A Fire in the Blood (30 page)

      
He laughed, an ugly, rasping sound. "Murder's murder to you only when it's him, not that breed or any of the rest of his hands. You listen good. As soon as Lissa gets shut of her husband, you kill the old man. Shit, he's gonna cash in anyway."

      
He turned to go, but she put a clawlike hand on his arm. "Be careful with that herd."

      
"I'm not a greedy fool like Tom Conyers was. I'm always careful. Remember what I said. You kill him. You have to do it." He vanished in the darkness.

* * * *

      
Judge Sprague had been Marcus's attorney for thirty years, but he did not like this ugly business, not one bit. He shifted nervously, tugging on his tight waistcoat as Lemuel Mathis perused the papers Marcus Jacobson had instructed him to draw up. Lissa Jacobson Robbins sat dwarfed on the big horsehair sofa in his office. The poor thing looked pale as death. No female, no matter what she had done, deserved to be blackmailed, with her own child as a pawn. Sighing, Sprague looked away. If he did not handle the divorce, there were plenty of other lawyers in Cheyenne who would.

      
Mathis smiled and handed the papers to Lissa. "Sign here." He indicated a blank space with one blunt index finger.

      
Forgive me, Jess.
She signed with trembling hands, realizing that this was exactly what her husband would wish her to do.
I won't let them see me cry,
she vowed, forcing back her tears.

      
"How long should the divorce take?" Mathis asked the old judge who had married Lissa to the odious killer.

      
Sprague shrugged his rounded shoulders. "I'll discuss it with Governor Hale first thing tomorrow morning."

* * * *

      
Marcus awakened that night from a restless sleep in which he dreamed that Jesse Robbins sat at his desk, in his office, going over tally sheets and making entries in his books.

"No, no, you bastard." He rolled over, doubling into a ball as a searing pain ripped across his chest, setting his lungs on fire. He clawed for the bellpull to summon Germaine but could not reach it because the pain—God, the pain—doubled him up, squeezing every muscle in his body until he lay paralyzed.

      
Marcus knew that this time he was going to die. "Not yet! No, not yet," he croaked. Not until Lissa had married Lemuel—until he could be assured that Lemuel's issue, not the spawn of that mongrel, inherited J Bar. The vision of Jess at his desk flashed before his eyes again. Sweat beaded on his face as he gritted his teeth and extended his arm to reach for the bellpull a second time. He seized it in one clawing motion, but the force of his lunge threw him from the bed. By the time his body landed on the rug with a muffled thud, Marcus Jacobson was dead.

      
Across the hall, Germaine Channault slept through the noise, snoring softly, an empty decanter of brandy lying overturned by her bedside table.

* * * *

      
Judge Sprague had just removed his robes and walked over to his desk when Lissa Robbins knocked on his office door, then entered. She was pale but calm as she stood holding her small son in her arms. In fact, he had never seen her look so self-possessed.

      
"My father died last night," she said emotionlessly. "Tear up that petition for a divorce. I won't be going through with it now." Her eyes leveled on him as the color drained from his face.

      
Slack-jawed, he sat down, staring at her bright yellow skirt. She certainly was not dressed for mourning, but after the way things had turned out, he supposed it was scarcely surprising. He nodded, then struggled to clear his throat. "I—I’ll have to talk to the governor."

      
"You do that," she replied, then turned and walked from his office.

      
Word of Marcus Jacobson's death spread through Cheyenne like wildfire. As Lissa walked down the street, people ogled her dark-haired baby and whispered behind their hands. They cast condemning looks at her, the old man's only child, clad in bright clothes, dry-eyed. A hussy who had been forced to marry that gunman and had borne his son. A few shuffled nervously and offered embarrassed condolences, their eyes skittering away from Johnny. She accepted their wishes with terse nods as she made her way determinedly down Eddy Street to Charlotte Durbin's Modiste Shoppe. She had an offer to make to the underpaid, overworked Clare Lang.

