Chapter Three

Adjusting his hat upon his head, Zachary Marston stood on the boardwalk outside the Montgomery Hotel and glanced up and down the bustling main street of Hackney Oklahoma. It had been five long years since he'd been home and he had very little suspicion he'd be recognized easily. He sure as hell wasn't that same nineteen year old boy he'd been the last time Hackney had been home—that person was long dead.

Rolling his shoulder to work out the ache that the bullet lodged within caused, he spared a glance toward the Hackney Saloon and Brothel. Instantly his mind pictured the red-haired woman he'd helped last night. Zachary had no idea who she was or why she'd been dressed as a serving girl but he hadn't believed for a moment she'd simply been acting unwilling—and after the things he'd seen in his life, Zachary didn't tolerate the mistreatment of women.

He wondered if the lady was okay this morning. He'd paid Thomas Williamson a healthy amount of money to see that she was left undisturbed in her room the remainder of the night—had the man honored the deal? There was something shifty and untrustworthy about that man that made Zachary have doubt. At one point in his life Zachary had taken every man at his word—but life had a way of doing away with such naiveté.

Pointing his boots toward the saloon, Zachary headed that way, dodging horses, wagons, and pedestrians going about their mornings. He saw several familiar faces but none that seemed to know him in return—most people avoided meeting his gaze all together. Several even went as far as crossing the street to keep their distance. He supposed the last five years had done away with any approachable nature he might have once had.

Stepping into the saloon, Zachary took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the lack of light in the dim interior. Dust mote floated in the sunlight streaming through a back window and Thomas Williamson sat at a table in the beam of light, writing in a leather journal.

"We're closed until noon," he announced without looking up.

"You'll take the time to speak to me," Zachary countered, resting his gloved hand on the handle of his .45 revolver.

Thomas' head snapped up, his gaze angry. "You again? I'll have you know the Marshall has already been spoken to about last night. Frank wanted charges pressed but I talked him out of it."

"I'm not gonna worry myself over some charges for knocking out a fat-bellied, would be rapist." Zachary shrugged. "And I ain't the least bit afraid of Marshall Oxley."

Thomas' eyes narrowed. "You know Leonard? I wasn't aware that you were from around here."

"I don't reckon I told you I was from around here. Can't see how that's any of your business."

"What's your damn name?"

"My business. Where's the lady?"

With a grunt, Thomas once again turned his attention to the journal on the table. "This is a saloon and brothel, sir. We don't have ladies here."

Deciding he'd wasted enough time speaking to someone unimportant, Zachary headed for the stairs. He knew what room he'd left her in the night before. Thomas shoved himself to his feet. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Without sparing him a glance, Zachary continued on his way. "Upstairs."

Thomas made the choice not to follow and Zachary was alone when he reached room 2C. He pounded one firm knock upon the door before crossing his arms over his chest and waiting. Several moments later, the door was opened and there she was.

She looked like hell. Tired circles surrounded puffy green eyes. Red hair hung in careless wild waves around her head like the mane of a lion. Freckles stood out in sharp contrast to pale skin and slumped shoulders provided evidence of her fatigue. Had the woman slept at all?

"You shouldn't open the door without asking who it is on the other side."

Her expressive green eyes blinked several times as she stared up at him. Her brow wrinkled in confusion as she pulled her robe tighter around her night clothes. "Who are you and why are you knocking on my door? Did Thomas send you?"

"No, I don't run errands for pieces of shit. I guess you don't recognize me. The hall was dark last night and you were in a bit of a panic."

Recognition dawned as those emerald eyes looked him up and down, pausing at the guns on his hips. "You're the man who helped me."

Zachary simply nodded. She let out a sigh and her entire posture seemed to relax in an instant. "Thank you so much. If it hadn't been for you..."

A shake of his head had her falling silent. "I'm no hero, lady. What the hell were you doing putting yourself in that situation anyhow?"

Those green eyes narrowed. "I didn't put myself in any position; someone else put me there."

