Lynna Banning Page 7

  Jessamyn crawled through an opening in the fence and sidled stiff-legged toward Ben, her backside hugging the fence so closely he could have sworn she’d pick up splinters on her rear.

  “Sheriff Kearney?” Her words came out in a throaty whisper. “Is—is that the horse?”

  “It is. Ready to mount up?”

  Jessamyn licked her lips. “Isn’t it awfully big?” She kept her gaze riveted on the animal in the center of the corral yard.

  Ben shrugged. “Some are, some aren’t. This one’s about normal.” For some reason, an unexpected pang of sympathy stabbedinto his chest. She looked terrified.

  “I want you to know, Mr. Kearney,” she said in that same breathy whisper, “that I am not f-frightened in the least.” Again she ran her tongue over her lips. “Not even a little b-bit.”

  She poked her chin into the air and visibly straightened her spine. “But if I—or rather, when I live through this, you p-puffed-up, know-it-all snake in the grass, I’m going to make your life so m-miserable you’d wish you were back in that Union prison in Illinois!”

  She stomped away toward Gus.

  Silas guffawed. “Puffed up? Why, imagine that!” He slapped Ben on the shoulder. “’Makes you sound like one of Ella’s banty roosters. My, that little eastern lady has got some spit and vinegar!” Chuckling, he settled back to watch.

  Spit and vinegar wasn’t all she had, Ben noted, watching Jessamyn’s jeans stretch tight over her derriere as she marched up to Gus. The wide black belt pulled the toolarge waistband snug around her middle, and the long sleeves of the red plaid shirt were folded back twice at the cuffs. She looked like a kid masquerading as her big brother.

  A scared kid. A twinge wrenched his gut. Her bravado didn’t fool him for a second. He’d seen that same look on new recruits’ faces before their first battle. They fought— and died—because they were ordered to. Jessamyn didn’t have to do this, he told himself. She didn’t have to, but she wasn’t backing out In fact, at this moment she was about as unflinching as any soldier he’d ever commanded in the field. Her courage touched him in some way, as if a finger had been laid upon his heart.

  Jessamyn looked up at the tall man holding the towering horse. He tipped his hat with his free hand and smiled down at her. “Daniel Gustafsen, ma’am. Everybody calls me Gus.”

  “What’s the horse’s name?”

  He hesitated. “Dancer Jack.”

  Jessamyn nodded. “Gus, are all those people along the fence here to…to watch me try to—watch me ride this horse?”

  Gus’s one blue eye softened. “Yes, ma’am, ‘fraid so. They all come out like grasshoppers on an August morning whenever a tenderfoot like yourself climbs up on a horse the first time. It’s kinda like entertainment for them. The Greenhorn Follies, they call it.”

  “Entertainment!” She shut her eyes. She could almost hear the imagined roar of bloodthirsty Romans in her ears.

  “Sure am sorry. Miss Whittaker, but it’s true. Things out here in the West aren’t civilized like they are back in the colony states.”

  Or even in Rome, Jessamyn thought with a shudder. Still, she wasn’t beaten yet. “Gus, I’m going to ride that horse if it’s the last thing I do. I want you to tell me how.”

  The wrangler nodded. “Now, Miss Jessamyn, just keep in mind you’re gonna get this horse to walk. He already knows how to run. First thing you do is talk to him, call him by name.”

  Jessamyn moved toward the animal. “H-hello, Dancer Jack,” she breathed.

  The horse tossed his head and moved a step away.

  “Don’t be afraid, now. I’m not going to hurt you.” She edged forward. “What now, Gus?” she said softly.

  “Now you touch him, all over. Let him smell you, get your scent.”

  Jessamyn reached one hand toward the gelding’s moist black nose. “Dancer Jack,” she murmured. “It’s me, Jessamyn. Or maybe for you it’ll just be Jess.”

  She ran her palm up the front of his face, then spread both hands along his jaw. “Good boy,” she said. “Good horse.” Under her fingers, the warm hide twitched.

  The horse stood still. Jessamyn smiled at Gus, who gestured for her to continue.

  She drew in a breath and laid her forehead against the gelding’s dark head. Please, please let this horse like me! she prayed. When the animal didn’t move away, she slowly smoothed her palm over the neck, then stepped to one side and rubbed its hard, warm shoulder and withers. Next she ran her hands down each leg. The horse’s limbs trembled as violently as Jessamyn’s did.

