Lynna Banning Page 6

He’d have to search the Wildwood Times office again, sift through Thad’s private papers—every edition of the newspaper, every letter, even his account ledger. Maybe this time he’d find something he’d overlooked before, something that would tie things together.

  He’d start tonight, after Jessamyn retired to Mrs. Boult’s for the evening. He’d let himself into the newspaper office and spend whatever time it took searching for that elusive nugget of information. At sunup tomorrow he’d do what Walks Dancing had asked—start for the mountains and Black Eagle’s hidden camp.

  He wondered what the old chief wanted that was so important he’d send his daughter into town alone. Black Eagle wouldn’t risk sending one of his few remaining braves. The townspeople were convinced it was the Indians who were stealing cattle from valley ranchers, and feelings ran high. An Indian wouldn’t last ten minutes in town before he or Jeremiah would have to break up a lynching party.

  Ben propped his boots on the desk, tipped his chair back on two legs. He closed his eyes, drew in another lungful of the warm June air and thought again about Thad Whittaker.

  And Thad Whittaker’s daughter. Even without her bustle, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a smudge of grease on her nose, Jessamyn was still something to look at. Her backside rounded invitingly below the slim waist, and even when she held her spine straight as a Yankee ramrod, the curves of her top half filled out that ruffly blouse just right. He imagined the tips of her breasts brushing against the frothy white lace. He’d like to lay his hand there, feel her heart beating against his palm.

  Sweat trickled under his hatband. He pushed it back with his forefinger just as the door burst open and Silas Appleby strode inside.

  “Morning, Si.”

  “Goddammit, Ben, it’s happened again! Twenty head just disappeared overnight.”

  Ben’s chair thunked down on all four legs. “No trail?”

  “Not a trace.” The tall, sunburned rancher swatted his dusty felt hat against his thigh so hard the silver conchas around the crown jingled. “Gotta be Indians, Ben. They’re holed up somewhere. Starving, I hear. I wouldn’t care if they took one or even two beeves now and again. Hell’s red feathers, I’d let ‘em have ‘em with my blessing. But twenty head? All told, I’ve lost more’n sixty cows in just the last two months.”

  “Ranches on the east side of the river have been hit, too, Si. My brother Carleton’s lost over forty head. But I don’t think it’s Indians. At least, not Black Eagle’s band.”

  “You don’t,” the rancher echoed, his tone indicating disbelief.

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, then, who the hell…”

  Ben ground his boot heel into the plank floor. “Silas, when I find out, I’ll let you know. Until then, I’d suggest your boys spend their free time doing more night riding around your spread than poker playing in town.”

  The tall man gave Ben an assessing look. “I’ve known you a long time, Ben. You never was one to sniff too long up the wrong tree, so I’ll have to trust you on this one. But I’m tellin’ you—”

  “Save it, Si. We’ve been through it all before. Ranchers think Indians are responsible for everything that goes wrong. Indians think the same about the white man. You mind your herd and let me do my job. One of these days, whoever is stealing your cattle will make a mistake—leave a trail, a footprint, something I can go on. I’ll get him in the end. I always do.”

  “Yeah,” the tall man grumbled. “You do. But waitin’ is costing me money!”

  Ben raised his eyebrows. “And it’s costing me sleep at night There’s an old Indian saying, Si. ‘When in doubt, do nothing—the situation could get worse.’ Come fall, I’ll have this wound up and then you can get rich and I can get rested.”

  Silas chuckled. Clapping his hat on an unruly shock of sandy hair, he turned toward the door. “I’ll buy you a drink if you pull it off by September, Ben. I’ll even stake you to a round of poker.”

  Ben grinned. “Five-card stud and Child’s Premium. New shipment should be in by September.”

  The door closed on Si Appleby’s laughter.

  Ben struck his desk with his fist. Damn! If he found evidence of just one fresh beef carcass at Black Eagle’s camp, he’d skin the old fox alive. He swore again. The cat sleeping on top of his logbook cracked one eye open, stretched and offered an elaborate yawn. Before he knew it, the animal curled up in his lap.

  The door bumped open a second time, and Jessamyn Whittaker marched into the room. A lacy white blouse that looked crisp enough to stand up by itself bloomed from the waistband of her swirling indigo blue skirt.

