A Woman Called Sage by DiAnn Mills Read Free Book Online

some of the patrons, Hawk could have taught them a few lessons in civility and self-control.
    The customers wielded guns and knives with gusto, and those were the women. A stall at the livery might have been cleaner and safer than her upstairs room. Sage lifted the window and propped it with the chamber pot to freshen the air and so Hawk could come and go as he pleased.
    Sage intended to sleep until midnight, then check on Timmons and Aiden at the jail. With the shouting, raucous laughter, and the steady clinking of glasses downstairs, she had little hope of actual sleep, but the moment her head touched the pillow, she succumbed.
    Hours later, as sunlight streamed through the window, Sages mind slowly adjusted to where she was and how hard shed slept. Her senses that normally kept her alert had faded when she stretched out on a real bed. Her eyelids slowly fluttered open, and she glanced out the window. Judging from the sun, she must have slept well past noon. Feeling for her pocket watch on thefloor, she saw the time read 2:35. How had she slept past the church bells with the open window?
    Sage should have been up many hours ago, yet her aching body hesitated to make a move toward the day. Her headache and stomachache had disappeared, and all she needed to do for the next week was relax until her money arrived
    She startled. Aiden McCaw and his men. The threats made to Marshal Timmons rang through her mind like a clanging bell. A curse fell from her lips, something that rarely happened, just in case God was listening and sent a bolt of lightning in retribution. Although shed cast God out of her heart, she still knew where He lived. Throwing back the tattered quilt, Sage grabbed her boots and strapped on her Colts.
    She glanced at Hawk on the windowsill. I may have gotten a man killed because I slept so long. The leather glove slipped over her hand and up above her elbow, and the bird took his position.
    She rushed down the stairs, pausing only when a portly woman whose face had as many wrinkles as a plowed field asked if shed slept well and wanted breakfast.
    Possibly later, she said without taking the time to thank her. I need to check on a matter first. Her manners needed mending. Older folks needed to be treated with respect. She stopped at the door and noted a couple of fresh blood stains on the floor. She must have slept through the sounds of the fight. Thank you, maam. I am quite rested.
    The woman smiled, and her entire face lit up. When you get back, lets sit down to a good meal. And I apologize for the pig slop you got for supper last night. One of the girls wanted to cookor lets say she wanted to try. She needs some cooking lessons before I give up my kitchen again.
    I appreciate the invitation. Sage hurried out the door, hoping Aiden had been bluffing about his brothers springing him from jail.
    The town looked deserted except for a man leaning againstthe door of the saloon. Or maybe the door of the saloon was holding him up. No doubt everyone else was at home in commemoration of the Sabbath. Her parents had observed the day without fail. Once she stepped off the boardwalk and into the muddy street, she ran toward the marshals office.
    She knocked. Marshal Timmons?
    No answer.
    She turned the knob and stepped inside. Quiet. Too quiet. The cell door stood open. Foul-smelling Aiden had vacated, leaving nothing in his wake but a chipmunk scampering across the floor. Her gaze swept the room, dreading what she might find. Marshal Timmons lay face down on the other side of his desk with his head near the wood stove.
    Oh, no.
    Not a sound. Not a muscle stirred. Sage touched his neck and felt a faint pulse. Hes alive. The town didnt need to lose another good man. Blood splatter decorated the wooden floor, but not enough to be a gunshot or a knife wound. This was her fault. She should have been more alert. She should have stayed there with him. Sage swallowed hard. I told him Id be back after a few hours of sleep. Guilt