Secondhand Bride (15 page)

C
hloe kept herself busy all the next day, in a futile attempt to hold a legion of memories at bay, leaving the cottage only when she could stand in front of the small mirror over the washstand and see a sensible woman looking back at her, instead of a brazen hussy, twice divorced.

She had breakfast at the hotel, with a circumspect and watchful Becky, chatting merrily about her lesson plans for the first week of school, as though nothing was wrong.

She returned the divorce papers to Mr. Terrell, so that he could file them properly. After leaving his office, which was housed in a stuffy little room above the Cattleman’s Bank, she proceeded to the mercantile, opened an account, and stocked up on tea, sugar, and other staples. Back at the cottage, she put everything away in its proper place, made up the tangled, Jeb-scented bed, in which she had wept for the better part of the night, and paced.

At noon, she picked some fading wildflowers from the schoolyard and headed for the cemetery.

John’s headstone seemed to glow in the crisp autumn sunlight, and a few golden leaves danced on his grave, as if putting on a show.

Chloe laid the flowers next to the stone, smoothed her skirts, and sat down in the grass with a sigh, folding her hands in her lap.

“I’m a damn fool, Uncle John,” she said.

The wind played in the treetops.

“I’ve got no business staying in Indian Rock. No business at all. If I had any sense, I’d be on my way to Sacramento right now.”

A tendril of hair tickled her cheek; she brushed at it. Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden and wholly unexpected.

“You must have known Jeb McKettrick.”

Birds twittered, as if in reply.

“He’s handsome,” Chloe went on. Wagons passed on the road, but she had the churchyard to herself, which was a good thing, since she was prattling to a grave marker and a mound of dirt. “He makes me so mad sometimes, I could spit, and nobody’s ever hurt me the way he did. But he made me laugh, too. I should never have married him—he’s probably never had a serious thought in his life.”

She plucked a piece of grass, tore it apart between her fingers. The scent of it rose to her nostrils, a sweet and singular solace.
I wither and die,
that smell seemed to say,
then I flourish, green again.

“Now, I, on the other hand,” she continued firmly, “have plenty of serious thoughts. One of us had to be practical, after all.”

A bee droned slumberously by, not having noticed, apparently, that summer was over and all the other bees were gone.

“I’m sensible, even if I am a little impetuous. I know you remember that about me.” Chloe’s shoulders sagged, and she reached for another blade of grass, heaving a great, despondent sigh. “Except when it comes to men. I thought I was in love with Jack Barrett. He told me he was a banker, and I believed him. Turned out he was a gunslinger, instead. A bounty hunter. How do you like that? Well, I know you wouldn’t have liked it at all, of course, because you were sworn to uphold the law, and Jack lives to break it. That’s why I didn’t tell you at the time. You see, I had no way of knowing that you might have understood, just a little, because you were my father and because you were in trouble yourself once.” A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were my father?”

A chorus of children’s voices blew her way, frolicking on the breeze.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now, anyway,” she said. “But I would have liked to know, just the same.”

A flash of movement caught the edge of her vision; she saw Harry Sussex walking the churchyard fence, skinny arms outstretched, red hair brilliant in the daylight.

“Get down!” another child called to him. A girl, Chloe thought. “You’ll break your neck! I’m going to tell Mama if you break your neck!”

Chloe smiled and, as if she’d touched him, Harry noticed her at precisely that moment, jumped gracefully off the fence, and sprinted toward her, grinning.

“Afternoon, Miss Wakefield,” he said. “Doc says you’re going to teach school, for sure. I’m real glad about that.”

Chloe nodded, putting on a brave face. “I’ll expect you and all the other children in class by eight o’clock Monday morning,” she said.

Harry’s eyes shone. “We’ll be there,” he promised. A frown elbowed his smile aside. “You got any rules about shoes and the like?”

Chloe’s heart warmed, aching a little. “No,” she said. “But when winter comes, I expect you’ll want to wear some.”

Harry looked profoundly relieved. Most likely, he didn’t own a pair of shoes, and if he did, they were reserved for very special occasions. “Ma says you’re going to have your hands full, with a pack of wild coyotes like us.”

