Clanton's Woman Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  Jack Glanton’s eyes darkened. “Are you calling me out?”

  “That’s right. To a showdown.”

  “You mean a walkdown.”

  Mallory crossed her arms and gave him a defiant look even though she knew he was right. The famous western cliché where two men met in the middle of the street ready to shoot it out while frightened townspeople ran for cover was called a walkdown.

  “I think it’s time we settled this,” Jack continued.

  “Name the time and the place.”

  “Six o’clock in front of The Bird Cage.” He turned away, then glanced back. “Once we set your facts straight, I’ll buy you dinner. Never let it be said I’m a gloating winner.”

  “Never let it be said I’m a loser—of any kind.” Mallory Earp’s voice was flippant, but an adventurous spirit was running through her, making her reckless. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Dear Reader,

  What fun to write a modern-day twist to the old Earp/Clanton feud for which Tombstone, Arizona, is so famous. I got the idea for this book on a visit to that southeastern Arizona town a couple of years ago. I’m lucky enough to live in the same area with some Earps, who kindly let me borrow their family history, and I met some members of the Clanton family who were willing to answer my questions. With resources like those, I knew the story of Mallory and Jack would be worth writing.

  I hope you enjoy this trip to the “town too tough to die”!

  Sincerely,

  Clanton’s Woman

  Patricia Knoll

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE deserted streets and sidewalks of Tombstone, Arizona were a good place for a showdown.

  Mallory Earp stood on the weathered sidewalk planks in front of the O.K. Corral and looked up and down the almost empty street. Since it was early evening, the shops were closed and there were few people about. Most of the town’s citizens had been driven indoors by the gathering darkness and the threat of rain.

  Masses of gray clouds were banked behind the Dragoon Mountains, swirling sullenly against the last rays of sunset and stabbed with blades of lightning.

  The threatening elements didn’t bother her. Her mind was fixed on one purpose—finding the man named Jack Clayton. He had been ducking her. She knew he had. She had been tracking him for two days. At last, she had him cornered.

  Mallory pulled her hat low over her eyes, hitched up her belt, and stepped off the sidewalk. Her boot heels thumped on the pavement as she crossed Allen Street, then crunched gravel when she took a detour down an alley.

  It irritated her that it had taken her so long to find him. She didn’t have that kind of time to waste. When a full day of phone calls from Tucson had received no personal response, she had come to Tombstone. In “the town too tough to die”, she had asked around. Receiving numerous vague answers had nearly driven her batty. She had finally resorted to walking into a shop and buying twenty dollars’ worth of pottery she didn’t need in order to pump the woman at the cash register. That’s where she’d finally had a break. She had discovered that Jack had been seen in town. She’d had enough of his dodging and weaving, of his unanswered phone calls.

  He could run, but he couldn’t hide.

  Eyes narrowed in concentration, she strode down the alley where she had been directed to look for a small building whose siding was weathered to a silvery gray. Spotting it shouldn’t be hard in this well-kept town whose citizens worked hard to keep up appearances in order to attract tourists.

  The very word “alley” would have made her pause cautiously in Tucson where alleys were more likely to be dumping grounds or hangouts than thoroughfares for foot traffic. But in this small town, it was a respectable graveled walkway. The path was strewn with rocks and dotted here and there with tiny yellow flowers that grew close to the ground and blossomed at the slightest hint of rain. At last, she spied the building; small and undistinguished, it looked as if a strong wind could pick it up and shift it to the Mexican border. There were windows on each side of its sagging front door. The shades were tightly drawn, but light leaked around the edges. Mallory studied it for a second, wondering what kind of man spent time in such a building and what he did there.

  She walked up the two shallow steps to the front door, grasped the knob firmly, and took a moment to square her shoulders and lift her chin. She rapped her knuckles on the door, then checked them for splinters. When she heard a shouted invitation to enter, she pushed the door open and slammed into a wall of cigar smoke.

  Her lungs seized up as if a giant hand was squeezing them. Her eyes began to water instantly, and she choked and coughed.

  “Shut the door,” a man’s voice boomed. “You’re letting the fresh air in.”

  She squinted through the gray cloud and wheezed, “That’s the idea.”

  “Not our idea,” the voice answered. “Shut the door.”

  Grimacing, Mallory ducked her head outside for one more chestful of oxygen, then walked inside and slammed the door.

  Having lost the advantage of surprise, she struggled for a minute between impending asphyxiation and the immediacy of her problem.

  She decided to chance suffocation. She’d come this far. She wasn’t about to be stopped by the mere fact that she felt as if someone had stuffed her into a bell jar and sucked out all the air. Her stomach was roiling, and she checked to see if her fingernails were turning blue. Even if they had been, she would have gone ahead. For too long, she had let her courage be undermined.

  Mallory peered through the haze and spied four men sitting around a square table playing cards. As she walked toward them, she noted the rest of the room. It was as nondescript as the outside. Except for the card table and a table littered with beer cans, there was very little furniture.

