Lynna Banning Page 26

  “You gotta, Ben,” Jeremiah repeated. “You think on it while we ride back to town tomorrow.” He slapped another hot pack on Ben’s chest. “Just don’t tell me what it’s gonna be until it’s time.”

  Ben nodded. “Sure, Jeremiah.” He twitched as the poultice dropped in place. “You got any whiskey in your saddlebag? I could sure use some. I think—ouch! Dammit, man, be careful with that!”

  When he could talk again, Ben continued. “Think this might be a two-glass night, Jeremiah.”

  “Yessir, Colonel,” the deputy replied, his voice subdued. “Maybe even a three-glass night, seem’ as it’s prob’ly our last time drinkin’ together.”

  Ben flinched. “Hell, man, I’m not going to die.” He tried to grin.

  “Damn right you’re not. But, you know somethin’? I feel like I might. Sure feel awful.”

  Ben’s heart squeezed in agony. Hell’s fire, men were such damn fools. He couldn’t condone Jeremiah’s actions, but deep in his heart he could understand what drove him. A woman. Lorena, and then Walks Dancing. Jeremiah had grasped for what he wanted and paid the price. In the process, he’d lost everything, even himself.

  Ben realized suddenly that he didn’t hate his deputy. And he no longer hated Lorena. A glimmer of understanding flickered, illuminating the darker chambers of the human heart—Jeremiah’s, Lorena’s, even his own. Maybe it was because of Jessamyn.

  She’d shown him something about life, about himself. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t have to be perfect. Life, and the human creatures in it, were flawed—scarred by stupidity and greed, stubbornness and pain. Yet there were soaring moments of joy and meaning, as well. He’d felt it with Jessamyn that night in the cabin.

  She had given him much more than just her physical self. At this moment he wanted nothing more than to hear her voice, feel her cool, gentle hand. If he lived, he’d tell her these things. He’d tell her how much more he understood now that she had touched him, inside and outside. In some indefinable way she had opened him up, made it possible for him to hear the words he’d held deep in his own soul all these years. Words of forgiveness. Words of love.

  “Troublous,” he pronounced over the choking ache in his throat. “Just like you always said, Jeremiah. But for all that, a woman is God’s gift to a man’s spirit.”

  Jeremiah started. His large brown eyes moist, he slapped another hot cloth on Ben’s wound.

  “Troublous,” the deputy echoed. He bowed his head over the pan of simmering water.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ben awoke to the song of a meadowlark in the pine tree over his head. Lord in heaven, what a beautiful sound! A rush of pure joy surged through him. He was alive! He drew in a gulp of the sweet mountain air, gazed with wonder at Indian grass and delicate yellow range daisies bathed in the warm morning sunlight. Life was a precious gift.

  His chest ached, but he was no longer sweating. Jeremiah’s poultices had stopped the bleeding. His head spun when he moved, so he lay still, listening to the bird’s melodious warbling, punctuated by the gusty breathing of the man asleep beside him.

  Pain lanced into his heart. Jeremiah had always snored at night. God, I’ll miss even that!

  The deputy stirred and sat up. In the early-morning quiet, the two men studied each other.

  Ben broke the silence. “I don’t know if I can do what I’ve got to do, Jeremiah. It’s like cutting off my arm.”

  Jeremiah rolled his stocky frame out from under the rumpled wool blanket and stood up. Dark circles under his eyes told Ben he hadn’t slept much, either.

  “Spit it out, Colonel.”

  Ben swallowed against rising nausea. “My head spins when I move. You’re going to have to help me mount.”

  “You sure you’re ready?”

  “Hell, no. But I won’t be able to travel at all if I don’t get on a horse. Even so, I won’t be able to move fast. I want you to ride on ahead.”

  Jeremiah’s thick eyebrows rose.

  “There’s a telegraph office in Deer Creek,” Ben continued. “Wire Fort Umpqua. Tell the commanding officer to send a detail for those rifles. Tell him…”

  He paused to steady his voice. “Tell him where they’re hidden, and pray to God Black Eagle doesn’t find out. I wouldn’t give one silver dollar for your hide if that wily old fox discovers you sent his rifles back to the fort.