Zachary shrugged. He didn't care. He had his own problems. He wasn't interested in shouldering hers as well. "If you don't want drunken, jackasses to continue to drag you into rooms to have their ways with you, you may want to stop dressing like a whore while working in a brothel. I'd be happy to walk you out of here if you need help dealing with Thomas..."

"That won't be necessary," she replied quickly, her shoulders squaring as she gathered herself to her full height of just over five and a half feet—still nearly a foot shorter than Zachary. "I truly do appreciate your help. I would have been destroyed had you not done what you did and I have no problem admitting that. I won't ask you for any further help dealing with my situation."

Zachary studied her closely. Beneath the paleness and exhaustion, was something else—a vulnerability, a fear, and yet a strength that he could see himself admiring. But he wasn't going to force her to allow him to help—hell, Zachary hadn't lied when he said he wasn't a hero. He'd done plenty of bad things in the last five years—the unavenged death of his family was a constant reminder of that. 

"Alright then." He adjusted the rifle strap on his back. "Take care of yourself, ma'am."

As he turned to walk away, her hand touched his arm, stopping him in his tracks. Looking down at those small, pale fingers against the tanned, scarred skin of his forearm had Zachary swallowing hard for reasons he could not—or would not—take the time to understand.

"What is your name?" she questioned, quickly pulling her hand away.

Keeping his gaze averted, Zachary pulled off his hat and shoved her hand through his thick, dark hair. "Zachary Marston, ma'am."

Without giving her time to reply, he walked away, leaving her standing in the doorway.

Thomas was waiting in the barroom for him when Zachary came down the stairs. "Are you satisfied that I kept my word?"

Approaching the man, Zachary towered over his shorter frame but Thomas was no coward and did not back down. Zachary's voice was calm when he said, "Hurt the woman again and Marshall Oxley will be arranging my hanging."

With that he strode from the bar, unsure why he was feeling such a need to protect a woman he didn't know anything about. Why was she living in such a dangerous place? Why had she been dressed the way she had been last night and working a barroom? Why did she have to look so vulnerable and strong at the same damn time. Damnation, what the hell was her name?

***

It wasn't until Zachary rounded the corner and disappeared from view that Samantha stepped back into her room, closing and locking the door behind her. She put her back to the wood and simply stood there with her arms wrapped tight around herself attempting to calm her racing thoughts.

Zachary Marston. Friendliness and tact were clearly not characteristics he possessed. But he had saved her innocence and her mind last night—and he was right. She couldn't stay here any longer. This saloon was no longer a safe harbor. Samantha wasn't ready to live on the run again, however. This town had so far proven to be a safe place and she was hopeful it would remain that way.

There was nearly ten dollars hidden away with her meager belongings which was all the money Samantha had to her name. She would pack up, leave the saloon, rent a room at the hotel, and try desperately to find some way to earn money to keep a roof over her and Athena's heads.

Damn Thomas Williamson straight to hell.

After changing into her skirt and blouse and fixing her hair on her head, Samantha packed a small sack with her few extra clothing items, hairbrush, and money. With a determined breath, she left her room and headed down into the saloon. Thomas was sitting at a table scratching notes into his leather bound ledger.

"We need to speak," she announced.

With a sneer, he glanced her way. "If all you're gonna do is bitch and moan, I don't have time. I've done been warned and threatened all I'm gonna tolerate today."

"Threatened by who?" Samantha couldn't stop herself from asking—she also had a moment of disappointment that all Thomas had received were threats.. she'd enjoy seeing him knocked on his backside.

Thomas closed her ledger, tossed his pen on the table and leaned back in his chair. "Don't know his name. He didn't seem to eager to give it. The same fool that paid me ten dollars last night to see that you were left alone.

Samantha's eyes widened. Ten dollars? The only man that Thomas could be referring to was Zachary Marston. But why? Why would someone she did not know, who did not know her, spend such a large amount of money simply to see her remain safe?