Chloe got to her feet, dusted off her skirts, said a silent good-bye to John. She wasn’t sure what the future would bring, she wasn’t sure of Jeb McKettrick, or even of her own good sense, but there was one matter upon which she was absolutely, unequivocally, rock-solid certain.

“I can handle it,” she said.

J
ack Barrett had to change his plans, and it was an inconvenience he sorely resented. He hadn’t worried overmuch about coming face-to-face with little Miss Cavanagh, but Jeb McKettrick was a different case. There’d be too many questions asked if they happened to meet up before time. When he’d seen Chloe’s beau ride through the Circle C’s gates the day before, he’d known the brief stay was at its end. It was good-bye to the soft bunk, easy work, and good grub. Unless, of course, Miss Sue Ellen Caruthers turned out to be a decent cook and cordial company. She’d been willing enough yesterday, when he’d been assigned to drive her to town to meet the stage, simmering with rage at Cavanagh’s spurning. He’d inquired if she was inclined toward revenge, along the way, and she’d said she was.

Now, riding northeast, intending to make friendly with his new ally and bide his time until the day of reckoning arrived, it was his sorry luck to run straight into Henry Farness, the foreman of the Circle C.
Past his prime
, Barrett reflected, as he reined in to greet the man with a tip of his hat and a reserved howdy.

Farness didn’t smile. He narrowed his eyes as he regarded Jack, taking in the bedroll and loaded saddlebags. “Looks like you’re movin’ on,” he observed. “Seems a trifle sudden, given that you just moved into the bunkhouse.”

Jack’s horse, like him, was eager for the trail. It danced beneath him, nickering and flinging its head from side to side, and he gave the reins a firm yank. “I’ve got a restless spirit,” he said, and that was all the explanation he meant to give.

Farness turned his head, spat. “We have our hands full on this place, what with the new herd and all,” he said. “Need every man we can get.”

“Jeb McKettrick can take my place,” Jack said, then wished he hadn’t spoken the name out loud. The smallest slip could get a man remembered for all the wrong reasons; folks might start adding things up in their heads, making connections between one event and another.

Farness shook his head. “Since you ain’t been around long,” he remarked, still watchful, “there’s no way you could know how it is with that Triple M outfit. Angus’ll drag the kid home by the scruff if he has to, but home he’ll go, you can bet your last nickel on that.”

“I don’t reckon that’s my problem,” Jack said, pushing back his coat to uncover the .44.

Farness’s gaze went to the gun, as any man’s would, but he didn’t look scared. Maybe he didn’t have sense enough. “You wanted this job pretty bad,” he observed, “until one of the McKettricks showed up on the Circle C. You got some reason to run from them?”

If only the old fool hadn’t gone and said that, things might have gone better. “Just a coincidence,” Jack said, thinking of the notches on his gun handle.

“Then why’d you show me that iron of yours just now?” He glanced past Jack’s shoulder in the next moment, fixing his gaze on something, and by reflex, Jack turned to look. It wasn’t a ruse; there was a rider approaching, still a fair distance away, but coming on fast.

Jack shifted, with a creak of saddle leather, and when he turned to Farness again, the coot was holding a six gun on him, cocked and ready.

“One thing you might want to remember,” Farness said evenly. “In the high country, a man don’t ride alone if he can help it.”

Jack made himself smile. “Put that piece away, you old codger,” he said reasonably. “I didn’t draw on you.”

“I reckon it must have crossed your mind, nonetheless,” Farness replied. “You’d just keep on headin’ in the direction you was goin’ when we met and don’t show your face around the Circle C again.”

Though he controlled his expression, Jack had no command over the flush of anger that gushed up his neck to throb in his face. “Now that was a downright unneighborly thing to say,” he lamented. He had his .44 out and fired before the foreman could get off a shot; as the old man fell, Jack turned and shot the oncoming rider right out of the saddle.

Too bad it wasn’t Jeb McKettrick,
he thought. Once that was done, he could dust off his hands, collect Chloe, and move on for good.

With a sigh, he got down from his horse, rolled Farness over, felt the base of his throat for a pulse. Dead, he concluded calmly. Served him right for running off at the mouth.