  “Sheriff Kearney?” Her voice sounded as if it, too, had been starched.

  “Miss Whittaker?”

  She whipped open a notebook, pulled a pencil from behind one ear and leaned over his desk. “As the new editor of the Wildwood Times, Sheriff, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

  Ben narrowed his eyes. The last thing he needed this morning was a grilling by a nosy Yankee newspaper reporter.

  Jessamyn poised her pencil over the pad. “Who was that Indian girl?”

  Ben stroked the purring animal in his lap. “Her name is Walks Dancing.”

  She scribbled in her notebook. “What is the significance of her visit this afternoon?”

  Ben frowned. “Depends. Significance to whom—you? Me? The town? Herself? Just what do you want to know?”

  Jessamyn tightened her lips in exasperation. Couldn’t the man answer a simple question? “I mean, where did she come from?”

  Ben plopped his hat onto the clutter on his desk and ran his hand through his hair. “She’s a Modoc. The Klamath chief adopted her as his daughter some years back. Black Eagle can’t risk exposing his braves—they’d be captured and sent to the reservation with the others. So he sent Walks Dancing into town with a message.”

  “What message?” Jessamyn said, her words clipped.

  “None of your business,” Ben returned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “How was she crippled?” Jessamyn interrupted. “From birth?”

  Ben expelled a long breath. “She was crippled because she’s a Modoc. The Klamath and the Modoc tribes have been enemies for generations. Walks Dancing made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man—a Klamath brave. She left her tribe and went with him. Her people found them the next spring. They killed him. Then they broke both her legs by running their horses over her and left her to die. She didn’t. Black Eagle adopted her.”

  Jessamyn felt the blood drain from her upper torso. Suddenly dizzy, she dropped the pad and grabbed for the edge of Ben’s desk. “How horrible.”

  “Sorry you asked?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I mean, no! How else am I going to find out what’s happening?”

  “Know what my father used to tell me? ‘Keep your eyes and ears open—”’ He leaned toward her and lowered his voice “’—and your mouth shut’” He looked as if he especially relished the last part.

  Jessamyn winced. His barb hit home. Very well, she’d do things his way. “Just one more question, Sheriff.” She mustered as steady a tone as she could manage. “What are you finding out about my father’s murderer?”

  Ben studied her for what seemed an endless minute. “Damn little that’s for publication.”

  “But what are you doing?” she persisted.

  Goaded by her tone, Ben answered without thinking. “I’m going to talk to Black Eagle.”

  Jessamyn gasped. “About my father?”

  “Maybe. Don’t know yet.”

  “Where does this Black Eagle live?”

  Again Ben studied her. “In the mountains. Two days’ ride.” He stood, upending the cat, and scooped her notebook up from the floor. “Now, why don’t you go on down and talk to Mrs. Frieder—find out when her baby’s coming.” He thrust the paper pad into her hand.

  “The Frieder baby’s due in July,” Jessamyn retorted. “I’ll go with you to see Black Eagle.” />
  “Like hell you will.”

  “But you said… How can I keep my eyes and ears open if I’m not there? No good reporter relies on hearsay.”

  “Can you ride?” His voice rang with impatience.

  “A horse, you mean? N-not really, but I’m sure I could learn.”

  Ben chuckled. “Not damn likely. Not by sunup tomorrow.”

  Jessamyn straightened to her full height and looked Ben Kearney straight in the eye. “Try me.”

  She’d never been on a horse before in her life, but she’d never admit that to Ben. She was a Whittaker. If she had to fly to the moon to get her story, she wouldn’t give up until she felt the green cheese under her feet.

  “I challenge you, Sheriff. I challenge you to try me! Today. This very minute.”

  Ben resisted the urge to laugh out loud at her naive suggestion. Learn to ride in one afternoon? Impossible. She was so green she didn’t even know it was impossible.

  “Mr. Kearney, did you hear me? I said—”

  “I heard you,” he said, his voice quiet. On the other hand, he reasoned, maybe it would shut her up for a while. If she tried it, found how difficult it would be for a greenhorn to master a horse, he’d be rid of her. For a few days, anyway.

  The idea had definite appeal. The more he considered it, the more sense it made.

