Spirit of Love Read online

  Sheriff Barrett yanked the bank robber to his feet, using the rope he’d tied around his hands. The man cried out in pain. The sheriff had opened his mouth, presumably to reprimand the villain, when he spied Georgina and stiffened.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  It took a second for Georgina to realize Mr. Barrett was talking to her. She stopped dead in her tracks. “I stepped down to see what was going on.” She did not appreciate being cursed at, but decided it would be prudent to take the matter up with the sheriff later, in the privacy of the buggy.

  “Well, for God’s sake, get back in there. Can’t you see there’s trouble?”

  Annoyed, Georgina snapped, “Of course, I can see it! That’s, why I got down. I want to see what happened.”

  A man with a huge nose who seemed to be helping the sheriff chuckled. “Can’t very well fault her fer that, Ash. She’s a female, after all.”

  Mr. Barrett grumbled something under his breath. Georgina didn’t catch what he said, but she was almost certain it was unflattering She refused to be daunted. Very gingerly, she tiptoed near one of the dead villains, holding her skirt off the ground. She didn’t care to get blood on her garments.

  “Ugh.” He was a very unpleasant sight. Georgina had never seen a dead person before. Well, except for Grandfather Witherspoon, but he’d been laid out in a coffin in the parlor and had looked fairly good, except for being dead.

  She suspected this dead fellow wouldn’t have looked good even after an undertaker had been at him. This was one person who fitted Georgina’s mental pictures of what a proper westerner should look like. Every inch a scoundrel, he was. She was pleased.

  She uttered a very unladylike squawk when she was grabbed roughly from behind.

  “Get away from that man, Miss Witherspoon. It’s no sight for a—ow!”

  Georgina hadn’t meant to slap Sheriff Barrett. She presumed the combination of circumstances had rendered her mental processes sluggish and, since she was already laboring under strong emotion, being grabbed that way had precipitated an automatic reaction. She was actually tolerably glad to know her survival instincts seemed to be keen, in spite of a life lived in ease and luxury in a civilized eastern city.

  “Unhand me, if you please, Mr. Barrett. There’s no need to be brutal.”

  “Brutal?”

  It didn’t look to her as if he aimed to apologize. He appeared, in fact, surprised. Georgina was offended. “Yes, brutal. All of this is new to me, and I was only curious.” She swept a kid-gloved hand out in a gesture meant to indicate the entire western United States.

  Mr. Barrett plainly didn’t care. “Damn it, lady, do you know who these men are?” He, too, swept a hand out, but his gesture was meant to encompass the dead outlaws:

  “Of course I don’t. How could I?”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Barrett spoke as if Georgina had just proven his point for him. “And what you don’t know can get you killed out here. This isn’t New York City, Miss Witherspoon.”

  “I’m well aware of that, thank you.”

  “You’re not acting like it. For Chrissakes, lady, these men are a gang of outlaws that have been robbing and murdering all over the Southwest.”

  “Gracious sakes.” Georgina glanced again at the dead men, feeling a good deal more respect for them than she’d had initially.

  “Gracious sakes.” Repeating her words, the sheriff put an emphasis on them that Georgina didn’t believe they deserved.

  She lifted her chin at an angle calculated to depress sarcastic innuendoes. “I am ready when you are, Mr. Barrett. If you’re through here.” Again she gestured, indicating the dead men on the street. A crowd was beginning to gather, and Georgina believed their inquisitiveness amply vindicated her own.

  “If I’m through here?”

  Georgina frowned, not understanding why he should sound so exasperated. “Don’t you have minions who can take care of the details engendered by such a circumstance?” She considered it a reasonable question, but Mr. Barrett rolled his eyes in an ungentlemanly fashion and snorted.

  The large fellow with the huge nose who had chuckled earlier now walked up to them. He tipped his hat at her. She offered him one of her most gracious smiles, pleased to know that a few proprieties existed in this out-of-the-way place, even if they were extended by a man who seemed to have more nose than was absolutely necessary.

  “I’ll take care of it, Ash. You drive the lady to the Murphy place.”

  Mr. Barrett gave Georgina a lingering and, it appeared to her, contemptuous glare. After too many seconds of that, he said, “Thanks, Frank. I’ll do the paperwork after I get back.”