  “As for you…” Ben shut his eyes. Tears stung under the lids. “A soldier,” he said, his voice unsteady, “would face a firing squad for what you’ve done.”

  “I know that, Colonel.” Jeremiah’s voice was so quiet Ben could hardly hear it.

  “A gentleman,” Ben continued, “would find himself left alone with a pistol on the table.”

  Jeremiah turned his face away, staring out across the valley spreading below.

  Ben cleared his throat. “I always considered you a gentleman, Jeremiah. A friend. But you’ve got to pay for what you’ve done.”

  Jeremiah nodded.

  “So, here it is. Since you’re not going to pay the bride price you promised her father, I want you to take Walks Dancing back to Black Eagle. It’s not a simple thing— you’ll be lucky to get away with your scalp, especially if the chief considers her dishonored. But it’s a chance you’ll have to take. You earned it.”

  The deputy bent his head.

  “If by some miracle you do survive—” Ben’s words choked off “—don’t come back to Wildwood Valley. I won’t want to see you.”

  He waited until he could trust his voice again. “One more thing,” he said quietly. “Say goodbye to Jessamyn when you leave. She’ll want that.”

  Unable to speak, Jeremiah gripped Ben’s hand so tightly the knuckles whitened. “Thanks, Ben.”

  “You’re a damn fool to thank me, Jeremiah. I’m sending you on a suicide mission. Even if you have the bad luck to live through it, there’s not many places that’ll welcome you and an Indian wife.” He raised his head to study Jeremiah’s face. “Dying would be easy. It’s living that’s going to be hard. But, as one man to another, that’s what I’m asking you to do.”

  “A debt of honor, like,” Jeremiah said in his raspy voice.

  “Help me mount,” Ben ordered.

  Jeremiah saddled the gelding and boosted Ben up with his broad shoulder. In heavy silence he kicked dirt over the fire pit, then mounted his own horse.

  Ben looked straight into his deputy’s soft brown eyes. “Now, damn you, ride out of here.”

  Jeremiah snapped him a military salute. “Colonel.”

  “And Jeremiah—” Ben nudged the gelding close to his deputy’s mare.

  “Yeah?”

  “When you get to the bend in the trail up ahead, don’t look back.”

  Jeremiah reached one hand to Ben’s good shoulder. “Take care, Ben.”

  Ben covered the gentle, blunt fingers with his own.

  Summoning all his strength, Ben slapped the chestnut mare’s rump, and the animal jolted away. He watched the stocky man in the droopy brown hat until his vision swam. Then, more weary than he’d ever been, Ben stepped the gelding forward, toward home.

  *

  Jessamyn propped her hands on her hips and surveyed the dripping piece of machinery Gus and Zed Marsh wrestled through the front door of the news office. She pursed her lips in consternation. River water sluiced from every opening in the big iron press. Silt gritted under her fingertips when she ran them over the once-shiny black finish. How could they have done this, dumped her precious press into the tumbling waters of the Umpqua? It was a wonder the sand hadn’t scoured the finish right down to the bare metal.

  The instant she was alone, Jessamyn tied on her apron and got to work. Every single moving part would have to be wiped down, the toggle joints and press lever greased, the bits of dirt and river sand brushed out of each crevice. But Goliath, as her father had dubbed the heavy press, was back in place, safe and relatively sound. She should thank her lucky stars the damage wasn’t irreparable.


  A hot afternoon breeze kicked up dust devils in the street outside. Jessamyn slid the front window shut to keep out the flies and dust while she greased the press joints. Frieder’s Mercantile had been out of lubricating grease that morning. “Shipment is again late,” Otto had explained. He sold her a jar of molasses instead. To soften her exasperation at his depleted stock of goods, he’d poured an extralarge scoop of penny candies into her palm.

  Jessamyn suspected it was the Frieders’ new baby girl more than a late shipment that affected Otto’s supplies. She complimented herself on her choice of a substitute greasing agent until the flies discovered the sticky, sweet molasses. The minute she smeared the press joints with a film of the brown goo, dozens of the winged creatures zoomed in the doorway.

