A Wanted Man by Linda Lael Miller Page A

it.
    Now, sitting in the schoolroom, he felt restless, as though there were something else he ought to be doing, and wasn’t.
    He thought about Rowdy, the brother he barely knew.
    You ever need any help, you’ll find me boarding at Mrs. Porter’s, over in Stone Creek.
    A hand came to rest on Gideon’s shoulder just as he was recalling that conversation for the hundredth time, nearly scaring him right out of his hide. He wasn’t commonly the jumpy sort, and it embarrassed him mightily, the way he’d started. He felt his neck and face go warm.
    “You’re not concentrating, Gideon,” Miss Langston said good-naturedly, smiling down at him. She was about a thousand years old, short and square of build, a phenomenon that had confounded him until Ruby had explained the mysteries of a lady’s corset. “It’s too early for spring fever, but I’ll vow, you’re already afflicted.”
    Gideon tried to smile, because he liked Miss Langston. She was briskly cordial, and never made sly remarks about Ruby or his pa, like a lot of folks did. And she’d attended Rose’s funeral, too, he remembered. Cried into a starched hanky with lace trim around the edges.
    “I’ve got some trouble at home,” he confided, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t have to fight later, out in the schoolyard. He’d never lost a one of those battles, but, as his pa liked to say, there was no shortage of idiots in the world. There was always somebody ready to take him on.
    Pa’d had things to say about that, too.
    Pa.
    “You’d best go and see to things there, then,” Miss Langston said, kindly and quietly. When he hesitated, she prodded him with, “You’re excused, Gideon.”
    He fairly knocked his chair over backwards, getting to his feet.
    You ever need help—
    Did he need help? He didn’t know.
    He couldn’t have explained why he felt so nervous and scared. Something was bad wrong, though. He was sure of it. The knowledge stung in his blood and buzzed in his brain.
    He ignored the quizzical stares of the other pupils—they ranged from tiny girls in pigtails to farm boys strong as the mules they rode to town—and shot out of the schoolhouse, down the steps, across the yard. He vaulted over the picket fence and sprinted for the livery stable four streets over.

    R OWDY PLACED AN ORDER down at the sawmill, bought a hammer, a keg of nails, and some other tools at the mercantile, paid extra to have them delivered, Pardner tagging along behind him. Then, figuring he ought to do some marshaling, since he was getting paid for it, he walked the length of Center Street, speaking quietly to folks as he passed, touching the brim of his hat to the ladies.
    He looked in at the bank and the telegraph office, introduced himself and Pardner.
    He counted the horses in front of the town’s three saloons, and went inside the last one, which happened to be Jolene Bell’s place.
    “That your deputy?” a grizzled old-timer asked, leaning against the bar and grinning sparse-toothed down at Pardner, who was sniffing at the spittoon.
    “Leave it,” Rowdy told the dog.
    Pardner sighed and sat down in the filthy sawdust.
    “Don’t see no badge on him,” quipped another of the local wits.
    Rowdy smiled. “This is Pardner,” he said. “Guess he is my deputy.”
    “He bite?” asked the skinny piano player, looking worried.
    “Not unless he has just cause,” Rowdy answered.
    The old-timer’s gaze went to Rowdy’s badge, then shifted to his .44. “You a southpaw, Marshal?”
    “Nope,” Rowdy said, looking straight at the old man, but noticing everything and everybody at the far edges of his vision, too.
    Always know what’s going on around you, boy. Ignorance ain’t bliss. It can be fatal. He’d been raised on those words of Pappy’s, drilled on them, the way some kids were made to learn verses from the Good Book.
    “Gun’s backward in the holster,” the piano player pointed out helpfully.
    Rowdy glanced down at it, as if surprised to