  “Take your time,” the man named Frank said. “You’re dealin’ with a Murphy, after all.”

  She was a Witherspoon, actually. Georgina almost pointed it out to Frank, but decided against it. She did have Murphy blood in her. She presumed his comment was meant as a compliment and that Frank was telling the sheriff that the Murphys, as a respectable family in the neighborhood, deserved consideration. She appreciated him for it, and gave him another smile. He smiled back, giving her a glimpse of teeth that looked more like broken pickets than any teeth she’d ever seen. She blinked and commanded herself not to stare.

  “Thank you very much,” she said to Frank. Her gaze for the sheriff was much colder than the one she’d directed at Frank. “Whenever you’re ready, Sheriff. I shall return to the buggy now.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Georgina frowned at him. It sounded as, if he were speaking through gritted teeth. She neither understood nor approved of his tone. “Fine. Thank you’’

  It was a struggle, but she managed to get into the buggy without help. She was going to be living here for however long it took to sort out things with Grandmother, and she aimed to do it right. Not for Georgina any misplaced airs and graces left over from her New York City home. No sirree. She was going to become a proper western woman, or know the reason why.

  She had to wait several more minutes before Sheriff Ash Barrett condescended to take his place in the driver’s seat of the buggy. Georgina did not care to be kept waiting, and she had a sneaking suspicion he let her wait on purpose, although she had no idea why he was being so disagreeable. He was almost as much of a fusspot as Henry, for heaven’s sake.

  As Georgina waited, she observed the village of Picacho Wells. Again, she couldn’t help but be slightly discouraged. It really was a pathetic-looking place. Her gaze swept the street, from north to south and back again. That’s all there was to it.

  One street. A swaybacked boardwalk ran along it on either side, and buildings stood like ragged schoolchildren behind the boardwalk. A hitching rail that looked more splintery than was seemly ran the length of the boardwalk.

  And there were those men, squatting there, doing nothing, with their hats pulled over their eyes. Mercy sakes. She directed her attention back to the buildings.

  Everything seemed to be plain and brown, pockmarked, and peeling Windmills pierced the sky behind several of the buildings, their blades spinning like pinwheels in the relentless wind. The landscape appeared to her to be as dry as a bone, and she couldn’t imagine what purpose the windmills served unless there were underground water sources around.

  Georgina presumed most people lived beyond this one main thoroughfare, although she couldn’t imagine where. For as far as her eyes could see, there was nothing but grassy, windswept plains. Were there houses out there? She didn’t see any. Hmmm. This wasn’t at all promising.

  Since she was so busy observing her surroundings, the only reason she knew the sheriff had come was that the buggy dipped suddenly, almost heaving her out of the seat. When she caught her breath, she realized Mr. Barrett was in the driver’s seat. He didn’t turn around to greet her or otherwise acknowledge her presence, but only presented her with a view of his excessively broad back .

  Georgina frowned, then scooted forward so she could talk to him. Deciding to give
him a chance to redeem himself—after all, perhaps he’d shoved her to the floor of the buggy out of concern for her welfare and a sense of misguided chivalry—she said sweetly, “Thank you for rescuing me from the shooting, Mr. Barrett.”

  “You’re welcome.” He sounded not at all conciliatory.

  “Is Ash short for Ashley, Mr. Barrett?”

  “Yes.”

  Georgina had suspected it. She compressed her lips and decided to give him one more chance. She heard nothing more from his lips but a click to the horse pulling the buggy. The buggy jerked forward, slamming Georgina against the seat cushion—if cushion was the proper word for so thin and hard an object. She struggled upright again, this time honestly furious.

  “Mr. Barrett,” she said in her most severe tone. “If in the future we should happen to be in the vicinity of one another when bandits try to rob a bank, I should appreciate it if you would not shove me to the floor of a buggy.”

  He twisted his neck so that he could look at her. It wasn’t a friendly look. “Don’t worry. There probably won’t be a buggy handy. I’ll just shove you to the ground “

  Georgina’s mouth fell open. It took a good ten seconds for her to recover her composure enough to cry, “Good heavens! You truly are a brute!”

