Lynna Banning Page 18

“Have you any idea… I thought we agreed you’d keep your nose out of my investigation.”

  “You agreed,” she reminded him. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t interfere. I never said I wouldn’t report on it”

  “Semantics!” Ben growled. “You’re just like Thad, all brains and ideas but no common sense.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders.

  “So now,” he continued, “I’ve got a wild bull by the tail. When you made sure your readers heard about that rifle we found at Black Eagle’s camp, you blew my only cover to hell.”

  “C-cover?”

  “Well, I’ve got to find those carbines. There has to be a cache of them hidden somewhere up in the hills. Except now—thanks to you—instead of hunting slow and sure, with time and secrecy on my side, I’ve got to ride hell-for-leather and try to find those guns before whoever’s stashing them finds me first.”

  “Oh, Ben, I—”

  “Jessamyn, why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut?”

  Jessamyn stared up into smoky blue eyes that now glittered with anger. Her breath choked off as her heart thumped to a stop and then jerked into a new rhythm.

  “News,” she blurted when she could trust her voice, “is what’s new. Any good journalist knows that. And I’m a journalist.”

  “You’re a damn fool.”

  “I am not! I worked hard on that story. It’s factual, and it’s accurate. It’s well written.”

  “It’s most likely going to get me killed.”

  Jessamyn opened her mouth, thought for a long moment, then closed it. “Ben, I don’t know how to say this. I’m not sorry I printed an important piece of hard news—that’s my job as a newspaper editor.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say. Goddammit, Jess—”

  “I’m not finished.” She drew in a shaky breath and closed her eyes, then flicked them open and looked up at him. “Ben, believe me, I am sorry if my newspaper has put you in danger.”

  Ben relaxed his hold on her. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Thad and I had similar talks after every issue he printed. Nosy old coot.”

  Jessamyn bristled. “He’s not a nosy old coot! He’s my father, and he was a wonderful—”

  “Nosy old coot.” Ben’s voice softened. “Hell, Jess, I loved him as much as you did. That doesn’t keep me from speaking the truth as I see it. Thad was a fine newspaper editor and a thorn in my side from the day I rode into town and took on this job. I suspect you’re not going to be any different.”

  Jessamyn stifled a nervous laugh. “You think I’m a ‘nosy old coot’ too, is that it?”

  “I think you’re a nosy young…woman.”

  Suddenly aware of his hands still on her shoulders, Ben let them fall away. A silence stretched between them, the air so charged it almost sang with tension. Very deliberately Ben replaced his hands.

  Jessamyn’s head came up. She stuck her proud little pointed chin in the air and spoke quietly. “You’re right, Ben. I’m a nosy old maid. But it’s all I’ve got.”

  “Jessamyn…”

  “Don’t stop me now. I’ll never have the courage again.”

  “Courage for what?”

  “I’ve never said this to anyone, not to Papa or Mama or anyone.” She shut her eyes momentarily, ran her tongue over her lips. “I’m frightened underneath. Afraid my life doesn’t matter. That I don’t matter. Sometimes it makes me angry. If I can get angry enough, it feels cleansing. Clarifying. When I’m so angry I don’t care what happens, I feel stronger. N-not so scared.”

  Her voice broke. She took another deep breath.

  “The newspaper—Papa’s legacy for me—makes me feel I’m worth something. So I don’t think—I write. And writing eases my fear.”

  Ben felt as if he’d been poleaxed. He couldn’t utter a word. For one thing, he couldn’t think what to say. But more than that, he wasn’t reacting to her verbally at this moment; his response was strictly visceral. He wanted to crush her against him, take her mouth in a hot, slow rhythm. Some part of Jessamyn’s inner being, her real self, had spoken to him so honestly he felt humbled. He didn’t know how to respond.

  But he did know one thing—he didn’t want to get killed. He wanted to come out of the mountains whole in body and in spirit. He wanted to come back to her.

  But right now, God forgive him, part of him wanted to strangle her pretty little neck, and part of him wanted to lay her down in that sun-warmed patch on the floor, pull off those soft, ruffly garments, and stroke her until she wept.

  He stood perfectly still, aware his body was trembling. “I’m frightened, too, Jess. I don’t trust anyone, not even my family. It makes me crazy sometimes. It makes me…hurt inside.”