  “You’re doin’ fine, ma’am. Just fine. Here’s his lead now. You hold him while I adjust the stirrups and go get a mounting block for you.”

  Frozen, Jessamyn stood motionless as a statue until Gus returned with a portable wooden step. He took the rope from her, tossed the reins over the saddle horn. “Climb up on the step and put your left foot in the stirrup. Grab the saddle horn and swing your other leg up over his rump.”

  Jessamyn stood on top of the block, raised her left foot until she thought she’d twist her thigh right out of the hip socket, and jammed her toe into the high stirrup. She reached for the saddle horn and pulled herself up to a nearstanding position. She clutched at the saddle for support and tried to swing her right leg over the horse.

  She couldn’t get her leg high enough to clear the gelding’s backside. On her third attempt she slipped out of the stirrup, breathing hard. Behind her, she could hear the raucous laughter of the crowd.

  “Try it again,” Gus urged. “This time, you give a little spring and I’ll boost you on up.”

  Jessamyn measured the distance from the mounting block to the saddle. It looked impossible unless you had legs as long as Ben Kearney’s. At the thought of the sheriff, she stiffened her resolve. She was doing this for her newspaper, and nothing—not even a corralful of avid spectators—was going to stop her. In fact, she might turn the situation to her advantage.

  “If I make it,” she said through clenched teeth, “will you buy a subscription to the Wildwood Times?”

  Gus blinked. “Why, sure, ma’am. Anything you say.”

  Jessamyn again stuck her boot in the stirrup. This time she flexed her knees and gave a little jump. The wrangler put his shoulder under her bottom and heaved, and she sailed up and into the saddle.

  “Now, remember, hold the reins steady and don’t move. When he’s used to your weight, I’ll let go of the bridle. Then you’re on your own.”

  Too frightened to speak, Jessamyn nodded. She looked down. The ground seemed far, far beneath her. She didn’t have a choice—either she held on, or she died on the spot. Motionless except for her shaking hands, she waited.

  “Steady, Dancer,” she murmured. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  After a moment she grew conscious of the noise from the townspeople gathered along the fence. It sounded like bees buzzing in her head. A child’s voice yelled something that sounded like “go-it.”

  Very slowly Jessamyn lifted her head and stared at the crowd. Instinctively she stiffened her spine.

  At that instant Gus dropped the rope and stepped away from the horse.

  Nothing happened. The horse gusted air out, then in, then out again. Perspiration moistened the reins where they crossed Jessamyn’s palm. Lord in heaven, maybe she could do it! Maybe she could sit high up on this huge, powerful animal and not die in the process. The thought gave her courage. Realizing she was holding her breath, she opened her mouth to draw in life-sustaining air.

  Suddenly the horse arched under her, then plunged forward. Jessamyn slid sideways. She glimpsed the ground rushing up to meet her and closed her eyes tight.

  The impact knocked the air out of her lungs and drove her upper teeth into her tongue. Coppery-tasting blood filled her mouth, trickled down her chin.

  Frightened, she tried to breathe, but found she couldn’t. Her chest felt as if a steam engine had rolled over it. Flat on her back, she lay still, unable to move.
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br />   Two hazy faces appeared above her.

  “Is she all right, Doc?”

  Ben Kearney’s voice. Jessamyn wondered if he was close enough for her to kick him.

  “Dunno yet, Ben. Get out of my way!”

  Hands prodded gently, helped her sit up. She spit out a mouthful of blood and blinked back tears.

  “She’s okay. Looks like she bit her tongue. Nothing broken, though.”

  Jessamyn caught at the man’s shirtsleeve. “Dr. Bartel?” she managed to croak.

  “Yes, my dear? I’m Rufus Bartel. Just rest easy now.”

  Jessamyn looked up into the freckled face under the thatch of red hair. A completely illogical thought popped into her head. “Congratulations on your twins. Would you—” She coughed out another blob of spit and blood. “Would you like a year’s subscription to the Wildwood Times?”

  “Hah, Ben! You hear that? She’s down, but she’s not out. A born businesswoman.” He grinned down at her. “I sure would. Come on, young lady, let’s get you on your feet.”

