SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits (217 page)

Mr. Johnson continued. “It was actually in the summer of ‘78 that a promise I made opened up the idea of moving. It didn’t make any sense ‘til a lot later, though.”

“So you stayed in Dodge City for ten years before you decided to head west? Why so long?”

“Let me start over...back in ‘78, Dodge City was still wild. Even with Marshall Earp there, plus his brothers Virgil and Morgan as deputies—there still was trouble in the street sometimes. There was talk all the time about there bein’ a reward for killing him—Marshall Earp, I mean. Only two tried, that I know of. Clay Allison, and a stranger named George Hoyt.”

“Hoyt? George Hoyt? Mr. Johnson, that’s it! That’s the connection! Tell me what happened—everything!” Her heartbeat thudded in her ears painfully. This was it. This had to be the key…
George Hoyt must be Jackson’s father.

“It was summer...July, I think, and I was walkin’ back to the store from the bank. This Hoyt fella came flyin’ past me on his horse, shootin’ his gun like a crazy man. It didn’t seem like he was really aiming at anything—just shootin’ blind. I remember thinkin’ he was makin’ a darn fool target for Marshall Earp like that.”

“So, he was there to kill the Marshall?”

“You know, I don’t think so. It was more like he wanted to get killed
by
the Marshall. When he started shootin’ in the windows, everyone hit the boardwalk or ducked in the alleys, myself included. I guess the Marshall heard the shots, because when I looked up, I saw him. It kinda felt like time stopped, or changed, or somethin’. Everything happened slow, kinda dream-like. Do you know what I mean?”

She nodded.
Oh, Mr. Johnson, if you only knew how well I know that feeling.

“All I could hear was gunshots and the sound of the horse running. Hoyt had that poor horse running up and down the street, back and forth as fast as that creature could run. He was makin’ an awful obvious target, like I said before.”

Taylor pictured the scene in her mind as she listened to Mr. Johnson’s recollection. George Hoyt’s behavior sounded more like a suicide ride, not an assassination attempt to gun down the famous Wyatt Earp.

“Then I saw the Marshall watching. I swear, I don’t think he blinked the whole time. It was like he was fightin’ himself—like he was mad about having to go ahead and shoot the crazy guy. He had to, though. When Hoyt started shootin’ the windows, there was nothin’ else to do. The Marshall was protecting the town.”

“So he shot him, then?”

“I saw Hoyt fall from his horse. One shot. He landed about twenty feet from me. The Marshall must have been almost a block away, I figure.” Mr. Johnson ran his hands through his hair, pausing a moment to stretch his neck.

“Was he dead?”

“No, he wasn’t dead when I got to him. But I could tell he was dyin’. I lifted his head and was surprised when his eyes opened. Then he smiled. I couldn’t believe he smiled at me. It...it was like he’d planned on dyin’ that day or something. He looked sort of happy. Relieved.”

“Do you really think he planned the whole thing? That he really wanted to get shot?”

“Yes, I do. That’s the strange thing. And the other strange thing is what he said to me. He asked me if I had a family, and I told him that I had a boy and a girl. Then he told me he’d just found out that he had a boy himself. I could tell that he was really happy about it, too. He stared at me and said that it was his biggest regret—not knowing his own boy, and not marryin’ the boy’s mother. He said she was the only woman who’d ever seen the good in him.”

Taylor looked down at her clenched hands, white-knuckled in her concern to absorb every word. “Was that all he said?”

“No. He also made me promise something. He’s dyin’ in the streets of Dodge City, and he uses the last of his strength to make me promise to cherish any family I was lucky enough to have.” Mr. Johnson shook his head in amazement at the tender words spoken by a crazed gunman.

Taylor tore her gaze from her hands and looked up at Mr. Johnson’s face, his eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

“And I promised him. That day, I promised him that I would cherish my family. My youngest boy, John, was born a couple years after that. He was sick a lot—had trouble breathing. He had the Asthma, the doctors told us. Then we heard about San Diego having the kind of weather that was perfect for getting John well. The air was good. And there was talk about healing spring water, too. I kept remembering my promise to George Hoyt and we decided to come out west—for my son’s sake.”

