The Law And Miss Hardisson. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ Settling herself on the hard oak swivel chair, she pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer and leaned over to inspect the contents. A dried-up bottle of Sanford’s ink, two dusty cigars, and—

      The door banged open. “Where’s the sheriff?” a low, gravelly voice inquired.

      “Gone,” Irene said without looking up. “Is there something I can—”

      “Gone where?”

      Irene raised her gaze to the doorway and stopped breathing. A tall man stood before her, one arm in a black cloth sling, his leather vest coated with trail dust, his tanned face impassive. Steady gray eyes held hers. “Gone where?” he prompted.

      Irene jerked to attention. “Gone, um, gone—” She couldn’t think with him staring at her that way! “Gone…hunting!”

      “Where’s this I. P. Hardisson, then? Sign says he’s a lawyer.”

      “He is. I mean, I am! I am I. P. Hardisson.”

      He looked her over for so long she felt tingles at the back of her neck. “Irene Pennfield Hardisson,” she supplied. Something about the man unnerved her, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “Attorney-at-law,” she added unnecessarily.

      “Clayton Black, Texas Ranger.” His eyes still rested on hers, but he didn’t move. Tall and lean, he just stood and looked his fill.

      “Mr. Black.” Irene extended her hand.

      He gave her fingers a quick, hard shake with his left hand, then stuffed his hand into his back pocket. “You ever hear of anyone by the name of Fortier?”

      “Brance Fortier?”

      “That’s him. You know him?”

      “N-not exactly.”

      “Where is he?”

      “I—he was in jail when I arrived in Crazy Creek—”

      “Jail!”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