Lynna Banning Page 8

  The gelding stood perfectly still for a full minute. Ben’s mouth went dry as a cotton ball.

  Without warning, the horse lowered its head and plunged. Jessamyn grabbed for her hat. Ben heard the snap of Jeremiah’s jaw as the deputy ground his teeth together.

  The horse jerked sideways, and Jessamyn changed her mind about the hat. Instead, she clung to the saddle horn with both hands. The gelding lunged forward, and the hat sailed off into the dirt. Strands of dark hair whipped about her white face as the horse danced and sidestepped about the dusty yard.

  Her body tipped, threatened to tumble sideways out of the saddle. She dropped the reins, clamped both hands to the saddle horn again and struggled to right herself. She regained a more or less upright position, and then with a snort, the animal reared into the air.

  Ben’s breath squeezed to a stop. Jessamyn tilted backward, sliding toward the horse’s rump. She threw both arms about the animal’s neck. Grabbing handfuls of his mane, she buried her face alongside the gelding’s heaving body and held on. Four or five spectators yelled advice.

  Gus shouted something. Ben watched her toss away one glove, then the other, and twine her bare fingers deep into the animal’s coarse black hair. His own hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles ached.

  The gelding dropped its two front feet onto the ground and raced halfway around the corral. Stopping with a necksnapping jerk, the animal whinnied and reversed direction. Jessamyn held on. The next time the animal came to a halt, she pulled the toe of her boot free of the stirrup, hoisted her bottom out of the saddle and let herself slip off the horse’s back end.

  She landed on her feet.

  His eyes burning, Ben let himself breathe again. Relief shot through him like hot brandy. Relief and something else—admiration. And pride. He was damned proud of her.

  The horse pranced off. Jessamyn staggered two steps to retain her balance, then stood still.

  Gus clapped her on the shoulder and offered her the hat and gloves he’d retrieved. She nodded once at the grinning Norwegian, then marched in unsteady steps toward the fence where Ben stood.

  A cheer broke out from the spectators, but Jessamyn appeared not to hear.

  “Well, I’ll be a…” Jeremiah hurrahed, then coughed self-consciously.

  Head up, her lips pressed into a determined line, Jessamyn squinted against the late-afternoon sun and headed in a slightly irregular path toward Ben.

  He pushed away from the fence and moved to meet her.

  “Newspaper lady, huh?” Silas Appleby disengaged his boot heels from the fence rail and stepped into the corral beside Ben. “Mighty pretty. Think I’ll just have to renew my subscription.”

  Ben frowned at the sandy-haired rancher and stepped to intercept Jessamyn. Outside of the telltale pink sunburn on her nose, her face looked pasty white. One shirtsleeve had come unrolled, and the sagging cuff obscured one hand. In the other she held his Stetson, upside down, the dusty leather gloves stuffed into the crown.

  She looked straight at him. Her eyes glittered like molten emeralds, but tears shone on the edges of the lids. A lead cannonball thunked into Ben’s belly.

  She shoved the hat into his chest and stalked past him, hissing a single word into the charged air between them.

  “Sunup.”

  Sunup! God almighty, didn’t she know when she was licked? Hell, she could barely walk steadily! She’d never make it out of bed tomorrow morning, let alone sit down for the next week.

  In the next instant Jeremiah materialized beside him. “Never did see the like,” he murmured. “C’mon, Colonel. I’m buyin’.”

  With a final nod at Gus, now. leading the gelding back to the stable, Ben slapped his Stetson against his thigh and jammed it on his head. The faint fragrance of roses clung to the felt, teasing his senses.

  “I’ll get the second round, Jeremiah. It might be another long night.”

  The deputy chuckled as the two men shouldered their way out of the crowded yard and headed for Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. “Yessir,” Jeremiah said half to himself. “Downright troublous. Damn magiclike the way they crawl under your skin, isn’t it?”

  Ben jerked to a stop. “Jeremiah?”

  “Colonel?”

  “Shut up,” Ben said quietly.

  A grin split Jeremiah’s sun-browned face. “Sure, Ben. Anything for a friend.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Land sakes, if you don’t look a sight!” Cora Boult hustled Jessamyn into the warm kitchen. “Let’s get you outa them men’s duds and right into a tub of hot water!”

