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Chapter One
Dakota Territory, 1869
“I’m tellin’ you, I didn’t kill anyone!”
Bobby Morgan sat, his wrists bound behind him, looking at lean, red-faced Justin Stiles, Sheriff of Dugan, Dakota Territory. The muscles underneath his scalp pounded like a hammer into his brain, and his eyes stung from the rotgut whiskey that had trickled into them when a bottle had crashed onto his head.
“I got a saloon full of men say you did,” the sheriff said.
“A saloon full of crazy drunks.” Bobby shook his head. “What about Frank, the bartender? He’ll vouch for me.”
“Frank didn’t see anything.”
“The hell he didn’t! He was behind the bar when this all happened.”
“Says he took a break.”
“Goddamn coward.” Bobby was never setting foot in that saloon again. He exhaled sharply. “Then who was manning the bar?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. But I got one man dead, and five witnesses who say you done the deed.”
Bobby squirmed in the hard wooden chair. His jaw ached, his head throbbed, and his face still burned from the alcohol seeping into the lacerations. He let out a sarcastic chuckle. After losing stage robber Jack Daily’s trail, he’d stopped in Dugan for a drink. Worst decision he ever made. At least he’d finally gotten some sleep. Course he hadn’t expected to wake up on the dirt floor of a jail cell.
“I’ll say it again. He attacked me. And when I heard his pistol cock, I shot him in the foot. Through his boot. Just enough to take him down so I could get the hell out. That’s it.” He sighed. The coarse rope bit his wrists.
“These men just like to git rowdy,” Stiles said. “I ain’t never had a one of ’em in my jail for anything other than drunk and disorderly conduct.”
“Really?” Bobby’s tone was sardonic as he cocked his head to indicate the dozing drunks in the cell. “So none of them are in here for shooting anyone?”
“Nope. That’d be you, Mr. Morgan.”
Bobby stretched his neck while fumbling with the rope ties behind his back. Were they loosening? Yup. The good folks of Dugan had elected a sheriff who couldn’t tie a decent knot. He kept his facial expression noncommittal, and without moving his head, scanned his surroundings. He’d need the sheriff’s gun, but it was holstered at his waist. Problematic. A blade would do, or something that could masquerade as one. Most likely the sheriff lived in the backroom.
There’d be a knife in there somewhere.
Idiot hadn’t thought to bind his legs to the chair. What a greenhorn. The sheriff couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-two. Bobby had age and experience on his side, and he planned to use them.
But first he needed a diversion.
The other prisoners were out cold, so he couldn’t depend on them. By the time a suitable diversion presented itself, he’d be back in lock up.
Damn.
He closed his eyes, and despite his thumping head, willed his mind to churn. He’d gotten out of some pretty sticky scrapes over the years. He’d get out of this one.
He breathed in deeply to clear his brain.
Lavender.
His mother’s pretty face emerged in his mind, and he was a boy of ten again, before the Indians had stripped him of everything he held dear. He hadn’t thought of her in years. How had he conjured her out of nothing? It was the lavender. His mother had smelled of lavender.
He opened his eyes, and before him stood an angel. Although her sable hair was bound in a tight knot, he imagined it flowing over shoulders the same creamy shade as her beautiful face. She was tall for a woman, and slender, but with full, luscious breasts. One pale hand curved around a wicker basket covered by a red-checkered cloth.
“M-Miss Blackburn”—the sheriff’s face turned a deeper red—“I-I didn’t expect you today.”
“Pa heard in town this morning that you had to lock several men up last night.” Her voice was smooth and just a little husky.
Bobby’s curled his lips slightly upward.
The young woman’s brown skirts rustled as she set a basket on the sheriff’s desk. The earthy lavender scent wafted to Bobby again. It was her. The angel.
