Lynna Banning (21 page)

Safe. For the moment, anyway. Now all he had to do was get Jessamyn out of Copperblossom Canyon and back to town. He shot a quick backward glance at her.

She met his gaze, lifted her mangled hat in a spur-ofthe-moment salute, and smiled.

All the way out of the steep-sided canyon, Ben’s throat ached with joy.

J
essamyn racked the type case and laid it on the slanted composing table. Her eyes aching from hours of selecting the tiny pieces of metal and slipping them into place, she slid off the high stool, untied her work apron and swept past the keg of printer’s ink Otto Frieder had delivered that afternoon. Along with the ink, the beaming storekeeper had announced the birth of his daughter.

“Was early, but Dr. Bartel, he say she is fine baby,” Otto had sputtered. “And—” He’d moved his two extended forefingers in toward each other. “So tiny. Like a china doll she looks!”

All afternoon and evening Jessamyn thought about the Frieders’ new baby, the life a young girl and later a grown woman faced out here in the West—physical hardships and unending work. And there were other dangers, as well— emotional risks, such as men like Ben Kearney who turned her heart inside out with pleasure and then wrenched it with longing for something that could not continue.

With a sigh, she laid her apron over the battered oak desk in the front office. She had made love with a man, let him touch her in intimate places, and she had reveled in it. She had taken his body into hers at the height of passion, and—despite her mother’s admonitions and Miss Bennett’s training in propriety—she didn’t regret one minute of it.

But she knew it couldn’t go on. Ben was not the marrying kind and, to be honest, neither was she. Still, for a woman like herself, a properly reared single lady, now with a career as a dedicated newspaperwoman, there was certainly a limit to the boundaries she could overstep and still remain respectable.

Jessamyn turned down the lamp wick and puffed out the flame with a quick breath. She hadn’t seen Ben since they’d returned to Wildwood Valley two nights ago. He’d left her with a quick, warm kiss and had vanished down the dark path. He hadn’t been angry—his mouth, hot and sweet on hers for those few glorious instants, had told her that. But she knew he had other things on his mind—Spencer repeating rifles and her father’s murderer. She wondered what he planned to do now.

In the next instant she knew the answer. When he found Jeremiah, the two men would buckle on their gun belts and ride back up into the mountains to capture an outlaw.

Her heart all but stopped beating. Merciful heaven, here was a hazard about life in the West she hadn’t considered before—caring about a man whose life was in danger!

Hurriedly she locked the news office door and in the dusky light made her way along the plank walk, past the Dixon House hotel and Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. Both establishments were lit up like Christmas trees. The sheriffs office was dark. She supposed Ben had ridden out to his brother’s ranch for supper, or maybe he and Jeremiah were both at the saloon. Jeremiah hadn’t stopped in to visit at the
Times
office since Walks Dancing had come to stay with Cora. The deputy might be there at the house now, visiting the Indian girl.

She quickened her step. She wanted to ask Jeremiah’s help when she put the next issue of her newspaper to bed. She covered the quarter-mile walk to the big white house preoccupied by the articles she had to finish for her next edition—the latest news about President Johnson and impeachment, the new plan for the railroad to bypass Jacksonville
in favor of Medford, which would put that city in line for county seat. Bad news in good English, Papa used to say.

She would print nothing about the sheriff’s closing the net around the cattle thief and her father’s killer, at least not until Ben made an arrest. She would not, for a second time, compromise his plans for capturing the outlaw. Besides, if she held the news over, it would make a bigger splash to break the entire story at one time.

When Jessamyn entered Cora’s warm, good-smelling kitchen, she found the elderly housekeeper rolling biscuit dough out on a floured board while Walks Dancing stood at the stove, stirring a kettle of simmering stew.

“Where’ve you been, child? I’d near give up on you gettin’ home in time for supper, but your Indian friend here wouldn’t eat without you.” Cora stamped out rounds of dough with an upended jelly glass. “Beats me how you two can communicate—she can’t say but two words in English.”

Jessamyn flashed a quick smile at Walks Dancing and bent to sniff the stew. Turning, she noticed a bouquet of pale gold roses arranged on the kitchen table. The spicy perfume sent an odd, empty ache into her chest.

“Gus was by earlier,” Cora said as she arranged the biscuits on a square tin pan. “Brought you more flowers. That man has the greenest thumb I ever did see! And,” she continued, “he ain’t the only one to come callin’.”