  “A brute? Cowpats.”

  Cowpats? She had no idea what he meant, although she was certain it wasn’t anything good.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “A brute. There’s no need to use force. You need merely advise me to remove myself from danger, and I shall do so expeditiously.”

  He heaved a huge, irritated sigh. “Listen, lady, I know you’re not used to life out here in the territory but, believe me, when the shooting starts, there’s no time to talk. I’m the sheriff here, and I’ll do what it takes to protect my citizens.” He added grimly, “And even visitors.”

  “That’s very good of you, but you needn’t do it in so rough a manner.” Georgina was feeling pretty grim herself.

  “You’ll get over it, Miss Witherspoon. And it seems to me you ought to thank me for it, too. If I hadn’t shoved you, you might not be alive to get over it.”

  Georgina thought she heard him mutter an addendum about almost-wishing she weren’t, but she wasn’t sure. She opted not to argue anymore, because she realized her first assessment of him had been correct. The man was, beyond a doubt, no gentleman.

  After fuming for a moment or two, however, she began to perk up. This might be an ugly place. And it might be rough and full of dastardly bank robbers and crude, ungentlemanly sheriffs. But it wasn’t dull. In fact, by gum, Georgina believed she’d just experienced the first real adventure of her lifetime. She breathed in a big gulp of dusty air and felt her spirits lift.

  Chapter Two

  Ash Barrett was almost as disgusted as he’d been when he first realized Phoebe, his deceased wife, had possessed feet of clay. Hell, Phoebe’s entire being had been molded of clay. Sticky, clingy, melty, gooey clay. The kind that got into everything and gummed up the works and ruined it so that it never operated properly again.

  So far, Georgina Witherspoon was just as bad. Maybe even worse, if such a thing were possible. Until he’d met her Ash hadn’t believed another such creature as Phoebe existed on earth. He was unhappy to discover his mistake.

  Yet there she sat, in his very own buggy, which he was at present driving down the main street of Picacho Wells at her aunt’s request and out of the goodness of his heart, headed for the home of a crazy old lady, and she was scolding him. Him. She, Georgina Witherspoon, a fluffy bit of goods from the big city who didn’t know New Mexico Territory from her own hind end, was sitting on the seat of his buggy, drawn by his horse, driven by his own personal self, and lecturing him, Ash Barrett, sheriff of Picacho Wells, about how to treat a lady.

  “You’ll get over it,” he repeated.

  “Of course I’ll get over it,” she said in a voice as crisp as burnt toast. “That’s not the point.”

  Lord, he wished the Murphy place were closer to town. He wanted to get this over with. He liked Vernice. Hell, he even liked old Maybelle Murphy, even if she was as crazy as a loon. But this granddaughter of Maybelle’s was enough to try the patience of a saint, and Ash was no saint.

  “The point is you’re still alive,” he said through his teeth. “If I hadn’t shoved you, you might not be. For Chrissakes, lady, this isn’t New York.”

  “Yes, I believe we’ve covered that point.”

  He turned and squinted at her: “Why are you carrying on like this, anyway? I’m sorry if we folks here in Picacho Wells don’t possess the fine manners you’re used to lady, but the territory’s a rough place. I figure we’ll get manners eventually, after we take care of more important things, like getting rid of the hard cases and bandits.”

  She sniffed. “That’s still no excuse.”

  “This is a stupid conversation.”

  “I don’t believe any civilized conversation is stupid in and of itself, Mr. Barrett. I object to being treated like a sack of potatoes. You were the one who treated me thus. While you evidently believe you had sufficient reason to do so, I disagree. No lady likes to be tossed around.”

  “Lord.” If he were a less prudent man, Ash might have snapped the reins and made the horse go faster. Ash Barrett was nobody’s fool, however, and he didn’t do it. He also liked his horse, Nestor, who while too old and ugly to be a good saddle animal any longer, was tough and strong enough to pull his buggy. He didn’t want old Nestor to stumble in a gopher hole and bust his leg.

  This female in the buggy, though ... Well if the world were a just and equitable place, she’d be the one to step into a gopher hole and at least sprain her ankle, if not break her neck.