  “I heard it,” Ben growled. “I just don’t believe it.”

  He knelt on her other side and slid his arm under her shoulders. He hated to admit it, but he didn’t want to put her through any more. “Let’s call it a day, Miss Whittaker. I guess now you see my point, and—”

  Jessamyn scooted out of his grasp. She saw his point, all right. He didn’t think she could do it.

  The truth was, she was beginning to wonder the same thing herself. But if she wanted to go with him to see Black Eagle, on horseback, she had to learn how to ride.

  “Don’t you dare touch me! I am not calling it a day.”

  She grabbed Rufus Bartel’s arm and hoisted herself upright. Pain shot down her spine, settled in her tailbone. Dizzy, she held on to the doctor while she steadied her legs.

  “Listen, Jessamyn,” Ben began.

  Hearing him speak her given name made her heart catch.

  Ben stepped in close. “It’s good to know when to stop,” he said in a low voice. “It’s better, of course, to know when not to start.” He held her gaze for a moment. As the soft green of her eyes flared to viridian, he realized he’d gone too far.

  “A challenge is a challenge, Mr. Kearney. I’m going to ride that horse, so please get out of my way.”

  “Come on, Ben,” the doctor said, his voice quiet. “Save your breath. I know a fighter when I see one.”

  “Goddamn crazy woman,” Ben breathed.

  Inwardly, Jessamyn agreed. Maybe she’d made the wrong decision. She was crazy to do this, crazy not to give up gracefully and wait in town while Ben rode off to Black Eagle’s camp. But she didn’t want to sit back and wait! She wanted to see things for herself, wanted to be part of it.

  And there was another thing, she acknowledged. She wanted to prove something to Ben Kearney. That in itself was a goal worth struggling for. She didn’t know why it mattered so much, but it did. She wanted Ben to see her as someone who counted. As an equal. Miss Bennett would be horrified! Oh, what was the use of puzzling it out now? She’d analyze it later. Now she had something else she had to do.

  Resolutely, she limped toward the center of the corral where Gus stood holding the still-saddled gelding.

  Shaking his head, Ben headed for his post at the liveryyard fence. He wished he’d never mentioned riding into the hills to meet with Black Eagle. Stubborn as Jessamyn Whittaker was, being every inch Thad’s daughter, she’d likely get herself hurt before she gave up. He hoped Gus was giving her good advice about riding that gelding. He didn’t want her to be badly injured—he only wanted her backside to be sore enough to keep her flat on her back in bed when the sun rose tomorrow morning.

  A frowning Jeremiah strode out to meet him. “What’d you say to rile Miss Jessamyn enough to ride that horse again, Colonel?”

  “Enough,” Ben grunted.

  “Huh!” Jeremiah gave a snort. “Whatever it was, you oughtn’t to have said it. She’ll be lucky if all she gets is a faceful of corral dust. Plain as flapjacks she don’t know nuthin’ about horses, ‘specially not one like Dancer Jack. Hell, Ben, that gelding’s—”

  “I know,” Ben snapped. He wished he didn’t. He wondered if Jeremiah guessed he’d put Gus up to it. He’d been convinced Dancer Jack would make short work of Jessamyn’s all-fired enthusiasm for investigating things firsthand. Now he wasn’t so sure, especially with Jeremiah tuttutting in his ear. The truth was, he was worried about her.

  “Troublous,” his deputy murmured as they reached the fence. “Downright pigheaded, the both of you!”

  Ben closed his ears to Jeremiah’s litany. Instead, he watched Gus reposition the mounting block for the slim young woman in dusty jeans. He strained to hear the wrangler’s words. The only word he caught was “tight.”

  Jessamyn nodded. Ben could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she was even more frightened than before. The way she stomped up the final wood step and grabbed the saddle horn told him she was just as determined as ever. Damned little fool.

  The crowd quieted as Jessamyn tugged herself clumsily atop the gelding, reached for the reins Gus held. Hell, she didn’t even have gloves to protect those city-soft hands of hers. Tomorrow her palms would be blistered right along with her bottom.

  The horse tossed his head and sidled off to one side. Jessamyn held on. The animal then began to canter in an irregular gait, bumping her up and down in a butt-crunching pattern. Ben groaned inwardly. Watching Jessamyn’s rump slap against the hard leather, he winced.