  Maybe it was just as well, she thought with a sigh, as she closed the door. While it was maddening to feel vulnerable to the antics of a bunch of drunken rowdies, it was unnerving to realize she could have been hurt in the fracas. If the worst of the whole business was a few flies in the news office, well, she could surely manage that. And it most certainly wasn’t going to stop her from getting out the next edition! A Whittaker, Papa always said, never gave up.

  Jessamyn’s hand slowed to a stop. This Whittaker, however, was beginning to think there might be more to life than newspapers. She wondered where Ben was, whether he had sprung his trap and captured her father’s killer. Unconsciously she began to hum along with the piano rendition of “Aura Lee” drifting on the hot, dry air. She failed to notice the door open behind her until two dusty boots planted themselves on the threshold.

  “Jeremiah!” She flew toward him, a molasses-soaked rag in one hand. “Oh, Jeremiah! I’m so glad to see you!”

  “Miss Jessamyn.” The deputy removed his floppy brown hat and sniffed the air. “Smells like Shoofly Pie in here! What you been doin’?”

  Jessamyn laughed. “It’s the molasses. Some men broke in last night and dumped my press in the river. When Gus pulled it out this morning, it had to be greased. The mercantile didn’t—”

  She stopped short. Jeremiah’s expression was odd. “Jeremiah? Where’s Ben? Is anything wrong?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Plenty. But it’s gettin’ righter with every passin’ minute. I’m sure sorry about your press, though. I just rode in from the telegraph office over in Deer Creek. Got some…orders, you might say, from Ben. What I got to do is gonna take me away from here.”

  “Away?” Jessamyn stared at the solidly built man, noticing his travel-worn clothes, the scuffed, dirty boots. “For how long?”

  “Can’t exactly say, Miss Jessamyn. It’s…well, kinda open-ended, like.”

  She studied the man’s expressionless square face. “I hoped you would help me again with the newspaper,” she said softly.

  “Oh, I surely would like that, missy. Nothin’ I like better’n fine, pretty words lined up in a thought. But—”

  “Something’s happened hasn’t it? Is Ben with you?”

  Jeremiah swallowed. “Ben’s behind me a ways. He should be here by evening.” The stocky man rocked sideways from foot to foot, his soft brown eyes thoughtful.

  “He’s hurt, Miss Jessamyn. He took a bullet in his chest, and he’s gonna be all right, but he’s ridin’ slow and careful.”

  Jessamyn’s hand went to her throat. “You left him on the trail?” She stared at him, aghast. “Wounded?”

  “Had to. He gave me orders. Had to do something important for him over in Deer Creek, and now I got to—”

  “Who shot him?” Jessamyn said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “The same man who shot my father?”

  The deputy opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Yeah, missy. The same. Jack Larsen. Railroad man. But don’t you worry none, Miss Jessamyn. Jack’s dead now. I killed him myself.”

  Jessamyn gasped. “Oh, Jeremiah! You saved Ben’s life!”

  The deputy gazed down at his boots. “I owed him that.”

  “Owed him? Why, whatever—”

  “Miss Jessamyn, if you don’t mind, I’m not wantin’ to talk about it just now.”

  “Why, of course, Jeremiah: You just sit—”

  “I can’t stay. Me and Walks Dancing are goin’…” He swallowed. “Away. That’s part of what I got to do for Ben—sort of a matter of honor. A gentleman’s understanding between us.”

  “You’re leaving Wildwood Valley? You and Walks Dancing? But where will you go?” Frowning, Jessamyn studied the deputy’s somber face.

  Jeremiah coughed. “First, to her father, Black Eagle. After that… Well, there might not be no ‘after that.’”

  “Jeremiah, you will let me know, won’t you? Send word some way that you—and Walks Dancing—are all right?”

  A heavy silence fell. After a long moment, Jeremiah smiled at her, his shy grin revealing a row of crooked white teeth. “Sure. If I’m able.”

  Jessamyn laid the grease rag on her desk. Facing the deputy, she felt her throat tighten. “You came to say goodbye, didn’t you?”

  He swallowed. “I reckon so.” The deputy’s jaw worked, but he said nothing.

  Jessamyn pulled a polished amber comb out of her hair and slipped it into Jeremiah’s large hand. “Give this to Walks Dancing, will you? And this is for you.” She stretched up and kissed his leathery cheek.

