The Temptress (Montgomery/Taggert 8)

“Of course. Who are they?”

“A bunch of two-bit crooks. Most of them are either dead now or locked away.”

“Were you part of them?”

“They wanted me to be. Even told people I was.”

“But I thought they broke you out of jail. Tynan, how many times have you been in jail?”

“Total?” he asked seriously. “Even for being drunk?”

“Never mind, don’t answer. How did your name get linked with those criminals?”

“I told you. They wanted me to join and when I wouldn’t, they got angry. They didn’t break me out of jail, a U.S. marshal did.”

“Explain, please,” she said over the sound of the carriage.

“The Chanrys didn’t like the way I told them I wouldn’t join their gang no matter what they offered me. You see, they needed a fast gun since their best man had been killed. As revenge, they robbed a bank and kept calling one of the men Tynan. The local sheriff came after me. Only problem was that I was laid up with a broken leg, but he didn’t seem to think that was proof that I was innocent. One of the women where I was staying got in touch with a marshal and he came up to investigate. When he couldn’t persuade the sheriff not to hang me, the marshal blew up the jail. The sheriff told everybody it was the Chanrys—proof that he should have hanged me.”

“Tynan, you are full of the most awful stories.”

“When a man lives by the gun, he should expect to be faced with other guns. Here we are. Why don’t you take the baskets over there and I’ll—”

“No, you have to carry the big one and I have to introduce you to everyone.”

“But I already know most of these people. They’re the ones—”

“They are the ones who know nothing about you. Now come along.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning. “You do tie them apron strings to a man, don’t you?”

“Sometimes, apron strings give a man purpose in life. And they’re a lot less violent than guns.”

“Hmph! Strangulation is a slow way to die.”

She ignored his remark as they walked toward the others. The men and women were separating, the women spreading food on bleached and ironed tablecloths, the men walking together toward the river.

Chris set down a basket of food. “I believe you’ve met my fiancé, Mr. Tynan, haven’t you?” she said. “I’d introduce you by name but I’m afraid I’ve been in town so short a time that I haven’t met you all.”

Looking as if they’d just been introduced to a coiled rattlesnake, most of the women nodded tentatively in Tynan’s dire

ction.

“Ty, dear, would you please put the other basket there? Thank you so much.” She gave him a little signal with her eyes, motioning him toward the men.

He removed his hat. “It’s very pleasant to meet you ladies again after all these years.” He picked up a roll from the table, winked at Chris and left.

“Miss Dallas!” the women started as soon as he was out of earshot. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You couldn’t know anything about him or you wouldn’t—”

“You should talk to Betty Mitchell, after what he did to her, and poor Mr. Dickerson—”

“Mitchell?” Chris said, unpacking one of the baskets. “Wasn’t she the girl who was in love with the boy who was killed?”

“Well, she had been,” one woman said. “Thank heaven it was all over when he was killed.”

“Oh, yes,” Chris said. “By then she was visiting Tynan in the saloon and seeking him out wherever she could. Why did she and the Dickerson boy end their involvement?”

The women fell all over themselves answering.