  The place had scuffed gray linoleum on the floor and faded cabbage rose wallpaper probably slapped on the walls a century ago. This place must have been one of the first buildings in Tombstone, built when lumber had to be hauled in from the railhead in Benson. No doubt, the door at the back of the room led out to a two-holer.

  When she stopped beside the table, none of the men looked up. They were busy studying the cards in their hands. They laid down cards and asked for more, threw poker chips into the pile in the center of the table, and generally ignored her. Pointedly, Mallory cleared her throat.

  “Just set ‘em on the table over there,” the man who seemed to be the leader said without looking up.

  Mallory glanced around in confusion. “Set what on the table?”

  That gained her their attention. Heads lifted and four pairs of eyes focused on her over the tips of four glowing cigars. They emitted identical puffs of smoke and exchanged glances.

  “You’re not bringing more beer from Charlie’s Bar,” the first man said. He removed the cigar from his mouth, set it in an ashtray by his elbow, and waved away the dense fog in order to see her better.

  She knew exactly what he saw-—a tall woman in her twenties, too skinny for her own good. Beneath her floaty gauze skirt, she was wearing calf-high boots that gave her even more height and a gold sweater hitched up by a turquoise-studded belt. Her hair was chocolate brown drawn back into a braid that hung nearly to her waist, and topped by a flat straw hat with a brim turned up all around. Purposely, she looked very California casual.

&nb
sp; She was striking rather than pretty; her brown eyes were too large and her cheekbones too pronounced. She’d always thought her mouth was too full, the bottom lip enough fuller than the top one that it appeared to pout. If this man didn’t stop examining her, she would do more than pout. She would probably say something she would regret.

  Mallory whipped off her Helen Kaminski hat and used it as a fan to wave away the cigar smoke as she gave him back look for look.

  Even sitting, he was taller and broader of shoulder than the other three men at the table, although that was no proof that he was the builder she was looking for. He was wearing a white Western-style shirt rolled up at the cuffs and had its silver snaps open at the throat. His hair was black, the shade she thought was reserved for a raven’s wing, short around his face and curling to his collar in back. It was carelessly tousled as if he had run his fingers through it while puzzling over his hand of cards. His face was square jawed and shadowed with a couple days’ growth of beard. His features were strong and lean, serving as a frame for his eyes. They were a startling shade of light green, rimmed with dark gray. Focused on her, they were full of humor.

  “No, you’re definitely not from Charlie’s Bar,” he drawled, picking up the conversation as if they hadn’t spent a full minute staring at each other. Two of the other men chuckled, catching Mallory’s attention. They were about his age, but with dark complexions and even darker eyes. One had a full beard and a gallery of tattoos on his forearms. The other man had a shaved head.

  Nerves sent her stomach fluttering. Good grief, what had she stumbled into? Her mind skittered around for the principles of the self-defense classes she had taken.

  “Not unless old Charlie’s waitresses have suddenly gotten a lot younger and a whole lot prettier,” the fourth man said.

  Mallory glanced at the speaker. He was older, with gray hair and a handlebar mustache. Even as he spoke, he stood, laid his cards facedown on the table and reached to take his hat from a rack affixed to the wall. “Boys, I’ve got to go. My wife’s waiting supper on me and I promised I wouldn’t be late.”

  His companions protested that he was henpecked, that he was breaking up the game, but he just tipped his hat to Mallory and sauntered out.

  “Old Dan doesn’t know when he’s got it good,” the bald one grumbled, reaching over to pick up Dan’s discarded cards. He considered them for a second, shrugged, and tossed them back on the table.

  The broad-shouldered one who had been doing most of the talking grinned and said, “Oh, yes he does. You should taste his wife’s cooking.”

  His friends chuckled in a friendly way and Mallory’s nerves calmed down. Perhaps she had nothing to fear from these men, but she felt that she had been patient long enough. She cleared her throat and faced the green-eyed man. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Jack Clayton. I was told I could find him here.”

  The three men exchanged glances. “Jack Clayton?”

  “That’s right.”

  The green-eyed one asked, “Why?”

  “You’re Jack?”

  He tilted his head from side to side, indicating the men to his right and left. “And so’s he, and so’s he.”

  She blinked. “You’re all three named Jack?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He shrugged. “Depends on which one of us you want.”

  Mallory crossed her arms at her waist and stared at him. She’d had enough game playing. “I want the one who’s an expert on renovating and rebuilding adobe homes.”

  “I won’t ask the obvious question about why you want him. You must have a home that needs renovating. What’s your name?”

  “Mallory Earp. I’ve left messages with your, or your, or your office several times,” she said testily, looking at each man in turn.

  The spokesman seemed to ignore her tone of voice. He sat forward and regarded her with new interest lighting his eyes. “Did you say Earp?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her hand, palm out. “And you can forego all the usual jokes about an Earp moving back to Tombstone, returning to the scene of the crime, and so on. I’ve heard them all. From the reactions I’ve had from some people, I imagine the Clantons and McLowerys would be welcomed with open arms.”