  His belly went cold. He’d revealed too much. Not even to Jeremiah had he admitted these things. Until this moment he had not admitted this much even to himself. He felt himself sucked into a vortex, then became aware that his mind was beginning to float, disoriented. God, what was happening to him?

  Without conscious thought, he drew Jessamyn forward until her warm breath gusted against his neck. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice quiet.

  Mute, she shook her head.

  “Kiss me, then.” He pulled her upward, half lifted her onto her toes and bent his head. When his mouth touched hers, his heart seemed to explode. Heat spiraled into his chest, his belly. “Jessamyn.” He spoke her name in a rough whisper. “Jessamyn.”

  She opened to him, her mouth like black silk. He explored, went deeper, withdrew to gasp for breath. He kissed her again, too forcefully he knew, but he couldn’t stop. God, he wanted her.

  She moaned under his lips.

  He had to stop, had to ride into the hills before the day got any older. He lifted his mouth from hers and set her apart from him.

  “Ben,” she breathed. “Don’t go.”

  “I have to, Jess. The sun’s up good and high—I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Don’t get killed,” she said in a trembling voice. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Ben chuckled. “Neither will I. Jess, I’m sorry I—”

  “No, you’re not,” she said. “Don’t lie to me.”

  He laughed out loud. “You’re right, I’m not.”

  To prove his point, he kissed her again, long and slow and deep. Then he pivoted away from her, grabbed the saddlebags up off the floor and strode to the door.

  Shaken, Jessamyn watched his tall form step out onto the plank walkway and move past the front window toward the livery yard. She listened to the rowels on his spurs spin until the sound faded into nothing.

  For the first time in her entire life she didn’t know what she wanted most—another firstrate issue of the Wildwood Times or Ben Kearney’s safety.

  “Saddle up Blackie, would you, Gus?” Ben shifted the saddlebag to his other shoulder as he spoke to the liveryman.

  The tall Norwegian trained his one blue eye on the sheriff. “How long you gonna be gone this time, Colonel?”

  Bn winced inwardly at the man’s unconscious use of the military title. Gus had served as a major in the Union army. His observation of Ben’s superior military rank reminded Ben that—for Gus, at least—the war was over.

  For Ben, the war would never be over. The battle inside himself between his hunger for human connection and his gut-level fear of loving another woman ate at his soul. Wanting a woman the way he had wanted Jessamyn not five minutes ago—the way he wanted her still—like a dying man seeking light, shattered his equilibrium. If he let himself love her, he would suffer.

  As he eased the saddlebag off his shoulder and onto the ground, he resolved he wouldn’t think of her. Wouldn’t want her. Wouldn’t remember her scent, the feel of her silky hair tangled in his hands.

  “How far you goin’, Colonel?” the wrangler repeated.

  Ben jerked his attention back to Gus. “Don’t know yet. Be gone three, maybe four days. Maybe a week—it depends.”

  “Depends on what?” Gus gazed at him, a quizzical
look in his one good eye.

  “Hell, Gus, you know I’m not going to broadcast my plans to you or anyone else. No offense, but I’m still the sheriff around here, and I’ve got a bunch of missing cows and an unsolved killing on my hands.”

  The husky man grinned and shrugged his massive shoulders. “No harm done, Ben. I’ll saddle your horse.”

  Gus tramped away toward the stable, leaving Ben with an uneasy feeling gnawing at his gut. The tall liveryman always wanted to know Ben’s travel plans. Could Gus want to keep track of his comings and goings for his own reasons?

  By agreement, Gus covered Ben’s tracks each time he headed out on a job, telling anyone curious enough to ask that Ben rode east when in fact he headed west, and vice versa. Outside of Jeremiah, Gus alone was privy to the truth of Ben’s whereabouts.

  The wrangler tramped over to Ben, leading the gelding. “Here he is, Colonel. He’s been kinda restless these past two days. Could be the old boy’s ready for some new adventure.”