  Jeremiah grasped her shoulders and pulled her into a clumsy hug. “Mind if I give you a little advice, missy?” he rasped.

  Jessamyn shook her head, her cheek brushing his bloodstained canvas shirt.

  “Might not be a bad idea to get Gus and some of the men down to the river crossing ‘bout sundown. Ben’s not too weak to ride good, but swimming a horse across that current… Well, that might be more’n a tired man could handle.”

  “Yes,” she promised, steadying her voice with an effort. “I’ll do that.”

  “One more thing ‘fore I go,” the deputy said in his soft, rough voice. “He’s hurt more on the inside than the outside, if you take my meanin’. His trust in people—specially people close to him—well, it’s been shook up pretty bad. You just give him a bit of time and some talk-back.”

  “Talk-back?”

  Jeremiah chuckled and squeezed her shoulders. “Don’t take no for an answer. He’s balky as a Mexico mule, and you’re about as bad, but he wants you. It’s plain as pie. Don’t let him forget it.”

  Jessamyn hugged the solid body. “I won’t. I promise.”

  “I gotta go now, Miss Jessamyn,” he whispered. “Take care of your sweet self.” He planted a whiskery kiss on her forehead and turned away.

  Dazed, Jessamyn stared after him as he marched through the doorway and down the boardwalk past her front window. A fly buzzed against the window glass. She made no move to close the door. Motionless, she listened to the saloon piano tinkle out another tune and thought about her life. And about Ben Kearney.

  Jack Larsen had shot her father, and now Larsen was dead, too. Jeremiah was leaving Wildwood Valley, taking Walks Dancing with him. Her mind struggled to absorb the apparently unrelated bits of information. She could see now there was much more to life than surviving the changes it inevitably brought. There had to be more—caring and trust. And love.

  She drew in a steadying breath of the dust-laden afternoon air and jolted to attention. There was Ben Kearney. He was wounded and would need help at the river crossing.

  Jessamyn yanked off her apron, slammed the front door of the news office and raced for the livery stable.

  “Gus!” Panting, she rounded the bend in the road and stumbled into the corral yard. “Gus!”

  Oh, please God, let him be here! This was more important than pulling her press out of the river. This was pulling her heart’s deepest desire toward a life of understanding and love. Ben was more important than a hundred printing presses.

  “Gus!”

  The liveryman met her at the stable door, a curry comb in his hand.

  “Gus, I need—Ben needs—” She sagged against the door and gasped o
ut the information.

  The tall Norwegian nodded. Together they plunged toward the tack room for saddles and ropes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “There he is!” a voice shouted. “Up on the rim!”

  Shading her eyes from the glare of the sinking sun, Jessamyn stared up the mountainside where Zed Marsh pointed. A dark figure on horseback was silhouetted against the salmon-and-lilac-flamed sky.

  His head bent, holding the horse’s reins with one hand and keeping the other arm close to his body, the rider labored along the steeply descending trail. Five pairs of eyes followed his every halting move.

  “Damn,” Gus swore softly. “He’s really hurtin’. Look how he holds himself. In all the years I’ve known him, I never saw Ben ride so stiff.”

  Carleton Kearney kneed his horse forward. “He looks saddle-drunk to me. I’m going up after him.”

  Jessamyn lifted her reins. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, you won’t,” Gus said quietly. “You got enough petticoats on under that skirt to sink Miz Boult’s mare in the middle of the river.”

  “All right, let’s go,” Gus called. “Zed, you and Silas find some solid footing this side of the ford.” The big Norwegian kicked his mount into a canter to catch up with Carleton’s chestnut, already bounding toward the river shallows.

  Jessamyn watched the two men skirt the bank of the tumbling Umpqua. When they reached the smoother waters of the ford, they swam their mounts across to the opposite side and started up the mountain. Straining her eyes, she watched the bent figure of Ben Kearney jolt down the trail toward the two men riding to meet him.

  Slowly, far too slowly to suit her, the distance between them narrowed. She fidgeted on the mare, expecting Ben to pitch out of his saddle at any moment. The farther down he got on the sloping trail, the more clearly she could see how he swayed on the gelding’s back.