The Law And Miss Hardisson. Lynna Banning
“Yes, but they released him.”
“They what?” His eyes turned to cold steel.
“Well, I—he was accused of stealing a—”
“I’ll bet,” Clayton said in a dry voice. “Probably ran his own horse to death. So they let him go?”
It was more an accusation than a question. Irene’s resolve stiffened. “A man,” she pronounced in measured tones, “is presumed innocent until proven—”
“Horse-rocks!”
“Please let me finish.”
Clayton took two long steps forward and leaned over her desk. “Okay,” he said. “Finish.”
She blinked. His face was so close to hers she could see the flush of anger on his high cheekbones. Hair black as midnight swept his collar.
“—until proven guilty,” she concluded.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. But what I want with Fortier hasn’t anything to do with horse-thievin’, so where do I find him?”
“I have no idea where he went after the hostage exchange.”
“Hostage exchange! Who was involved in that?”
“That you will have to ask the sheriff,” she replied with a sniff. She didn’t want to admit it was she who had negotiated the exchange. He looked mad enough as it was.
“Well now, I can’t do that now, can I? Seein’ as he’s gone ‘hunting.’ Just what is he hunting, Miss Hardisson?”
Something about the man’s deliberate, self-confident manner made her insides fluttery.
“I cannot say.”
“Can’t?” he pressed.
“Will not,” she amended. She had no legal leg to stand on, and she knew it. She swept the crumbling cigars into the wastebasket beside her desk and tried to think. For some reason she didn’t want to reveal to this man her role in Brance Fortier’s release. She looked him in the eye and shook her head.
“You’re obstructing justice, Miss Hardisson. I have a warrant for Fortier’s arrest.” With his good arm, he withdrew the paper from his inside vest pocket and unfolded it on her desk.
Irene scanned the document. “Murder! Oh, my.”
“So you see, ma’am, you’ve gone and put your legal foot right in the middle of my job, and I suggest—”
“This is Oregon, not Texas,” she enunciated with care. “Have you authority in Oregon?”
She prayed he would not challenge the point. She’d read law under her father in Pennsylvania; she hadn’t been out West long enough to know Oregon law.
He ignored her question. “When did you see Fortier last?”
“A few days ago. I went over to the jail—”
“And released him,” he finished for her. “I’ll bet he lit out within ten minutes.”
Irene drew in her breath and exhaled. “It was more like five minutes.”
Clayton laughed out loud. “Brance Fortier’s one of the old Cortina gang. I doubt he’s within a hundred miles of this valley by now.”
“I am quite sure he will be back within the week.” She started to rise.
Clayton pinned her wrist to the desk. “Either you are a damn fool,” he said quietly, “or you are a damn good liar.”
Irene wrenched her hand free and stood up, breathing hard. “Mr. Black, if you will excuse me, I have business elsewhere. Good afternoon.”
She slammed the desk drawer shut, yanked her black silk parasol from the china stand beside her desk and marched past him to the door.
He got there ahead of her.
“Stand aside, please,” she ordered. She looked up at him with fire in her eyes. He noted they were an odd shade of green, and the mass of dark chestnut hair piled on top of her head seemed too heavy for the slim neck. The rest of her was pure woman. Small waist, gently flaring hips, skin like peach silk. The soft green dress clung to her upper torso in a way that made his mouth go dry, and her large, expressive eyes, framed by definite eyebrows and thick, black lashes, looked fearless.
He folded his good arm over his sling, content to block her way. She smelled good. Sweet and clean, like soap. He inclined his head toward her to get another whiff.
And then he spied something over her shoulder. Something she had forgotten in her fury. It sat on a glass-fronted bookcase behind the desk, and he hadn’t seen it because he’d been focusing on those green eyes of hers.
Balls of fire, there couldn’t be more than one creation like that in the entire country!
And there it was, right smack in front of him. That straw hat with the shiny red cherries on top.
Chapter Two
The parasol opened with a swish. Beneath the arch of black silk a pair of flashing eyes held his. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re the lady on the stagecoach!” Clayton managed. “I recognize your hat.”
The green eyes widened. “My hat?”
“Ma’am, I was badly wounded. As I recall, you got some whiskey for me, and for that I am eternally grate—”
“Whiskey!” She studied his face, then inspected the sling on his arm. Her face changed. “Oh, yes, I remember now.”
“The doctor in Cedarville dug out the bullet and taped up my ribs. I’m obliged to you, Miss Hardisson.”
Her dark brows drew into a frown. “It was Brance Fortier who shot you! That’s why you want to find him, is it not? To settle the score?”
“Not exactly.” Clayton shifted his weight, leaned his aching back against the closed door of her office. “To tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t know who shot me. Never saw him. Might’ve been Fortier. Might’ve been somebody else. Doesn’t much matter, since I’m takin’ Fortier back to Texas soon as I find him, to stand trial for murder.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Black. Brance Fortier is not going anywhere until he is tried for horse theft here in Clackamas County.”
She said it with such conviction Clayton gritted his teeth. Why, why was he saddled with this annoyingly stubborn lady? She sure didn’t act as soft as she looked, small and fragile in green-sprigged muslin puffs and ribbons. She acted like she knew something he didn’t, and it got under his skin. He needed to find out where Fortier had gone and get the hell out of this place! The town and everything in it—especially her—made him uneasy. All he wanted was Fortier and justice. Swift and efficient.
And Irene Hardisson knew which direction he was headed. He cleared his throat. “Miss Hardisson, I’m dead tired and hot and sweaty from near twenty hours in the saddle. If you don’t mind, we’ll continue this skirmish later.”
She sent him a look that would fry bacon. “Well, I never!” Hands propped on her hips, she stood toe-to-toe with him.
Clayton stifled a groan, then spun on his heel and headed for the door. “I need some answers. I’ll be back after supper.”
“I will not be in after supper,” she snapped. “I will be at my home.”
“Fine,” he shot back. “Where do you live?”
“I did not mean for you to call, Mr. Black. I am not receiving. I meant—”
“At the hotel, then. Later. I’ll probably pick up a poker game, see what I can find