  “Could be.” Ben checked the rawhide thongs securing his bedroll and slung his heavy saddlebags over the animal’s back. He’d packed more supplies than usual, including extra dried beans and coffee. For all he knew, he might be on the trail a week or more. He had a hunch about an old abandoned miner’s cabin in Copperblossom Canyon. Few people knew about it outside of Black Eagle and one or two of his braves. It would serve as a perfect hiding place for outlaws. Or, Ben thought with a grim smile, a cache of guns.

  He hoped it would be the latter. If he could discover such a cache, he could stake out the place and let his quarry walk into a trap.

  “Which way you ridin’, Colonel? Officially, I mean.”

  Ben stepped into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. “South.”

  “South.” Gus grinned up at him, his one good eye widening with interest. “Sure thing. Same as last time, huh? South.”

  Ben kneed the horse, turning him toward the corral gate. “Take care of yourself, Major.” “That I will, Ben.”

  The moment the sheriff turned north on the river trail, Gus smiled to himself and nodded his head in satisfaction. “Yessir, Colonel. That I will.”

  By midday Ben had covered more than half the distance to Copperblossom Canyon. He rode steadily, his brain working to sort out the puzzle pieces he needed to fit together. If he’d guessed right, whoever was rustling cattle was also supplying guns to the remnants of Black Eagle’s tribe holed up in the mountains. At the very least, Black Eagle would know who was supplying the guns.

  The connection with Thad Whittaker’s murder was even more tenuous, but a sixth sense told Ben these events were also linked. The outspoken newspaper editor had been his own worst enemy.

  Ben’s heart stopped. Oh, God, Jessamyn! She was as forthright—and as foolhardy—as her father. She’d picked up right where Thad had left off, sticking her editorial finger in controversial pies all over Douglas County. The railroad. Indian rights.

  Plus stolen cows and illegal rifles. That meant Jessamyn might be in as much danger as Thad had been. God almighty, she might be—

  Ben swore under his breath. He’d left Jeremiah with instructions to keep a sharp eye on her. He knew his deputy would do so anyway—nothing could keep him away from the newspaper office. Jeremiah was drunk on printer’s ink. Ben knew he’d sneaked out last night to work until dawn helping Jessamyn get the first issue of the Wildwood Times to press. There was nothing Jeremiah wouldn’t do for someone who could teach him more about the printed word.

  Still, Ben felt uneasy being away from her. She was just headstrong enough, still enough of a tenderfoot in this wild country to get herself into trouble up to her neck.

  After another three hours on the trail, he brought the gelding to a halt. He’d camp here, in the tiny grass-covered meadow that opened before him. The site was remote, accessible only by the trail he himself had followed. The place was so well hidden he’d even risk building a fire. Surrounded by rounded granite boulders the size of steam locomotives, a campfire wouldn’t be seen unless someone magically scaled the rocks above him. He chuckled. Not even Running Elk could fly!

  Ben dismounted, unsaddled the gelding and lifted the saddlebag and bedroll off the horse’s sweaty back. He took his time building the fire. While it slowly kindled to life, he removed the bit from the animal’s mouth and held a double handful of oats under the broad lips. Finally, he rubbed the gelding down with a handful of dry quack grass. The floppy seedheads of the plant whispered against the horse’s warm, black hide. An echoey whisper bounced off the rocks.

  Or did it?

  “There now, boy,” Ben said. He smoothed his hands over the gelding’s twitching neck muscles. “Easy, fella.” He worked the grass clump down the horse’s withers, listening intently to the sound behind him.

  Ben turned from the horse and tossed the dry grass onto the flames. The blaze mounted.

  Maybe it was a coyote. Or a mountain lion. Whatever it was, it was trying to keep quiet. Ben drew in a careful breath.

  And it didn’t move away when the fire flared. It was not an animal, then. It was a man.

  His steps purposeful, Ben dug a sack of dried beans out of his saddlebag and positioned himself between the fire and the unidentified sound. He filled a pan with water from his canteen, dropped in a handful of beans and shoved the pan into the flames.

  If it was an Indian, one of Black Eagle’s scouts, the redolent smell of the cooking beans might bring him out. If it wasn’t…

  Certain now that he was being watched, Ben turned sideways to the fire and with his left hand eased his revolver out of the holster. Holding it to his body with one elbow, he lowered his frame to the ground and settled back against a smooth, gray rock: With his right hand, he stirred the beans with a bent metal spoon. His ears strained for the slightest sound.

