clothes and “citified” appearance, their cocky grins reappeared. Better men than these had mistakenly equated polish with softness. His years at law school had added the polish, but he was still a born and bred Texan, able to stand with the best of them.
“No problem,” Scarcheek finally answered. “The boy’s confused is all. You just stay out of the way, and we’ll be done in a minute.”
Not likely. Another three unhurried steps placed Ry between the youth and the two men. He pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open with his thumb.
As expected, both men’s gazes latched onto the gold-cased timepiece with a covetous gleam.
“I don’t know.” Ry glanced down, then closed the heirloom with a snap. “It appears this is taking a good deal longer than a minute, and I’ve already wasted more time in Knotty Pine than I cared to.”
Scarcheek met Ry’s relaxed opposition with a lowered brow. “Unless you want to get them fancy duds and that pretty-boy face of yours messed up, you’d best stay out of matters that don’t concern you.”
Ry flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Well, now, that could be difficult. You see, it’s an unfortunate failing of mine that I find there are so many matters that do concern me.”
Scarcheek drew his pistol and pointed it at Ry’s chest. “Don’t know where you come from, Mister, but around here that’s not a very healthy attitude.”
Ry’s smile never wavered as he coolly calculated his next step. Using the pitchfork to knock Scarcheek’s gun out of his hand would be an easy maneuver. Handling Mustache, who was just out of reach, was a bit trickier. He’d hoped the sight of his watch would tempt the bully to step closer. Still, a few agile moves and a bit of finesse just might help him avoid a bullet while he disarmed the man.
He hoped to handle this without drawing his pocket pistol—the fewer bullets zipping around, the less chance of the boy getting caught in the crossfire.
Bracing himself, Ry shifted his weight and tightened his hold on the pitchfork. No time for doubts. But, as his mother had liked to say, there was always time for prayer.
Lord, I know I don’t say it often, but Your help is always welcome, and right about now would be a good time to provide a distraction.
No sooner had Ry formed that thought than the metallic click of a cocked rifle sliced through the tense quiet of the livery. “What’s going on here?”
“Joe!” The boy’s shout signaled both relief and warning.
Then everything happened at once.
Scarcheek spun around, gun raised, just as the boy started toward the newcomer, putting himself directly in the line of fire.
Fueled by concern over the boy’s safety, Ry swung the pitchfork with a speed and force that surprised even him. The blow connected with Scarcheek’s wrist, drawing a yelp and string of curses from the man as the gun went flying.
Before the gun hit the floor, Ry dropped the pitchfork and dove for the boy, tackling him to the ground. Covering the boy’s back with his own body, he left the newcomer’s line of fire clear to take care of Mustache if need be.
“Hands where I can see them.” The rifle-wielding local’s command carried the cold hardness of a marble slab.
With the sunlight at their rescuer’s back, Ry couldn’t make out many of his features. All he got was the general impression that this Joe fellow was a wiry young man who radiated a give-no-ground toughness.
Deciding it was safe to let the squirming stableboy up, Ry stood, though he kept a restraining hand on the lad’s shoulder. Now that everything seemed under control, he was actually feeling a bit proud of the way he’d handled himself. He still had it in him, it seemed.
Joe’s gaze shifted briefly toward the two of them. “You okay, Danny?”
“I am now.” The boy rubbed an elbow as he glowered at Mustache and Scarcheek. “They was fixing to take off without paying what they owe.”
“Is that right?” The inquisitor turned back to the surly pair, tightening his hold on the rifle. “You two planning to leave town without settling your bill?”
“Look here, no need to get all riled up.” Scarcheek cradled his wrist against his chest. “Clete and I were just pulling the kid’s leg a bit.” He shot Ry a hot-for-vengeance look. “Before this stranger stuck his nose in, we was about to pay up.”
Danny stiffened. “Hey! That’s not—”
Ry squeezed the boy’s shoulder, cutting off the rest of his protest. Joe was obviously in charge of the livery and it would be best to let him control the stage for now. Ry did, however, slip his free hand into his coat, palming his pistol. Wouldn’t hurt to be ready if things turned ugly again.
He felt rather than saw Joe’s gaze flicker his way. Apparently his movement hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought.
Then the livery operator’s focus returned to Scarcheek and Mustache. “Well, you can hand over the cash now or decide which horse you’re going to leave as payment.”
Scarcheek scowled, then called over his shoulder. “Pay up, Clete.”
Mustache reached into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills. He took a step forward, but halted when Joe shifted the rifle, pointing it dead center at his chest.
“Just set it on that barrel.” There was a flash of teeth as Joe gave a wolfish grin. “Being as you two are such reliable souls, I’ll trust it’s all there.”
Confident and cautious. Ry’s assessment of the man raised another notch.
“Now, get your horses and gear, and move on.” Joe lowered the rifle, but Ry doubted anyone in the stable thought he’d lowered his guard. “And don’t plan on doing business here again.”
With dark looks and muttered oaths, the men complied, and in short order were leading their horses into the street. The look Mustache shot Ry as he brushed by was pure venom.
Ry released his hold on Danny and the boy bolted to Joe’s side.
The livery operator dropped an arm around the lad’s shoulder never taking his gaze from the unsavory pair as they rode off.
Retrieving his hat, Ry brushed at the brim. He’d give them another minute to reassure themselves, then maybe he could finally get down to the business of renting a rig. Now that the little melodrama was over, he was more anxious than ever to be on his way. While Novembers in Texas weren’t nearly as cold as those in Philadelphia, the days were every bit as short. He needed to make good use of what daylight was left.
Belle had said in her letter that he was her last hope—an ominous statement coming from the down-to-earth girl he remembered. She’d been like a sister to him back when they were growing up and he still felt that old tug to look out for her.
As he watched the man and boy, something about their pose niggled at him, like a faintly off-key passage in an otherwise flawless aria. What was it…
He shook his head, letting go of the puzzle. He was not going to get diverted again.
They turned and stepped into a pool of light, giving him his first clear look at the rifle-toting, overall-wearing, hard-mannered livery operator.
Ry stiffened and felt his world tilt slightly off-kilter.
It couldn’t be.
But the proof was there, standing right in front of him—barely perceptible curves under masculine attire, long lashes over flashing green eyes, ruddy but smooth cheeks that a razor had obviously never touched. And if he needed further proof he got it when Joe’s hat came off, releasing a long, thick braid.
No, not “Joe,” but “Jo.”
He’d let a woman face down two brutes while he just stood by and watched.