From the stove, Walks Dancing sent Jessamyn a mischievous grin and held up two fingers.

Jessamyn stared at her. “Two? Two what?”

The girl assumed a studiedly serious facial expression and pantomimed a man’s swaggering walk.

“Two men,” Cora interpreted, sliding the pan of biscuits into the hot oven.

“Oh, no.” Jessamyn shook her head at Walks Dancing. “You’re quite mistaken. Not two at all! Not even one!”

“More’n two, if you ask me,” Cora said with a laugh.
“Jes’ look outside.” She gestured at the window over the kitchen sink. “Looks like company for supper.”

Jessamyn peered through the glass panes and caught her breath. Three horses stood in the yard.

Dan Gustafsen clutched another bouquet of roses in one meaty hand—this time creamy white blooms tinged with pink. Silas Appleby was empty-handed, but his gray hat looked brand-new and his boots gleamed like polished piano legs.

The third rider was Ben Kearney, looking bone tired and rumpled, his hat brim pulled low over his sun-bronzed face. Dust covered his dark leather boots. Jessamyn took one look at him and felt her heart contract.

“Might as well face it, child,” Cora said as she patted the remaining biscuit dough into a lozenge-shaped mound on the cutting board. “Them’s courtin’ males in full feather.”

Walks Dancing grinned and waggled three fingers in Jessamyn’s direction. The housekeeper glanced out the window, then attacked the mass of dough with a flour-coated rolling pin.

“Look out there, Jessamyn,” she commanded. “I’m gonna give you a lesson on how to judge a man as a potential husband.”

“I’m not looking for a husband, Cora,” Jessamyn said stiffly.

“Of course not,” the housekeeper agreed. “But if yer gonna save up for a rainy day, you got to learn to recognize one!”

“Cora, I’m not saving—”

“Oh, well, then come and learn how to judge a man as a schoolteacher you may want to hire, or a foreman on a cattle ranch, or your banker. No matter what, come and watch.”

Intrigued in spite of herself, Jessamyn looked out the window. Even Walks Dancing twisted to watch the activity in the yard outside.

“Watch what they do about their spurs after they get off their horses at the fence.”

Jessamyn did as she was directed. Gus flipped his reins over the top rail and strode, spurs jangling, toward a washbasin set on a bench beside a water pail and dipper. On a nearby post hung a huck towel, clean and white as lye soap could make it.

“Gus’ll likely come to call with his spurs on,” Cora said. “And he’ll dry his face on the center of the towel. Don’t marry him.”

Gus and Silas walked together to the basin. Gus carefully put down his bouquet, then one after the other, they bent to splash their faces and hands, taking turns at the towel. Gus used the center, Silas all four edges.

“Either one of them might be trained to be a decent husband and maybe a father, but it won’t come natural. Now, look at the one still at his horse. All of them loosened the cinch except him. What’s he doing now?”

“He’s leaning against his horse and talking. Now he’s doing something with the bridle.”

“Slipping the bit,” Cora said approvingly. “Makes the wait more comfortable for the horse. Where’s his spurs?”

“He’s hanging them on the saddle horn. Gus and Silas are coming up the path toward the house.”

“Silas is a handsome feller, ain’t he? Two weeks ago, Silas was practically engaged to the Harber girl. Now, he ain’t,” Cora remarked. “But look at his boots if you get a chance. If they’re good working boots, it might be worth it to smile at him, but if they’re anything fancy, hold back. That last fellow isn’t so polished up, maybe, but watch him wash.”

In spite of herself, Jessamyn’s interest rose. She watched Ben carefully empty the used water at the base of a rosebush, ladle one dipperful of water into the basin and wash his face, neck and hands. After a critical look at the towel, he pulled a folded bandanna from his pocket and dried his
face. Then he again poured the water on the rosebush and stepped up to the house.

A bud of inexplicable joy bloomed within Jessamyn’s chest. Without a word, she stepped to the oven and opened the door. Folding a dish towel around the edge of the pan, she slid the golden brown biscuits off the rack, then moved to meet the sheriff. As she passed the stove where Walks Dancing stood vigil over the steaming kettle of stew, the Indian girl held up a single finger. Her fine, black eyes sparkled as they met Jessamyn’s.

