Page 5 of Nights with the Outlaw

He shrugged. “I could hang around until they get back. Make sure that pig doesn’t get out again.”

Her heart nearly somersaulted right out of her chest. She had to roll her shoulders to keep it where it belonged. An unwavering honesty in his eyes said his offer was genuine. “I sure could use the help,” she admitted. “I’ll pay you the going rate, and you’ll have the bunkhouse all to yourself until Joe and Dobbs get back.”

He nodded, and she, feeling almost as happy as she had when the new Chester White had arrived, turned for the house.

Clint couldn’t draw his eyes away as Doreena walked across the worn ground between the big whitewashed house and the hog pen. She was remarkable. The way she wrangled that pig, along with the care she used while piercing its nose, said she had gumption. That alone made him want to help her.

He turned to make his way to the bunkhouse, and reality hit. What was he thinking? Stay around until her hired men got back? He had to find Martin and Henderson, see they got their due and then be on his way to California. To where the streets were lined with gold and women wore scanty dresses. That’s where a man could forget his past and start anew. Everyone knew that, including him. So why’d he have this odd desire to help a woman he found hugging a tree?

After cleaning up, and getting no closer to figuring out why he’d offered to stay, Clint stowed his gear under an empty bed in the one-room bunkhouse, and then made his way around the large home, to where shots continued to echo.

A scrawny kid, with a mop of blond hair had six bottles set up on stumps and was taking aim. All three of his quickly fired shots whizzed several feet over the bottles. An older man, leaning heavily on a cane, said something, but the kid started firing again, so Clint couldn’t hear what it was.

He made his way over to stand next to the older man. Balancing his weight on the cane, the man offered his hand. “Jeb Stockholm.”

“Clint Turnquist.”

“Doreena says you’re gonna hang around a few days and help out.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, without a qualm, which again was odd.

“Thanks. We sure could use the help. I messed up my knee a couple of weeks ago and haven’t been much good for anything lately.”

Clint nodded, but his attention was on the boy staring at them with puckered lips. “You’re not aiming with your gun,” Clint suggested.

The kid, Tristan, glared harder.

“The end of your gun predicts where the bullet’s going.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Tristan snapped.

Clint waited for the kid to fire off a few more rounds before pulling a coin out of his pocket. “Tristan.” When the kid turned, Clint tossed him the coin. “Throw it in the air.”

Tristan rolled the coin between his fingers, as if deeply contemplating the action. Then with a snap of his wrist, he flipped the coin skyward.

Without thought, Clint drew and shot. The coin recoiled from the hit, and he fired again, hitting the metal a second time as it spiraled to the ground.

“Sheesh!” Tristan ran to retrieve the coin. “How’d you do that?” He held the coin in the air. “You hit it twice. There’s no hole, only two buckle marks.”

“Of course there’s no hole,” Clint said. “A bullet’s not powerful enough to go through the metal. If anyone tells you differently, they’re wrong.”

“How’d you do that?” Tristan asked again.

“I aim with the end of my gun.”

“You didn’t aim at all,” Tristan insisted. “You just shot.”

“I didn’t use the sights, but I aimed the end of the barrel at the coin.” Clint nodded toward the coin. “Throw it again.”

That’s where Doreena found them, shooting at the coin until Clint was almost out of ammo, which was a foolish thing to do. Ammo was precious.

“Supper’s on the table,” she said, glancing at the coin Tristan held.

“Can I keep this?” the kid asked.

Clint nodded and followed the group toward the house. A part of him—the part that wanted to impress her—had hoped Doreena would witness his shooting abilities, but the way she’d looked at the coin had him wondering if she’d actually second-guessed her agreement to let him stay. He removed his gun belt and hat inside the back door, and when he turned about, memories of sitting down to a meal with others threatened to make it impossible to swallow. He should walk out now, while he could.

Doreena, with a light touch on his arm, guided him to the table. “Sit here, Clint,” she instructed, taking an adjacent chair.

“I’m Sarah,” a round and buxom older woman said. “Jeb’s wife.” She set a platter on the table. “Don’t be shy about eating. You earned it catching that hog Doreena’s been chasing for a week.”

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