After a moment, the compulsion to share with him was too strong to resist. “I have a confession to make,” she whispered. “I saw you in the café your first day here.”

“You were here? In the café? Oh, was it you that sent us the breakfast?” Mr. Johnson shook his head in disbelief.

“Yes. You all looked so hungry, and I had the extra money. It wasn’t any trouble.”

“Well, I’ll be...I guess all I can say is thank you. Because of stayin’ and eatin’ that morning, our luck changed completely—but then you probably know all that, don’t you?”

She smiled at Mr. Johnson’s sincerity, pleased that everything had worked out so well for him and his family. But she was even more pleased that he had divulged the precious information about Jackson’s father.

At last she had the key. Now she had to figure out how to get Jackson to sit and listen to reason—to make him understand his father had not been murdered in cold blood. There was no murder to avenge. It was a very big problem to solve...would there be enough time?

“So, what do you think all this means, anyway?” Mr. Johnson gazed at her, then he reached out a hand and patted hers in a fatherly way.

Taylor looked deep into his eyes. “I need your help,” she began.

“Anything. Whatever I can do for you would be my pleasure. My family and I owe you a so much. Just ask.”

She lowered her gaze to Mr. Johnson’s large ham of a hand. Should she just tell him? Did she dare?

“Mr. Johnson. The story you just told me about George Hoyt is the information I needed to stop the murder of Wyatt Earp. I needed that information more than you could ever realize.”

“Murder? Who wants to murder Wyatt Earp?” He pushed his empty cup aside and scooted his chair closer to the table. “I didn’t expect to hear talk of murder,” he whispered, glancing around the café.

“Can you promise me that this conversation stays between us, at least for now?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly. “Tell me what you know, and how I can help.”

“George Hoyt’s son is here in San Diego. And he believes his father was murdered by Wyatt Earp—gunned down in cold blood. He plans to take revenge for his father’s death by killing Mr. Earp. And two men are helping him—two men he met in Dodge City before he came out here.”

Mr. Johnson met her words with a low whistle. “How did you get messed up in all this? How do you know about this plan?”

She hesitated, then spoke in a voice that she hoped would hide her anxiety, about both Jackson and the approaching deadline.

“George Hoyt’s son is Jackson Hoyt and he’s the bartender at the saloon across the street, which is owned by Wyatt Earp. I overheard a couple of conversations between Jackson and two other men—it was all pretty specific. The worst part, though, is I think something’s going to happen very soon. I need to get Jackson to listen to what really happened to his father—I think it’s the only way he might change his mind about going through with the killing. That’s why I’m here—that’s why I had to find the connection. The information you had is the key to stopping all of this from happening.”

Belief and heartfelt concern shone from Mr. Johnson’s eyes. “Well, I believe you. I can’t think of a reason why you’d concoct such a story. What can I do to help you?” he asked.

“I’m not really sure. I need to get Jackson to meet with me. That will be the hardest part—keeping him in the room long enough to hear me out. I truly believe that once he knows the facts, he won’t go through with killing Mr. Earp.” Taylor sighed. It sounded easy. But how would she convince Jackson to see her?

“My goodness...it is a bit complicated. How well do you know this Jackson?”

An unwelcome blush crept into Taylor’s cheeks. She stiffened, angry at herself for being embarrassed.

“You care for him, don’t you?”

Was it that obvious?
She thought carefully about Mr. Johnson’s question and he deserved the truth from her—at least about Jackson. But she wasn’t even sure what the truth was.

“Oh, my. You love him, don’t you, Miss Martin?” Mr. Johnson tenderly presented the only valid answer.

Taylor’s heart softened, transformed in the moment of recognition. It was her love for Jackson that had given her the determination to find the key. She must believe that her love for him would help her find the way to stop him from completing his mission to commit murder. What choice did she have?

Taking a deep breath, she finally answered Mr. Johnson. “Yes, I do love him. And I think he loves me—though at the moment, I’m sure he would disagree passionately.”

Grinning at her new found confidant and friend, relief flooded through her.

Mr. Johnson grinned back. “Well, now, that’s better. Now we need to figure out how to get you two together—at least long enough to make him hear you out. Where are you staying? Can we get him to come there, maybe?”