  The two men glanced quickly at their leader, who grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am, I bet they would, but if you received any negative comments, they must have been from strangers. The natives around here would welcome an Earp. For the novelty, if for no other reason.”

  He said it as if he relished the idea, and Mallory didn’t know how to react. “Oh, well, I…” she fumbled.

  He stood and strode around the table. “You’ll have to excuse our manners, Miss Earp. It is miss, isn’t it? We should have offered you a chair.” Smoothly, he drew out the one that Dan had vacated. “Although, the truth is, we have no excuse, except that these two never learned all their mother tried to teach them, and I was born in a barn.”

  Warily, Mallory looked at him as she moved to the chair. What was he up to? His eyes were positively sparkling with deviltry. She didn’t feel threatened, only off balance. “I…uh…thank you.” Abruptly, she sat.

  “Boys, why don’t we put out these cigars? I’m sure the lady doesn’t want to have to smell them. And I’ll open the doors, let some air in here.”

  Dutifully, the other men at the table joined him in stubbing out their cigars, but they gave him strange looks as he sauntered around throwing both doors open. A fresh breeze gusted through the room and they scrambled to pick up the cards. Within seconds, the smoke began to dissipate from the atmosphere, and he returned to the table. As he sat down across from her, the smile he displayed could only be described as self-satisfied.

  Mallory blinked at him. “Thank you, Mr…?”

  “Jack’s good enough.”

  “So you are the man I’m looking for,” she pounced.

  “Or he is, or he is.”

  The one with the full beard nodded at her. “You can call me Jim.”

  “Why would I call you Jim if your name’s Jack?”

  “For variety?” He smiled and Mallory completely forgot about her nervousness. He might look like a biker, but he had a sweet smile.

  “I’m his brother,” the bald one said. “You can call me Fred.”

  Mallory tucked her tongue into her cheek. “But is that your name?”

  “It’s what people call me when they don’t call me Jack.”

  She folded her hands on top of the table and looked at them. “Do you three get a lot of mileage out of this routine?”

  “Yeah, the ladies seem to like this act,” Jack said. “It keeps them guessing.” He spread his hands to indicate the cards and chips on the table. “So, how about a little poker?”

  Mallory closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. This was making her light-headed. “No, thanks, I’m here strictly on business and I’d like to get it over as quickly as possible. Now, if you’ll just tell me which of you runs Cochise Construction, I can take care of my business and be on my way.”

  Jack cut the deck, fanned the cards, flipped the edges together, then cut it again, all in a dazzling two seconds. “I never mix business and poker.”

  “Is this what you’ve been doing for the past two days that I’ve been calling?”

  His look was swift and mocking. “Maybe it wasn’t me you were calling. Play a hand or two with us and then we’ll tell you which of us you need to talk to.”

  Mallory’s full lips pulled together grimly. For the past year, she had become accustomed to being on her own, doing what needed to be done. Being assertive was a lesson she had only recently learned, but she was learning it.

  However, she had lived in Arizona for ten years and knew a strong streak of stubbornness ran through many of the natives. It had something to do with the fact that Arizona, especially the southeast corner, had been the last real outpost of the Old West. In spite of that stubbornness, she struggled on. “I’m not much of a poker player.”

  “A re
lative of Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan who can’t play poker? You’ve got to be kidding,” Jack said. “They were three of the biggest cardsharps in the Old West.”

  Mallory sat up straight. “Now wait a minute. I’m not here to—”

  “We’ll teach you anything you need to know,” he went on. “Fred, deal the cards.”

  As Fred began to parcel the cards around the table, she scowled and settled back into her chair. “I’m here on business, and—”

  “Yeah, we heard you the first time. It’ll be taken care of as soon as we finish this hand.” He picked up the cards he’d been dealt, glanced at them, then looked at Mallory over the edges. “Unless you’re afraid…?”

  He left it hanging as a question between them. She didn’t even know this man and yet he’d figured out she couldn’t back down from a dare. And, darn it, she had spent two days tracking him and wasn’t going to leave without the answer she wanted.

  With her eyes steady on his, Mallory jerked the sleeves of her sweater almost up to her elbows and slapped her hand down on the five cards before her. She slid them to the edge of the table and picked them up, holding them close to her chest. She peeked at them and was pleasantly surprised. “Well, maybe I do know a little bit about poker.”

  “Blood tells,” Jack observed, studying his own cards. “We’ll go easy on you. At first.”

  “Big of you.”

  The four of them looked their hands over, traded in some cards, and received more from the dealer. Plastic poker chips rattled together while Mallory tried to figure out how this had come about. All she had done was try to locate someone who could do the needed repairs and renovations on the house she wanted to buy. The only name the realtor had given her was Cochise Construction, based in Benson and supposed to be the best around. She had left endless messages with a gum-popping young secretary, who had assured her that Jack, the owner, would get back to her. Finally, the girl had said he was in Tombstone for the day and would call Mallory as soon as he returned. Apparently, he’d never returned because Mallory had received no phone call, so she had headed for Tombstone to hunt for him. Now, she was sitting at a table, playing poker with him, and she didn’t even know which man he was.