  “Miss Whittaker, meet me at the livery stable in ten minutes. And better stop by the mercantile on your way. Get yourself a shirt and some denims and a pair of boots. Otherwise, you’re gonna get corral dust all over those fancy starched petticoats of yours.”

  Without another word, he grabbed his hat and strolled out the door, leaving it open behind him. When he reached the planked sidewalk he began to whistle.

  Bet my money on a bobtail nag…oh, doo dah day.

  *

  “Mr. Freider,” Jessamyn said when she could catch her breath. “I need a shirt—one of those plaid ones on the shelf will do—a pair of denims and some boots. Small ones.”

  Otto Frieder’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “For yourself?”

  At her nod, the storekeeper’s eyes popped. “Miss Jessamyn, what you going to do?”

  Jessamyn took a deep breath and hoped her voice would sound reasonably steady. “Learn to ride a horse.”

  Otto stared at her. “Anna-Marie!” he shouted. “Come quick! Miss Jessamyn needs—”

  Anna-Marie’s rotund figure appeared beside her husband’s. Obviously she’d been listening from behind the curtained doorway. Jessamyn gave her as much of a smile as she could manage.

  “For you, I think maybe small-size shirt, like for older boy. Trousers…” Anna-Marie turned away and pulled a garment off the shelf. “These. And will need a belt. Men are not built so…” With her hands she traced a shape in the air. “So…in and out.”

  Jessamyn unfolded the blue denim jeans, fingered the metal buttons that closed the front. They looked complicated. How did men ever…?

  Instantly she banished the thought. Heavens, whatever would Miss Bennett say about the direction in which her mind wandered?

  “Come.” Anna-Marie beckoned. “You try on. Otto,” she called into the adjoining room, “find some boots for tiny feet. And, please, a belt.”

  The shirt—a man’s size, since smaller, boys’ sizes were not in stock—hung off Jessamyn’s shoulders and drooped past her wrists. At least it buttoned decently over her chest

  Cinched up with the wide black leather belt Otto handed through the curtain, the jeans hugged her bottom and thighs. The boots he thrust after the belt scrunched her toes together, but the storekeeper insisted the leather would soften and stretch with use.

  “Too loose, will make blisters,” he admonished. “These just right.”

  Jessamyn took a tentative step and winced. Just right? Maybe for someone who was used to such contraptions. Had she gotten them reversed—the left boot on the right foot? She glanced down. Her boots looked like all the other boots she’d seen in town. She’d bet they didn’t feel like all the others, though. Or did people in Wildwood Valley simply smile through their daily suffering?

  Otto beamed at her. “I put on your account, Miss Jessamyn. And will send your other clothes over to your home.”

  “Thank you, Otto.”

  “What now you do?”

  Jessamyn smiled at the concern in his eyes. “I—I guess I’ll walk over to the livery stable.”

  The storekeeper bobbed his head and headed for the front of the store. Taking a last look at Jessamyn, he disappeared out the door, the bell over the entrance jangling as the sound of his steps receded down the board walkway.

  Anna-Marie lumbered to the candy counter and emptied a scoop of ginger drops into Jessamyn’s trembling hand. “For luck,” she whispered.

  Jessamyn slipped the candy into her shirt pocket. On impulse, she hugged the bulky young woman. With all her heart, she wished she could trade places with Anna-Marie at that moment. She would gladly waddle about the mercantile with a swollen belly, even endure the pain of labor and childbirth, if only she wouldn’t have to climb up on a horse.

  A cold sweat started between her shoulder blades. Horses terrified her. So frightened she could barely swallow, she spun on her heel and clumped out the door in boots that squeezed her toes like pincers.

  After a half-block walk toward the stable, she knew why cowboys always rode horseback. They’d do almost anything to take the weight off their cramped feet! She worked at not limping.

  The main street appeared to be deserted. Both the doctor’s and the undertaker’s offices had Closed signs in the front windows. Even the barbershop was empty, the door shut and bolted. How odd, she thought as she strode onward. It was Monday afternoon. Didn’t men usually visit the barber for haircuts and shaves before a night in town?