  With a tired sigh, Jessamyn gave herself over to the fluttery ministrations of the housekeeper. She hurt all over. Her legs shook like unset jelly, and her elbow throbbed where she’d fallen on it. She removed her pinch-toed boots and bent to massage her feet.

  “Oh, Cora,” she moaned. “Now I know why I don’t see many women on horseback out here. They surely must have better—and less painful—things to do!”

  Cora clucked sympathetically. “Ridin’s like life, Jessamyn. The more you pursue it, the more natural it feels.”

  Jessamyn rubbed her fingers over every one of her toes, wincing with each motion. Riding would never feel natural to her. She wondered how that Indian girl could look so at ease on a horse, moving as if she and the animal were one being. She knew now what skill that required. Her admiration for Walks Dancing increased.

  Cora disappeared onto the back porch, returning in a moment with a metal washtub. “The water’s already heatin’,” she puffed. “I knowed something was up when Mrs. Frieder stopped by with your skirt and all them petticoats. She didn’t say exactly what was goin’ on, but I figured it had somethin’ to do with horses. Said the whole town was gatherin’ down at the livery yard.”

  Jessamyn groaned aloud. “Cora, I made such a fool of myself in front of everybody.”

  Cora propped her hands on her ample hips and watched Jessamyn shed her dirt-streaked jeans and shirt. “Chances are ‘twon’t make a henfeather’s difference. In two days the townsfolk’ll have somethin’ new to jaw about, and they’ll forget all about you.”

  “Oh!” Jessamyn stopped as if stricken. “But I don’t want them to forget it all—just the embarrassing parts. I want every single one of them to subscribe to the Wildw— ouch!” She flinched as she eased her sore arm out of the shirtsleeve.

  “Come on, child,” the housekeeper ordered, gesturing at the washtub. “Climb in.”

  Dropping her underclothes on the floor, Jessamyn stepped into the tub. The bare cold metal soothed her burning feet.

  Cora turned toward the stove, lifted the hissing teakettle with one hand and with the other pumped cold water into a pitcher in the sink. Pouring first from one container, then the other, she gradually filled the tub halfway up the sides.

  Jessamyn sat down in the deliciously warm water, bent her legs and rested her forehead on her bare knees. A breath of air at her back told her Cora had slipped out the kitchen door. When she returned, the older woman laid two towels on the floor beside the tub and pressed a rose-scented cake of Emperor Savon soap and a washcloth into her hand.

  “Scrub good, honey. You’ll be so sore for the next day or so you won’t want to move, much less bend yourself into a bathtub!”

  “Thank you, Cora,” Jessamyn murmured. She let her eyelids drift shut as more hot water dribbled into the tub. She wouldn’t think about tomorrow. Not yet, anyway. She’d wait until her back didn’t hurt and her legs could function again before she contemplated anything beyond this moment. Right now she couldn’t face even the thought of getting on a horse again.

  The water level rose. “Can you really spare all this water?”

  “Course, child. Afterward, I dump it out on my roses,” she explained as she poured in another half kettle of steaming liquid. “And,” she panted as she clanged the vessel on the back of the stove, “I got lots and lots of roses.”

  An hour later Jessamyn sat by the stove in the cozy kitchen co
mbing out her wet hair. Cora trudged back and forth between the back porch and her rose garden beside the house. On her final trip, the bulky housekeeper plopped a jar down beside her.

  “Liniment,” she announced. “Gus down at the livery stable brought it by. Said to rub it in good.”

  Jessamyn flinched. The thought of anyone—even gentlefingered Cora—touching her stiff, sore limbs set her teeth on edge.

  “First, though, soon as you get those tangles combed out, you’d better have some supper. I stewed a chicken this afternoon. Dumplings’ll be done in a jiffy.”

  Jessamyn attacked the mass of unruly curls with renewed vigor. Good Lord, her arms felt stiff and heavy as stovepipes.

  “You’ve got beautiful hair, child,” Cora said, turning to inspect a steaming iron pot on the stove. She patted her own iron gray bun. “So did I, once. Dark red it was. My Frank used to say it was prettier than his favorite sorrel.”

  “My hair is just…hair.”

  “Maybe, but it’s nice ‘n shiny, and it curls up so pretty all on its own. How come you pin it up like an old lady? Hides all them pretty waves!”