He mounted up again, rode to the place where the other man had fallen. A kid—Jack had seen him around the bunkhouse, though he couldn’t recall his name. Given that half his face was gone, he represented no threat, but Jack put another bullet in him anyway, for good measure.

That night, in the cabin where Sue Ellen waited, he carved two more notches into the handle of his .44.

H
olt was at his desk, tallying the figures in a ledger, when a knock sounded at the front door. He glanced at the clock irritably, figuring he ought to leave for the Triple M to fetch Lizzie home, dreading the inevitable encounter with Angus. Maybe the old man would be out rounding up cattle or something.

“Keep your britches on,” he barked. He pulled his .45 from the gun belt on the peg next to the door, as a precaution, and swung it open.

A ranch hand, name of Simmons, stood on the porch, his face grim. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said, “but there’s been a killing. Two of ’em, in fact.”

Every muscle in Holt’s body tensed. “Spit it out,” he said.

“Mr. Farness went looking for some strays, up on the north range, first thing this morning,” Simmons said uncomfortably. “Ted Gates went with him, figuring on shooting some rabbits for the stewpot. When they wasn’t back to help with the horses, some of the men went looking for ’em. Found ’em dead.”

Holt swore. He’d ridden with Farness while he was still with the Rangers; the man had been a close friend. “You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons replied. “It’s plain it was murder.” He paused to shake his head. “Poor Ted wasn’t but seventeen. He’s been sending most all his wages home to his sweetheart, down in Tucson. They was savin’ up to get themselves hitched.”

Unconsciously, Holt flicked open the .45, still in his hand, spun the cylinder with his thumb. “Where are they now?” he asked, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind him. “The bodies, I mean?”

“Still in the wagon,” was the answer. “I reckon the doc will want to look them over, in town, and the marshal ought to be told.”

Holt caught sight of the buckboard, stopped in front of the barn, when they rounded the side of the house. He stepped up to the rig and used his free hand to toss back the bloody tarp covering the two corpses.

Jeb appeared at his side; he’d spent the night in the main house, planning to move into the bunkhouse when the workday was through. Holt hadn’t seen him since dawn, when they’d eaten a silent breakfast together, each thinking his own thoughts.

“Whoever shot them was riding alone,” Jeb said. “I followed the trail as far as Settler’s Creek. Lost him there.”

Holt laid the tarp down, full of cold rage. Henry had had come to the Territory at his urging, to ride for the Circle C brand, and he was dead because he’d made that choice. And the boy had barely been old enough to shave.

“Anybody have any ideas about who did this?” Holt asked, addressing the grim assembly circling the wagon.

“There was a fella quit the place early this morning,” someone said.

Holt scanned the crowd, looking for the speaker.

Danny Helgesen stepped forward. “Maybe it was nothin’, but he just signed on day before yesterday. Seemed to like the setup well enough until this morning. Folks move on right along, but this feller seemed a mite anxious.”

“Why this morning?” Holt asked.

Helgesen’s gaze slid to Jeb. “I’m just guessin’ here, but he was fine until McKettrick showed up.”

“His name,” Holt demanded.

“Jim Barry is what he put in the payroll book,” said the other man.

Holt turned to Jeb. “That sound familiar to you?”

Jeb shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see anybody I recognized.” He nodded toward the buckboard. Beneath it, drops of blood stained the ground. “Want me to take the bodies to town?”

“I’ll do it myself,” Holt answered. “You ride down to the Triple M and fetch Lizzie home.”

Jeb ran the back of one hand across his mouth, sighed. “All right,” he said. He hadn’t signed on to be a babysitter, but he had the decency not to say so. “Take somebody with you, though.”

Holt nodded, gestured to Helgesen. “Hitch up a fresh team,” he said. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes. The rest of you, get back to work. I’m not paying you to stand around.”

There was no muttering as the other men turned away. Helgesen went about unhitching the horses from the wagon, and Jeb helped. Holt went into the house for a rifle and a coat and a box of cartridges. When he came out again, ready to travel, Jeb was sitting on the porch steps, looking up at the cool blue sky.

“You really need a woman around here,” he said. There was an odd, grudging note in his voice.

Holt moved past him. “Unfortunately,” he replied, as he went by, “you’re right.”