  Nothing. The gelding shifted, gave a low whinny and began to crop the lush grass at his feet.

  Ben waited. Sweat started down his forehead. Deliberately, he crossed his boots at the ankles and stared out past the fire at the impenetrable wall of darkness.

  There! A slow, indrawn breath, barely audible as the horse munched and gusted air in and out of its nostrils.

  Ben stopped breathing. Move, damn you! Make a noise!

  Surreptitiously he slid his hand around the gun butt, positioned his forefinger against the trigger. He raised the weapon a scant inch and aimed it into the darkness, chest high.

  “You can come out, now,” he said quietly. “Make it slow. You’re dead center in my sights.”

  For a long, agonizing minute, nothing happened. The gelding stopped grazing suddenly and lifted its head, attentive. Its tail switched nervously back and forth.

  Ben tightened his finger on the trigger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cora Boult wrung the rinse water from the last embroidered pillowcase in her Tuesday white wash and tossed it onto the tower of wet linen in the wicker laundry basket. She hefted the bulging container off the bench, grunting at the renewed ache in her lower back, and staggered to the rope clothesline strung from the back porch to the sweet gum tree.

  Dropping the basket, she straightened and surveyed her morning’s work. Before she could throw a single sheet over the line, Dan Gustafsen clumped up the garden path.

  “Mornin’, Cora.”

  “Morning, Gus.” Cora surveyed the tall man towering over her. Up close, the black patch over his left eye always unnerved her. For some reason, when she conversed with the soft-spoken liveryman, she couldn’t help focusing on the patch rather than his one good eye.

  “Miss Jessamyn at home?”

  “I expect Jessamyn’s down at the newspaper office. Subscriptions are rollin’ in today, prob’ly because her first issue’s been printed and delivered. She’s either there or over to the bank.”

  Gus frowned. “It’s a fine newspaper. She’s…uh…a mite outspoken for a lady, but I guess she’ll learn.” He hesitated.

  Cora seized the opportuni
ty to toss her wet sheet over the line and tug the corners straight. “Something on your mind, Gus?”

  “I…well, no. I guess not. She’s not at the newspaper office, though. I was just there. Wanted to give her these.”

  From behind his back he produced a bouquet of peachblushed yellow roses clutched in one beefy fist.

  “Oh, my,” Cora breathed. “Aren’t they something! Just look at that color. And no thorns! I do believe I’ll have to have a start of this one, Gus. I never seen one like it in all my born days.”

  “It’s my new rose. A climber,” Gus added. “Would… would you give them to Miss Jessamyn, like you did the others? Blazes, I sure hope she likes roses!”

  Cora stared into the Norwegian’s craggy, anxious face. Poor lovestruck man. Why, he looked positively greenapple sick. It made no sense to her why being sweet on someone made people feel the mis’ry. She’d loved Frank Boult until the day he died and never had a pecky day in her life.

  Gus coughed self-consciously. “Could I maybe call again this evenin’? Maybe Miss Jessamyn’d fancy takin’ a walk down to the river.”

  “Dunno ‘bout that, Gus.” Cora pinned a huck dish towel on the clothesline, drawing a wooden clothespin out of the cloth bag at her waist. “Jessamyn’s been down at the shop for the last two nights, workin’ on the newspaper. She’ll likely be dead on her feet by tonight.”

  Gus’s brows lowered. “Anybody else ask after Miss Jessamyn lately?”

  Cora removed the clothespin she held clamped between her teeth. “Now, that’s an odd question, Dan Gustafsen. Exactly what do you mean, ‘ask after her’?”

  “I…uh…mean does anyone else—any man, I mean— know where she is?”

  Cora laughed. “You think you can keep her other admirers away from her, is that it?” she huffed. “Gus, I’m plumb surprised at you. A man don’t own a woman until he’s bought and paid for her, so to speak.”

  “So to speak,” the bulky livery owner muttered, his low baritone voice dropping even lower. He thrust the bouquet at Cora. “I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  Cora watched the big man pivot and stride through her back gate, his huge feet crunching on the river-rock path. “Lord love him,” she mused out loud. “A love-smitten giant who grows roses.”