  Oh, Lord, you don’t suppose…

  A gangly boy of about ten raced past her. “Hey, mister,” he yelled. “That tenderfoot lady from back East’s gonna try to ride a horse! Everybody’s gonna watch—come on! You’re gonna miss it!”

  Jessamyn groaned out loud. Word of mouth spread like wildfire in a town this size. How she longed for the anonymity of civilized, populated Boston.

  A vision of the coming ordeal flashed into her mind. A crowd gathered—like the ancient Romans at the Colosseum—to watch a spectacle. Only this wasn’t Rome, it was the livery corral in Wildwood Valley, Oregon, and she was the spectacle! She wondered if Ben Kearney had spread the word about town just to make the challenge harder for her. Would he stoop so low?

  He would, she decided. She recalled the satisfied grin on his lips when he sauntered out of the sheriff’s office in that maddening, unsettling walk of his. That snake! She’d lambaste him the first chance she got. She’d blister him with words he’d never forget. She’d—

  She’d learn to ride a horse, that’s what she’d do! That would show him. She wasn’t going to let Ben Kearney have the last word. Even in jeans and torture-chamber boots, she was still a Whittaker.

  And a Whittaker, she reminded herself with a little half sob of fear, never gave up.

  Chapter Six

  Ben eased his back against the split-rail fence around the stable corral and crossed one boot over the other. Satisfied with the private arrangement he’d made with liveryman and blacksmith Dan Gustafsen, he inhaled deeply.

  He’d known Gus from his army days in Dakota Territory after the war. The big, quiet Norwegian had fought for the Union, but when hostilities had finally ceased, Gus had set politics aside. When Ben met him in Dakota, he found he could deal with him man-to-man. Both had been officers; both had been wounded. Gus wore a black patch over one eye.

  “Pick a horse that’s not mean,” Ben had requested. “Just not too tired, if you take my meaning.” From the looks of the skittish bay dancing at the end of Gus’s rope, the stable owner had indeed taken Ben’s meaning. The horse was a beauty—sixteen, maybe even seventeen hands, a gelding with intelligent eyes and a precise, proud gait.

  And
, Ben could see at a glance, definitely not tired. He watched Gus pull the cinch tight, then give him a surreptitious nod. Even though he trusted Gus’s judgment, Ben’s gut tightened into a hard knot.

  Townspeople began to gather along the perimeter of the fence. Ben nodded to Doc Bartel and the short, nervous undertaker, Zed Marsh, the physician’s constant companion. He tipped his hat to Addie Rice and, a few yards beyond the seamstress, acknowledged two of the girls from Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. Addie must have closed her dressmaker’s shop to witness the fun. Ben surmised the girls from Charlie’s were losing money, too.

  Silas Appleby heaved his rangy form onto the fence next to Ben and hooked his boot heels over the lower rail. “I hear that newspaper lady’s a looker,” he remarked. “Since I’m in town, I thought I’d just as well check out the rumors.”

  “You’re practically a married man, Si,” Ben reminded him.

  “Hell, Ben, can’t hurt to look!” Appleby jammed a cigarette between his lips and flicked a match against his thumbnail.

  Otto Frieder picked his way through a gaggle of young boys in various sizes and shapes and settled on Ben’s other side. A frown worried his shiny forehead. “You think Miss Jessamyn be all right, Sheriff?”

  Ben fought a momentary pang of guilt at Otto’s question. He trusted Gus’s horse savvy. Jessamyn wouldn’t get hurt—not seriously, anyway. Just enough to bruise her backside a bit and open her eyes to the fact that she wasn’t riding into the hills with him tomorrow. Or any other day, for that matter. From what he had observed, hearsay had always been plenty good for most newspaper editors. Why should she be any different?

  Because she’s Thad Whittaker’s daughter, that’s why. Hearsay was never good enough for Thad; that was probably what got him killed.

  “She’ll be all right, Otto,” Ben assured the stocky storekeeper. “I’d worry more about the horse if I were you. Miss Whittaker finds it difficult to take no for an answer.”

  Silas chuckled. “Looks to me like that gelding might have the same trouble!”

  Ben watched Gus turn away toward a commotion at the far end of the corral yard, then glance back to catch Ben’s gaze. The skin around the wrangler’s one good eye crinkled in amusement.