumber mill outside of town. He's a family man now. If you're in some kind of trouble, maybe you should take it to the sheriff.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
“Well then, put your horse up in the stable out back. There's oats in the bin for it. I'll get a sandwich made for you. You look like you've missed a few meals. If you're going to be in training, you'll need to eat more regularly. Where's your luggage? I'll take it up to your room.”
“I haven't brought any.”
“Not in trouble, huh?” Maddie made a face as she handed over the key. “Second room on the right upstairs. Come to the kitchen when you're finished with your horse.” The older woman went down the hallway, muttering about women and trouble coming back to Defiance.
Since she was the only guest at Maddie's that night, Sarah made use of her week's one allotted bath, then washed her clothes. She'd run from the Inter-Ocean without any of her clothes. Someone had been in her room when she'd come back from arranging a ride with a freight team, and it wasn't the maid service.
She should have waited for Mr. Taggert. She knew that now. She needed help. Lots of it. Losing him was the worst of everything that was happening to her. Nothing seemed to faze him. That man could talk a turtle out of his shell, face terrifying Sioux warriors and laugh, then cover her with a blanket and his coat and sleep only when he knew she did. She wished she'd met him before Eugene. Everything would have been so different.
BOOK: Logan's Outlaw
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