Page 92 of Charlotte's Reckoning
Alone again, she looked around, trying to decide what to do next. Her growling stomach decided for her. After two days of cold biscuits, she was ready for a hot supper. It was early, but she’d probably be asleep by sundown, so she went to gather wood and kindling.
She’d never been much of a cook, but she could fry bacon in a skillet and heat vegetables from a mason jar. Opening it wasn’t so easy. She twisted the lid until her hand ached. Covering it with a kitchen towel Wisteria had supplied, she tried again, and it still wouldn’t budge.
Suddenly, she sniffed, and her head whipped around toward the fireplace. Smoke was billowing out. She coughed, flapping her skirt to clear the air. Afraid the entire cabin would ignite, she grabbed the bucket and doused the fire, which made the smoke worse. Despite opening all the doors and windows, the cabin reeked of burnt bacon, as did she. She sniffed her shirt, grimacing at the mixture of smoke and the accumulation of two days of sweat on her body.
“Supper can wait,” she muttered. With bucket in hand, she headed out the back door. “I’m taking a bath tonight, even if it kills me.”
Chapter 22
A Matter of Urgency
The clang of metal reverberated through the building as Seth shut the heavy cell door. Roscoe Hubbard, a twice-escaped cattle rustler, stretched out on the cot with his arms crossed behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Seth had plenty for both of them.
Exhausted from two days of chasing the escapee from his jail, Seth trudged wearily toward the outer room. The job was taking its toll. He’d spent more time on the trail than in town since he’d started, but it couldn’t be helped. His deputies were mostly new and inexperienced; it would take time to train them. But he’d never get a handle on things in Laramie if he didn’t get to beinLaramie.
He stopped in front of his two shamefaced deputies who stood waiting for an ass chewing. “Can I trust you not to let him escape this time?”
“He’s not pulling the wool over my eyes again,” twenty-four-year-old Luther Hess declared.
Hubbard had played him for a fool during supper delivery. The kid ended up stuck behind bars, watching helplessly as Roscoe walked out the door. Luther’s face had burned bright red when Seth unlocked the cell door and let him out, but he was young and would learn.
Forty-year-old Arnie Collins didn’t have that excuse. He’d let Roscoe’s pretty sister distract him while his brother picked the lock. Two days later, his ears were probably still ringing from the dressing down Seth had given him.
“He’ll be here to appear before Judge Simpson next week,” Arnie vowed.
“He better be,” Seth said quietly. “Or you’ll be looking for another line of work.”
“Yes, Sheriff,” he muttered.
With one last glance at Roscoe, who was watching, a smirk on his face, and clearly enjoying himself, Seth walked out. The heavy rain coming down all day had slowed to a drizzle. He took his wet hat off, raked his damp hairback, and resettled it with a sigh. The minute his head hit the pillow, he’d be out cold, but pressing matters with Charlotte demanded his attention first.
***
The streets had transformed into a muddy mess. The sticky ooze tugged at his boots as he walked toward the saloon. Upon entering, the absence of piano music and the sight of mud smeared across the usually clean floor was startling, as were the overturned chairs, dirty glasses scattered on the tables, and the stench of stale beer. Stanley was missing from behind the bar, and the few saloon girls present seemed skittish and subdued. If he didn’t know it was the Red Eye, he would have thought he had entered the wrong saloon.
All the changes were easily explained by the presence of Quentin Sneed and a half dozen rough-looking armed men. Maneuvering around the upturned chairs and puddles of spilled beer, he approached Sneed’s table.
“Where’s Charlotte?” he demanded, dispensing with politeness and pleasantries.
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he said, picking a nonexistent piece of lint off his puke-green jacket.
“You ran her off,” he accused. A saloon girl by the bar nodded, confirming his allegation.
“It was her decision to leave. Don’t blame me if she disagreed with how I protect my property while waiting for farcical court proceedings.”
Each time he encountered Quentin Sneed strengthened his distrust and confirmed his belief that Charlotte’s suspicions were true. The sight of him and his smell—cloying cologne used to mask unwashed body odors—sent a fresh wave of revulsion washing over him. The man’s very presence felt slimy and wrong, and he had the overwhelming urge to snap him in two, but his badge kept him from acting. If he wanted to expose the man’s scheme, he’d need concrete proof to show the judge.
Seth pulled a chair out and sat at the table.
Not expecting this, Sneed stiffened and asked snidely, “Care to join me, Sheriff?”
He leaned back, stretching. “Don’t mind if I do. I’m beat.”
“Whiskey?” Sneed grudgingly offered.
“Why not?”