"Why do you look like you were on your way out?" Thomas asked, his gaze going to the sack over her shoulder.

"Because I am. I am taking my belongings and moving into the hotel. I will look for employment elsewhere."

Slowly, Thomas shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. "No. You aren't going anywhere."

Samantha took a step toward the swinging front doors but he placed his body in the way. "I'm leaving, Thomas. This saloon is not the place it was when the Morgan's ran it and I will not be forced into selling my body to make you coin."

Appearing thoughtful a moment, Thomas finally smiled—though the expression seemed awkward and forced upon his face. "No, you won't. I shouldn't have done that last night and it won't happen again. Stay. Provide drinks and conversation. I won't ask you to do any more than that."

With a shake of her head, Samantha glanced toward the door. "No. You've more than proven I can't trust you. I'll be moving to the hotel...."

Thomas' expression hardened as his dark eyes flashed. "Then your horse is mine to cover the cost of keeping you up for the last week."

"You won't take my horse, Thomas. She is my property. You yourself said that you were paid ten dollars just last night for my work..."

"Work?" he snorted. "You sat in your room and did nothing. And at two dollars an hour, I could have made twice that off of you before dawn had you truly done your job."

Samantha shivered at the idea of not only one man forcing her, but more than five. "That horse is mine. You had a deal with the Morgan's...."

"A verbal contract sealed with nothing but a handshake. You show me proof of this so called deal and we'll take it up with Marshall Oxley. Though, I've warned you once, he's on my side with this matter."

Samantha thought of the one-eyed, pot-bellied Marshall and nearly scoffed. Of course, that useless excuse of an officer of the law would side with a man just as foul as him. Sidestepping Thomas, she headed for the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" he called.

Samantha chose silence. She was going to go get her horse and leave town. That was her only option. She would return to a life on the run—spending so long evading Clinton Matthews would simply serve as good practice for evading a crooked town Marshall as well.

Thomas' footsteps pounded along behind her as he yelled for the Marshall. Still Samantha moved on. She stepped out onto the street, squinting to shield her eyes from the sunlight as her feet carried her toward the end of town and the livery that stood there. Samantha's pulse thundered in her ears as she strode past the stable hand and made her way toward Athena's stall. The palomino mare tossed her head over the gate when she noticed Samantha's approach. "I want this horse saddled. I'm leaving town," Samantha called out to the stable hand—a young man barely twenty.

He was quick to nod and quickly went about saddling Athena as Thomas stood in the doorway simply watching with clenched fists. Samantha's hands shook, her foot tapped. She had to be gone before the Marshall arrived.....

"There you go, ma'am," the boy said as he handed Samantha the reins.

"You aren't going anywhere, Samantha," Thomas countered as Samantha led Athena out the double doors.

Samantha leapt in the saddle but before she could urge Athena to move forward, Marshall Oxley's voice rang out in the early morning air. "Stop right there, young lady."

Turning her gaze to the overweight man, Samantha adjusted herself in the saddle. "I'm on my way out of town, Marshall."

A long stream of tobacco spit flew from his mouth and landed near the toes of his boots. "You want to hang for horse theft?"

Anger roared to life in her veins. "Athena is my horse! Whatever crooked dealings you've done with Thomas Williamson are unjust and illegal."

Marshall Oxley seemed unfazed by her outrage. "You got two choices, little lady. Get off that horse and return it to its rightful owner or take one more step with that horse and get yourself hanged at the gallows. I'll leave the decision making up to you."

Samantha wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. Athena was all she had left in the entire world. She would not leave her to the whims of a man like Thomas Williamson! Samantha would rather die than lose the only thing left in the world that she loved.

Her mind made up, Samantha kicked her heels, let out a yip and urged Athena forward. Almost instantly, the Marshall pulled his gun and fired a shot less than a foot from Athena's head. The mare panicked and reared back, throwing Samantha from the saddle.

She was tossed sideways and the last thing she was aware of was Thomas' laughter filling the air before her head struck the corral fence post and her world went black.