  “I’m a working woman, Cora. I haven’t time for fuss and feathers. I pin up my hair to keep it out of my eyes when I’m writing stories for the paper and off my neck when I’m setting type.”

  “Harrumph,” Cora responded. “Nuthin’ but business in your life can’t be much fun.” She set plates and utensils out on the kitchen table.

  “It is for me,” Jessamyn protested softly. “It’s all I ever wanted—my own newspaper.” And, she added silently, her own house. Her own life. Cora didn’t understand, because she’d been a ranch wife, had relished cooking and cleaning for a husband, had wanted to be a man’s partner, even the mother of his children. At twenty-six, Jessamyn had no such aspirations. Back in Boston she had been an acknowledged old maid. The day she realized it, a kind of relief had settled into her bones.

  Maybe she wasn’t like other women. All her life she’d been told she was smarter than most, prettier than some. But looks faded over time. After her mother died, Jessamyn had decided to put all her eggs in the “smarter” basket. Now she was about to get exactly what she’d wanted ever since she was ten years old. And she was prepared to pay whatever it would cost.

  Tomorrow morning she’d get her chance to ride into a real Indian camp and gather material firsthand for a feature story she planned to write for her—her!—newspaper.

  Tomorrow morning? She groaned aloud. Tomorrow was just nine hours away!

  Jessamyn flexed her knees and tentatively arched her back, suppressing the moan the movements brought to her lips. Would her body be capable of motion by sunrise?

  With her good arm, she reached for the jar of liniment warming on the stove.

  Ben stepped inside the Wildwood Times office and quickly pulled the heavy oak door shut behind him. After a moment his eyes adjusted to the dark interior. He pocketed the extra key Thad had entrusted to him, drew a candle from his vest pocket and touched the flaming tip of a match to the wick.

  A pool of golden light illuminated the cabinet against the wall. Inside were Thad’s files, old newspaper issues, correspondence, even the editor’s financial records. No clues there. He’d sifted through all the material twice the day after Thad had been shot. Still, some niggling voice drew him back. Maybe he’d missed something.

  He tipped the candle, dripped a dollar-sized circle of wax onto the top of the wooden cabinet and stood the flickering tallow shaft in the center. Sliding open the top drawer, he ran his fingers over Thad’s black-bound account books.

  Suddenly he stopped, staring at a volume he’d never seen before. He swore it had not been there when he’d searched the office after Thad’s killing. How had he missed it?

  Bound in burgundy leather, it looked like a journal of some sort. With purposeful motions, Ben lifted the volume, opened it flat on the cabinet top and thumbed through the first few pages.

  It was a journal. Folded letters spilled out, the paper tissue-thin, the ink faded to gold-brown. A lock of silky dark hair tied with a narrow blue ribbon nestled between the pages, then a sepia-toned photograph of a child, a girl with large, serious eyes, dressed in a baggy pinafore, and another of a solemn-faced young woman with flowing dark hair and a rose caught in her waist sash.

  Jessamyn. All Jessamyn. Clearly Thad had adored his daughter. No matter that he hadn’t once laid eyes on her since he left the East, the crusty newspaper editor hadn’t missed one single stage of her growing up. The letter Ben unfolded brimmed with news and anecdotes about Jessamyn, even included school essays written in a careful student hand, scribbled poems, some pen-and-ink drawings.

  Jessamyn Whittaker was a most unusual young woman. And it was apparent she had been wrenchingly lonely most of her life. Ben’s heart stirred in sympathy.

  Ben scanned a second letter, then bundled up the others and slipped them back inside the thick book. They were too personal to pry into.

  He turned over a few more leaves of the journal, then paused as one page in particular caught his eye. A column of numbers ran down one side, the figures ranging from eight to forty-two in no particular order. Dates had been scrawled opposite some entries—the most recent only two days before Thad died. On the bottom of the sheet, written in hurried pencil, stretched a series of letters.

  Ranch brands, maybe? Or initials? Two had been lined out—D.G. and B.K. His own initials and those of liveryman Dan Gustafsen. Three other sets remained. Thad wasn’t an idle doodler; he’d been keeping notes on something. But what? Whatever it was, had it been important enough to get him killed?

