Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona by Miralee Ferrell Page B

be the correct location. A horse whinnied, and a pungent odor drifted from one of the stalls. She wrinkled her nose. A few steps took her to the back of the building. “Anyone here?”
    The large door on the front trundled open, and someone stepped inside. “Help you, Miss?” A slender, stooped man shuffled out, a pipe clenched between his teeth. A young boy about ten years old followed. The man pulled the pipe from his mouth and grinned. “Never smoke it in here. Don’t want no fire, no sir. You lookin’ to rent a buggy?”
    Christy shook her head and found her voice at the same time. “No, thank you. I came in on the stage. The driver told me he’d drop my trunk and bags here.”
    “The one that got robbed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Shore, all the bags from the stage are here that ain’t been picked up yet.” He pointed with the stem of the pipe to a dark corner on a small platform, then turned to the boy and leaned over, whispering something. The boy scampered out of the stable. The hostler flashed a grin. “Name’s Charlie.”
    “Christy Grey. Happy to meet you. Do you think you could deliver my things for me?”
    “Let’s see if we can find the right one first.” Charlie plucked a lantern off a nail and scratched a match against the wood. He lifted the glass chimney and placed the blazing match against the wick, then replaced the chimney. “There we go. What’s she look like?”
    “Oh, my trunk?” Christy suppressed a smile. “It’s about this wide”—she spread her arms—“and dark gray with black bands.”
    “Here she is.” Charlie stooped over and latched hold of the leather strap on one end and tugged. He emitted a grunt and yanked a little harder. “What you got in there—a boatload of books? It’s heavy.”
    At that moment the young boy raced back inside panting. “Uncle Charlie, the marshal is here. I got him, like you asked.”
    Startled, Christy turned toward Charlie. The marshal? Why would the livery man think he needed to call an officer of the law? “Could you see that my belongings are taken to my mother’s home?”
    “Sure. Give me directions, and I’ll be happy to oblige.” He waved toward the tall man with the badge. “Reckon the marshal needs a word with you first.”
    “Ben Sippy, ma’am.” The marshal held out his hand, and a grin warmed his solemn features. “Nothing to worry about. I just have some questions.”
    “About what?” She gazed into the soulful eyes nearly covered by the brim of his hat. A mustache dropped down on each side of his cheeks, reaching almost to the edge of his chin.
    The marshal withdrew his hat. “Are you the lady who came in on the stage that was held up?”
    Christy’s heart rate picked up at the man’s words, suspecting what might be coming. “Yes.”
    “I hear you were shot during the fracas. You see the doc when you got to town?”
    “It was a flesh wound, and Doctor Goodfellow tended to it. It’s sore, but I’ll be fine.”
    “Good.” He hesitated, twisting his hat in his hands. “What can you tell me about any of the men who robbed the stage?”
    “Very little, Marshal Sippy. The shooting started, the stage rolled to a stop, and I was wounded. My attention remained on my injured arm from that point forward.”
    “Do you mind if we step over to the doorway, Miss? It’s a mite dark in here, and Charlie’s stirring up dust dragging your trunk.”
    “Certainly.” She allowed him to escort her to the gaping doorway. The street bustled with activity even though it must be near suppertime. People exited the newly erected city hall and hurried down the steps, and wagons rolled past carrying supplies. “I really must get home to my mother. She’s quite ill and can’t be left alone for any length of time.”
    “I understand. Now, tell me what the outlaw looked like who tended your arm. I spoke to the driver and two of the other passengers who confirmed one of the robbers took you into a stand of brush. The others