      
Smiling grimly to herself, Lissa prayed the dressmaker's assistant would agree to her terms.

* * * *

      
When old Luke Deevers reined in the buckboard at the front yard of the ranch house, Lissa was exhausted. She could still hear Germaine's hysterical screams this morning when she had gone into Marcus's room and found him on the floor, stone cold dead. Lissa had come running to find her father lying doubled up on his side, his face contorted in a grimace of agony. He had died alone, trying to summon help.

      
The housekeeper had held him, wailing like a banshee while Lissa ran back to her room at the far end of the hall and picked up Johnny, who had heard the uproar and started to cry.

      
She supposed she should have felt something, some grief, some regret. After all, he was the doting papa who had lavished everything on her—until the first time she had defied him. Then he had turned on her just as ruthlessly as if she were a horse thief or a squatter.

      
I wonder if anyone besides Germaine will really mourn his passing?
she thought as Luke tied the reins to the wagon brake and helped her down while Clare held Johnny.

      
Taking the boy from her, Lissa smiled at Clare, who was perched, nervous as a sparrow, on the wagon seat. "It'll be all right," she said gently.

      
The thin girl nodded, and the tassel on her bonnet bobbed in time. "Yes, ma'am." Her hands, red and work-worn, seized hold of the edge of the seat as she carefully climbed down with Deevers's aid.

      
"Please have one of the hands bring in Miss Lang's trunks, Luke." He nodded and climbed back on the wagon.

      
"Let's go inside and have some cool lemonade," she said to Clare.

      
"That would be lovely, Mrs. Robbins," the girl replied with a tremulous smile.

      
"Don't fret about Madame Channault."
Easy to say
, Lissa thought grimly, wondering if the housekeeper had calmed down yet.

      
After she had Clare sitting at the kitchen table sipping lemonade and bouncing Johnny on her knee, Lissa set out to confront Germaine. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the housekeeper's door.

      
Germaine opened it a moment later. Her hair hung in a ratty braid that fell over one shoulder, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen into tiny slits from crying. She clutched a half-full decanter to the bodice of her wrinkled dress.

      
"The men took your father's body to the undertaker in Cheyenne," she said sullenly.

      
"I know. I talked to Mr. Craig about the funeral while I was there. He's handling it."

      
"What do you want then? Have you come to gloat now that he's dead?"

      
"You're drunk again, Germaine," Lissa said levelly, ignoring the older woman's sharp tongue.

      
"I have the right to grieve."

      
"Do it on your own time. It should scarcely be any surprise that I'm discharging you. I'll see you have two weeks' extra pay when you leave in the morning. Luke will drive you to town."

      
The housekeeper's face seemed to narrow even more as she gritted her teeth in outrage, releasing a string of remarkable French profanity. "That old fool Deevers is the only man left who will work for one like you,
hein
? All the rest of the hands will quit. Perhaps that dirty little mess cook will stay— if you'd dare bring him into my kitchen!"

      
"It's my kitchen now, Germaine, and I've already seen to hiring someone to assume your duties. Start packing. You may have had some strange hold over my father, but your power died with him. I want you out of here in the morning, or I'll throw your belongings in a horse'trough!"

      
"You dirty little Indian-loving whore!" Germaine took a step forward, clutching the decanter in her thin, veiny hands. She was wraith-thin but big-boned, taller than Lissa by at least an inch and squirrel-tough.

      
Lissa did not back down. She had waited too many years and taken too much sly, taunting abuse to let the old hag have the satisfaction. "If you wanted to flatten me, you should've stayed sober, Germaine." Part of her itched to take the bottle away from the drunken old bitch and club her with it. She waited as Germaine seemed to debate her course of action.

      
The housekeeper finally stepped back, bumping her shoulder against the door frame as a crafty smirk touched her lips. A feral light gleamed in her bloodshot eyes. "I will leave ... for now."

      
Lissa turned to retrace her steps, then paused and said, "I don't fear, Germaine. Not anymore." In spite of her brave words, Lissa felt an eerie premonition that made her skin crawl as she walked downstairs. She decided to lock her bedroom door and guard Johnny carefully until Germaine Channault was off J Bar land.