  Ben riffled through the few remaining pages, then closed the journal and replaced it. After inspecting the remainder of Thad’s business files, he slid the drawer closed. An idea began to take shape.

  Thad must have discovered something, something that was connected to that column of numbers and dates. A quick scan of the past year’s issues of the Wildwood Times quickened his pulse.

  Exactly as he’d thought. He had to talk to Black Eagle. There was no time to lose. As the new editor of the Wildwood Times, Jessamyn might also be in danger.

  He puffed out the guttering candle, scraped up the telltale circle of warm candle wax with his thumbnail. Moving noiselessly past the desk and the huge press dominating the room, he eased the door open and locked it behind him.

  Pocketing the candle stub and already making his plans, Ben strode across the street to the spartan quarters he and Jeremiah shared in back of the sheriffs office. Tomorrow he’d move fast, ride north and then east toward Black Eagle’s hidden camp. He had to make it to Wild Horse Canyon the first night. Riding hard, and alone, he could just do it.

  Jessamyn awoke to the chatter of finches in the plum tree outside her second-story bedroom window. Silhouetted against the faint rose-gray light, the leafy branches swayed and trembled with avian activity. It was not yet dawn, and already the tiny creatures were gathering their breakfast.

  And so must she, if she was to meet Ben Kearney at sunup. She threw back the yellow patchwork quilt and yelped with pain. Her back and shoulders felt as if they had been scrubbed up and down on a washboard. It hurt to move her arms, her hands, her neck. It even hurt to breathe.

  God in heaven, the upper half of her body felt as stiff and brittle as dry cornstalks. If she moved more than an inch in any direction, her muscles screamed in protest.

  Well, it simply couldn’t be helped. Taking a deep breath, Jessamyn clenched her fists and slid her legs toward the edge of the bed. Agony laced through her buttocks, bit into her hip sockets. She ground her teeth together and tried not to groan.

  What came out was an unsteady growl, punctuated by a hissing sound as her breath sucked in past her teeth. She eased her feet onto the floor, commanding them to support her weight. Very deliberately, she maneuvered herself into an upright position, then managed to stand erect on thighs that quivered.

  Standing was one thing. Walking was another
. And mounting a horse…

  She blanched at the thought. She had to manage it some way; otherwise, her ordeal of yesterday would be wasted. She would do it, she resolved. She wasn’t about to let that smooth-talking sheriff outwit her.

  If she could just ignore her aching muscles, force her body to obey the dictates of her mind. All she had to do was pull on her jeans and shirt and get down the stairs to the kitchen, then out the back door to the privy to take care of her private needs. That shouldn’t total more than about sixty steps.

  After some of Cora’s strong black coffee, she would walk—very gingerly—over to the livery stable and talk to Gus. She could do it! Once she was sitting up on a horse, she wouldn’t have to walk any farther, the horse would take care of that part. All she’d have to do was hold on.

  When she’d buttoned her shirt and cinched up the leather belt of her jeans, she looked down at her bare feet. She’d forgotten about the boots. She shoved her feet into them. Don’t think about your toes, she ordered herself as she stood upright Just think about getting to the horse. Think about the look on Ben Kearney’s face when he sees you mounted and ready to ride.

  That thought alone stiffened her resolve. With a final tug at the wide leather belt at her waist, Jessamyn half shuffled, half hobbled through her bedroom door and down the stairs, one halting, pain-pulsing step at a time.

  Whistling, Ben left the Dixon House hotel dining room and headed for the livery stable. His breakfast of fried eggs and steak had tasted unusually good this morning. The coffee was hot and black, the soft predawn air peaceful and scented with pine, his problem with Miss Jessamyn Whittaker solved.

  He looked forward to riding into the hills, unencumbered by a determined newspaper editor with more guts than good sense. Ben relished the quiet of the mountains. He liked being alone. He always had. Sometimes even soft-spoken Jeremiah was too much company, especially when Ben’s inner demons needed a bit of settling down.

  Lately he’d been having the old nightmares. He knew it was because of the war, but it made no difference. He dreamed the same dream over and over, that his body was split in half from his Adam’s apple right down to his crotch. One half was paralyzed. Try as he might, he could not move a single muscle. The other half could move, all right, but it was completely numb; he could feel nothing but the weight of his dead flesh. Only his head remained intact. In his dream he could see, and smell, and hear. And speak.