Ignoring the gesture, Jessamyn flew out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the front door. At this moment nothing mattered except seeing Ben, hearing his voice, watching his face change when he looked at her.

Near the doorway Gus thrust a handful of creamy pink roses at her. “Evening, Miss Jessamyn.”

Silas Appleby snatched off his hat and slicked back his sandy hair. “Howdy, ma’am.”

Jessamyn smiled briefly at each man but did not pause. As the two strode on into the sitting room at Cora’s invitation, Jessamyn continued toward the doorway. She intercepted the sheriff just as he ducked his head under the door frame.

“You’re going back up into Copperblossom Canyon tonight, aren’t you?” she said quietly.

Ben removed his hat and nodded.

The realization that he was leaving again so soon knifed through her. A cold lump of apprehension settled in her stomach.

“I could tell by the way you walk.” She held up the pan. “You’ll want biscuits to take with you.”

She scooped four fat biscuits off the baking tin and stuffed two in each pocket of his sheepskin jacket.

He encircled her wrist with his warm fingers. “Come outside, Jess.” He pulled her gently toward the open doorway.

Jessamyn set the biscuit pan down on the oak hall rack
and followed him out onto the front porch. Resettling his hat, Ben turned to face her.

“I don’t have a lot of words to give you, Jessamyn.”

She inhaled a lungful of the warm, honeysuckle-scented air, watched the sky behind him flame rose pink and crimson. “I don’t expect words, Ben. Least of all from you,” she added with a soft laugh. “When something important happens, I’ve noticed you say very little.”

His eyes, gray-blue with fatigue, widened for a split second, then flared with a hot light in their depths.
“Has
something important happened?”

Jessamyn let the question hang in the quiet, color-washed evening silence. Watching his face, she waited while she thought how to respond. She knew what he meant. It was clear that their night together at the cabin had been important to him in some way—she just didn’t know
what
way.

“Has it?” he repeated.

A mockingbird trilled from the rose arbor. Endless variations of the song floated out, altering with each passing second. Like life, Jessamyn thought. One moment things were one way; then something would change and everything would be different.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Something important has happened. Between you and me, that night at the cabin. Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Jess, I don’t know how—”

“Don’t talk, Ben,” she interrupted softly. “Just kiss me.”

He wrapped both arms around her, enfolded her in his warmth. She lifted her face, felt his warm mouth move over hers. His breath caught as she began to respond, and he deepened the kiss, his lips saying what words could not.

An ache flowered in her throat. She could not say what she felt, either, but she could show him. Her mouth under his would tell him she valued him, wished him a safe journey—her kiss, and the biscuits she’d slipped into his jacket.

He broke free with a soft groan and set her apart from him. In the dying light she saw his face twist.

Jessamyn rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his one last time. “Jeremiah told me you did brave, courageous things in the field during the War of the Rebellion.”

“The War Between the States,” he corrected gently.

“Yes, the war. Don’t do anything foolishly heroic this time,” she whispered.

A low chuckle sounded in her ear. “I won’t.”

“And I hope…” She faltered. “I hope you weren’t thinking I’d miss you, Ben, because I—”

“No,” he breathed against her mouth. “I wasn’t.”

“And, Ben… Oh, Ben, you know this can’t go on. Don’t come back expecting…more.”

After a long hesitation, his words whispered against her temple. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

He caught her hard against him, kissed her roughly and spun on his heel. He paused briefly to reattach his spurs, then mounted and turned the black gelding into the road. His rowels chinged musically as he rode away from her.

Long after the hoofbeats faded, Jessamyn fancied she could still hear the jingling sounds over the hammering of her heart.

“I told you, Jeremiah, I don’t have a choice.” Ben’s throat was parched from filling in his deputy during the past hour at the Red Fox. He signaled the bartender.

“Another round, Charlie.”

Jeremiah frowned at him across the scarred corner table of the noisy saloon.

Ben regarded his deputy in silence. Jeremiah seemed edgy. He guessed it was Walks Dancing’s presence in town. Jeremiah probably worried that some young buck was going to sneak into town and steal her away the minute they saddled up. It was the only time Ben could ever remember his deputy’s being skittish about a capture. Neither of them knew precisely the identity of their quarry, but that had
never bothered Jeremiah before. Whatever the situation, his . deputy was always steady under fire, quick to adapt to surprises.