  She was exactly like Phoebe, except that Phoebe had been dark and Miss Prissy Witherspoon was fair, with hair like spun silk, and a complexion a man might die for if he didn’t know better. Ash knew better. She opened her mouth to light into him again, and he knew it was going to be a long trip.

  “At any rate, I don’t believe it was necessary to shove me the way you did. Nor was it kind of you to curse at me afterwards.”

  “Curse at you?” Ash wasn’t sure he could stand much more of this.

  “Yes. You swore at me when I was—” She stopped. “Oh, my goodness, what are they doing?”

  Ash jerked his head up, wondering what in hell was happening now. If somebody else was robbing the bank, he might just quit his job, no matter how much he liked it. Picacho Wells was usually as peaceful as a slumbering baby. He’d never heard of two crimes happening in one month, let alone one day. When he glanced over to where Georgina’s attention was focused, he was relieved to see nothing unlawful going forward.

  “That’s the undertaker, Corny Stonecipher. He’s putting the bodies up for display.” He heard her take a big gulp.

  “He’s doing what?”

  “Putting the bodies up for display. So folks can see them.”

  “So folks can see them?” Her voice squeaked.

  Ash peered at her over his shoulder, wondering what her problem was now. “Yeah. Folks do that out here. Shows any other would-be crooks that criminal activity won’t be tolerated in Picacho Wells.” The custom was a common one in the Southwest, and Ash approved of it. He considered it a deterrent.

  “Good Lord in heaven! Do you mean to tell me that a respectable undertaker is actually going to prop those dead men’s corpses up in those coffins, and put them on exhibition for the citizens of the town to gawk at? As if they were pieces of meat hung in a butcher’s shop?”

  Ash shrugged. “That’s one way to look at it, I reckon.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

  He noted the tone of disapproval in her voice and bridled. “Listen, lady—”

  “Don’t you call me lady in that supercilious way, if you please!”

  Ash’s fists tightened .on the reins and he had to fight to keep from jerking them and hurting Nestor’s mouth. “Listen, Miss Wither
spoon, if you don’t like the customs out here, you don’t have to stay. Want me to take you back to the train station? I’ll explain to your aunt that you couldn’t take the rough life away from New York City. I’m sure she’ll understand.” It sounded like a good idea to Ash.

  “You will do no such thing! I can, too, take life outside of New York City. It seems to me that I’ve already demonstrated as much.”

  “How? By getting out of the buggy and walking into the middle of what might well have been a shootout because you didn’t know any better?”

  “Folderol!”

  Although the word itself was solid, the tone in which she uttered it wasn’t. In fact, it sounded to Ash as if she hadn’t thought about her earlier action in exactly those terms. The little fool.

  She cleared her throat. “I did no such thing. All the shooting had stopped before I got out.”

  “Right. A lot you know about it.” He was too disgusted to talk to her, anymore. She seemed to share his sentiment, because she finally shut up and sat back against the cushion. It was about time.

  It took forty-five minutes to get from Picacho Wells to the Murphy place if the roads weren’t flooded, the horse didn’t go lame, a herd of cows or a flock of sheep didn’t get in the way, robbers didn’t stop you, a wheel didn’t bust, and the wind didn’t blow up a storm and prevent forward motion. Luck was with Ash today, and he appreciated it. He didn’t want to be stuck with Miss Georgina Witherspoon a single second longer than he had to be.

  As soon as he drove the buggy down the tree-lined drive and into the Murphy yard, the front door of the house flew open and Miss Vernice stepped out onto the porch, a huge smile on her face and her arms held wide in a gesture of greeting. Ash was fond of the Murphy women, even if one of them was a couple of cards shy of a deck.

  It was too bad Devlin O’Rourke, Maybelle Murphy’s longtime lover, had died so suddenly a few months ago, because now there was no one to keep the Murphy place in repair. No one, least of all Maybelle or even Devlin himself, had expected Devlin to go. To the best of Ash’s understanding, he’d succumbed after a short, virulent bout with influenza, leaving Maybelle too stunned to cope, although Ash had always assumed her to be up to anything. Tough as nails, Maybelle Murphy. At least, that’s what everyone had thought. Apparently, they’d been wrong.