She told him about the note the messenger had brought to her at Sherman House, and how the message meant for her to stay away from Jackson and to not interfere with his plans—that was apparent. Mr. Johnson’s wide-eyed response to her living at a brothel caused her to immediately reassure him that her job at Ida’s was as her gardener, nothing more.

“Jackson hasn’t been there since I told him that I knew about the murder plot.”

“Where does he stay, normally?”

“As far as I know, he sleeps in a backroom at the saloon. Other than that, I don’t know.”

Mr. Johnson paused for a moment, then a devilish look came into his eyes. “I have an idea...”

Forever Rose: Chapter Twenty-Three

“The way I figure,” Mr. Johnson began, “Jackson won’t come to Sherman House if you’re there, right? But it is a pretty good place to get him alone. What do you say we send him a message that you’re gone? What are the chances that he would come on over—return to his pattern of staying there?”

Taylor smiled at the simplistic plan. “Pretty good, I’d say, especially if he believes that I’m gone. It’s perfect. If I can get him alone, and if he’ll listen to me, I think I can convince him.”

“That’s a lot of
ifs
, Miss Martin.”

Still, every fiber of her being told her the plan could work. It would work.
It had to work.

“I’ll get some paper and a pen from my wife’s desk. We might as well get things started.”

She watched Mr. Johnson disappear through the doorway. What a strange sequence of events. One father so affected by another father’s dying words that he uproots his entire family. She had to make Jackson see the big picture—convince him that his reasons were no longer valid for killing Wyatt Earp, and that he was no longer responsible for avenging his father’s death. He would just have to believe her.

There was an eagerness in Mr. Johnson’s eyes when he returned to the table, carefully setting paper and pen in front of Taylor.

“Make sure you say something convincing. He’s bound to be a little suspicious,” he said with quiet emphasis. “When you’re finished, bring the paper to me in the kitchen. Then you go back, empty your room of your things—get rid of any sign of yourself at Sherman House. I’ll wait an hour, and then I’ll deliver the envelope myself.”

“Right.” She stared at the blank page as Mr. Johnson’s footsteps headed back to the kitchen.
Right
. What could she say that would convince him she was gone?

Just get to the point—that she’s going away somewhere. San Francisco, maybe. He just might think that was her “up the coast” home.

She hated to lie to him, even in the note. Maybe she should just  be vague, let him draw his own conclusions.

Deliberately omitting the customary “dear” at the beginning of the note, Taylor wrote:

Jackson,

By the time
you read this note, I will no longer be staying in my room at Ida’s. Your secret is safe with me.

She silently re-read the words. Vague enough to maintain her desire to not lie, but, with any luck, leading enough to make him believe she was gone.

It would have to do.

Relieved, Taylor signed “Rose” at the bottom of the letter and waited a few moments for the ink to dry. Carefully she folded the paper and inserted it into the square envelope, then wrote Jackson’s name on the front.

“I’m finished,” she called out.

As she handed the envelope to Mr. Johnson a moment later, she smiled and they hugged each other for luck.

“Don’t worry, Miss Martin. I have a good feeling about this. You head on back, now, and hide any trace of you in that house. And try to be patient. He might not come over tonight, you know.”

“I know. And thank you for listening to my story. I’m so glad we at least came up with something to try. Now it’s up to me to convince Jackson to see things differently.”

“Somehow, I have a feeling you can be pretty convincing.” Mr. Johnson chuckled. “And besides, you’ve got a level head on them shoulders. You’ll do just fine.”

“I’d better go,” she said, “but I’d like to take a couple loaves of bread back with me, if they’re cool enough.”

“Got two already wrapped and waitin’ for ya.” Mr. Johnson handed Taylor two loaves wrapped in brown paper. “Now you scoot on back home.”

Both glanced at the clock. In an hour, Mr. Johnson would deliver the envelope and Jackson would read her note. Taylor said a silent prayer for success. Perhaps a certain guardian angel would tip the scales and nudge Jackson into believing she had truly gone away.

* * *

Jackson stood behind the bar drying the seemingly endless stack of freshly washed beer mugs. Glad to have mindless tasks to fill the afternoon, he was content to straighten row upon row of glasses and polish the bar’s surface until it gleamed like the mirrors he had cleaned that morning.