  Beside him, Jeremiah noisily sucked air in and out, his eyes glued on the young woman fighting to keep her balance on the still-green gelding. A spattering of applause ran through the spectators lined up along the fence.

  Gus yelled something. Jessamyn started to answer, but her first word ended in a cry of distress when the horse twisted and she tumbled off again.

  This time she landed on her side, breaking her fall with one arm. She curled into a ball and lay still as Gus caught the horse and brought it under control.

  Jeremiah surged forward, then halted when Jessamyn picked herself up and shakily regained her footing. She brushed halfheartedly at the dust on her backside with little fluttery strokes.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Ben moved past Jeremiah, signaling to Gus to keep the horse clear while he talked to her. He came up beside her and positioned himself between her and the gelding. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  She turned to face him, green eyes blazing. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d go off without me, and I’ll look like a perfect fool. Besides that, I’d miss everything!”

  Her hairpins had come loose. Tendrils of shiny chestnut hair curled about her chin and straggled down the back of her neck. Her lips looked pinched, but her cheeks flamed. Sunburn. He’d forgotten to tell her to get a hat. The other thing he’d forgotten was a way to allow her a graceful exit. Such a diplomatic device came easily to him when dealing with the Indians; somehow with Jessamyn, he felt considerably less coolheaded. Nevertheless, he’d give it a try. Anything to get her off that horse.

  “Give it up, Jessamyn. No one’s judging your reputation based on whether or not you ride that damned horse.”

  “Maybe you’re not,” she snapped. “And maybe they’re not.” She gestured vaguely toward the fence, now crowded shoulder-to-shoulder with hushed onlookers. “But I am.”

  She bent both arms, propped her hands on her hips. A flicker of pain surfaced in her eyes. She’d hurt her elbow. “I don’t intend to give up until I can ride that horse!”

  She spun away from him. “I’m ready, Gus. Bring him over here.”

  “Goddamn stubborn Yankee,” Ben muttered. The chafing from stiff, new jeans alone would cripple most men. He moved to confront her.

  “Jessamyn, listen. You’re hurting now. By tomorrow you’ll be even more swollen and sore and nothing, no amount of willpower, will get you on a horse again until you’ve healed.”

 
“Get out of my way, Ben,” she said quietly. “I’m going to remount.”

  “One hell of a goddamned crazy female,” he muttered again. But she had grit, he’d say that for her. Might be crazy, but she sure had a soldier’s courage.

  “Here, put this on.” He removed his Stetson, set it atop the drooping mass of hair piled up on her head and snugged it down to shade her nose and cheeks. “You’ll get freckles.” He pulled the leather gloves from his back pocket and thrust them at her. “And blisters.”

  She tipped her head up to see past the brim of his toolarge hat. For just an instant her eyes softened, then narrowed assessingly. Her hands disappeared into the gloves.

  Before she could speak, Ben pivoted and headed for the fence. Behind him, Gus’s low voice rumbled. “Try to squeeze your knees together, Miss Jessamyn. Might help you keep your seat.”

  Ben risked a surreptitious backward glance. Over Jessamyn’s head Gus shot him a curious look and kept on talking.

  By the time he reached his place between Jeremiah and Silas Appleby, Jessamyn had remounted. The crowd cheered. Ben clenched his jaw at the accusing look in his deputy’s chocolate brown eyes and leaned against the fence to watch.

  The picture Jessamyn presented made mincemeat out of his emotions. She sat proud and straight atop the gelding, her head up, the dark Stetson drooping around her ears. His black leather gloves flopped crazily on her slim hands as she clutched the reins. She looked like an outlandishly garbed farmer’s scarecrow.

  Except that she wasn’t grinning. Instead, from the set of her chin and the thin, tense line of her lips, he knew she was fighting back tears. The look of fierce concentration on her face, almost obscured beneath his wide-brimmed hat, made his throat ache.

  Under his navy canvas shirt, Ben’s heart faltered. She was a sight, all right. Iron-willed determination in a body so delicate it looked as if it would shatter any minute. God, he hoped this time she’d fall loose and roll.

  Gus spoke some words, and the oversize hat flopped up and down. Then the wrangler released the bridle.