Chapter Eighteen

      
Pride be damned, she was going to do it. Lissa strode briskly down to the stable with Cormac trotting by her side. Rob Ostler brought Little Bit out and handed her the reins.

      
"You sure you don't want me comin' along, Miz Lissa?" he asked with a worried frown creasing his youthful face.

      
"No, Rob. I'll be fine. I have my rifle," she patted the scabbard, "and Cormac for protection. You're needed here. We're too short-handed as is. Moss can't spare a single man."

Moss might even quit himself,
she thought dispiritedly. The old foreman had been taciturn, unwilling to engage in the easy camaraderie of earlier years since he learned of her relationship with Jess. After Johnny was born and Marcus's health had failed, Moss's eyes accused her every time they met.

      
Since her father's death the preceding month, the hands had begun to quit, even refusing to work the vital spring roundup. Moss said they did not want to work for a woman, but Lissa knew he really meant that they did not want to work for a woman who had soiled herself by marrying a man of mixed blood, much less a woman who had carried his child well before their vows had been exchanged.

      
J Bar was down to forty men, and rustlers were stealing them blind. Lissa wondered if her ranch had again been singled out for the devastating raids. There was no way to be certain because none of her father's old friends would associate with her since her fall from grace. No one would share information with her.

      
Lissa was abasing her pride enough by riding to Cheyenne to ask Camella Alvarez if she knew how to send a message to Jess. She remembered the conversation between the lovers in that hotel alley the first night after Jess arrived in Cheyenne. They were old friends from Texas. If anyone could help her find her husband, it was the beautiful singer, and if anyone could save Johnny's inheritance, it was his father. She would not ask for herself, only for their son.

      
What would the "Spanish Songbird" say when Lissa walked into the theater? "She probably thinks we're sisters under the skin, and I guess she's right," Lissa said aloud. Cormac cocked his head as he loped easily alongside her pinto.

      
When they reached Cheyenne, she rode directly to the Royale Theater. It was nearly noon. Surely even the ladies of the evening had arisen by now.

      
The big frame building was three stories high with a false front across the top floor that boasted in two-foot-high red lettering, Royale Palace of Musical Entertainment. Beneath it in smaller print, Beautiful Women, Spirits, Dancing, and Variety Acts were offered. Lissa smiled wryly to herself as she dismounted and bade Cormac to stay. What exactly were variety acts?

      
Ever since her disgraceful marriage, she had been studiously avoided by the local women when she came to town; only a few men tipped their hats nervously when she passed. Everyone gossiped about her behind her back. Going into a den of scarlet poppies would certainly give them something new to talk about.

      
She took a deep breath and walked inside the slightly ajar front door. The room was immense, filled with tables and chairs, many overturned. Broken glass glittered dully on the oily plank floor. An ornate bar sporting a painting of a chain of nudes lined one wall. The front half of the place was dominated by the huge elevated stage, now empty. A smell of musty smoke and stale liquor filled the air.

      
"What kin I do for you, ma'am?" An enormous brute of a man walked around the bar, incongruously clutching a flimsy broom in his hand. His hulking body was slab muscle, and he was nearly seven feet tail, with a bald head that gleamed like a polished gemstone.

      
Lissa could sense his embarrassment. "I've come to see Miss Alvarez. Is she in?"

      
His scalp as well as his face pinkened. "Well, ma'am .. ." He shuffled from foot to foot nervously. "Miz Cammie, she had a real busy night last night." Pink turned to crimson. "That is, I don't think she's—"

      
"It's all right, Eustace. My—er, company, just left." Camella shoved one unruly clump of tangled black curls away from her face, then finished belting her pink silk robe as she descended the stairs opposite the bar. She wrinkled her handsome nose in distaste. "Dios! That was some fight last night. Get this sty cleaned up before we have the afternoon trade filtering in for cold beer," she instructed the big man.