Silken Dreams (16 page)

“As Mrs. Magillicuddy,” he added slowly.

“As Mrs. Magillicuddy.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. When he still hesitated, she pressed her advantage, sensing that he was weakening to the idea. “Someone on the Star Council knows who you are and probably what you look like. Even if we tried to disguise you as an old man, there’s a chance they could recognize you. But they won’t look twice at a woman. It’s the only way.”

Ethan took a deep breath, considering the plan from all sides. Although he hated the idea of flouncing through town in women’s clothing, he had to admit Lettie’s thinking was sound. By dressing in skirts, a bonnet, and veil, he could walk through Madison, listen to the theories being bandied about, visit the sites of the latest robberies. And maybe, just maybe, he could begin tracking the person responsible for putting him in this mess. But…
dress as a woman?

“I won’t see you killed, Ethan McGuire.”

He looked down to find Lettie staring at him with sober eyes. Desperate eyes.

Not for the first time, Ethan realized that this woman cared about him. Perhaps just a little too much.

With a sigh of acceptance, he reached to draw her into his arms, pulling her tightly against him. She wrapped her arms about his neck, clinging to him as if she feared he could be discovered at that very moment.

And Ethan found himself wondering what it was about this woman that made him consider abandoning his masculine dignity… just so that he could prove himself honorable in her eyes.

Darkness hung about Jacob’s shoulders like an inky mantle, pressing in upon him with a relentlessness he found difficult to withstand. A few moments before, he’d met Gerald Stone at the old mill. But rather than lead Jacob directly to the Star’s whereabouts, Gerald had pulled an old flour sack over Jacob’s head and led his horse into the night.

Within minutes, Jacob’s stomach had become a knot of apprehension. Within a quarter of an hour, his hands were icy, filmed with a clammy layer of sweat that even the leather of his gloves could not absorb. The horses moved at an achingly slow gait. If it weren’t for the gentle rock of the saddle, Jacob would have wondered if they were moving at all.

For a few miles, he had tried to map in his head exactly where they were going. He’d been able to trace their path back to the main road, and then south, but Gerald Stone began to lead their mounts in a tangled maze of directions, until Jacob had no idea where they were or where they were headed. His only comfort was the occasional gurgle of the creek and the lazy
grup-crup
of the frogs. But soon even that comfort seemed hazy and far removed.

Without warning, the gait of his horse grew even slower, then came to a complete stop. Drawing a deep breath of air that was tainted slightly with the powdery smell of flour and the stench of his own sweat, Jacob reached to lift the hood from his head but was stopped by the metal of Stone’s revolver pressing none too gently against his throat.

“No. Leave it on.”

Jacob’s hands spread wide and drifted back to his sides.

“Dismount.”

Grasping the pommel of his saddle, Jacob swung from his horse, stumbling slightly when he stepped onto rocky soil. He found himself adrift in confusion when someone led his horse away, and Jacob was left alone and defenseless in a world of black shadows and hazy imaginings. Sweat began to trickle between his shoulder blades with a prickling unease. He wondered how much longer this would go on before someone explained what this was all about.

Suddenly, his revolver was whipped from his holster. Jacob whirled, reaching out to grasp the person responsible, but his hands encountered nothing but empty air.

Gerald’s voice floated to him through the darkness. “No use reaching for ghosts,” he said. Jacob heard the crunch of footsteps against the rocky ground. Then he was taken by the elbow and led forward.

“Step up.”

Lifting his foot, Jacob hesitated a moment before his boot tip encountered the edge of a step and he climbed up.

“Again.”

Jacob complied, a little more easily this time.

“Now move forward.”

Resisting the urge to feel his way with his hands, Jacob allowed himself to be led through a splintered doorway and into what he assumed was some type of meeting room. The moment he crossed inside, something within him tightened, warning him that he was not alone but was being watched by a group of people. He sensed their gazes boring heavily into him from all sides, and Jacob felt the sweat began to bead his face and pool beneath his shirt.

The butt of Gerald’s revolver against his ribs urged him to continue walking. After a few steps, a pull upon his arm drew him to a stop.

“Sit.”

The scrape of a chair being dragged along the floor came from behind, and Jacob stumbled when it bumped into the back of his knees. He thumped heavily into the chair, then straightened. Unconsciously, he moved his hands to his sides, keeping them slightly away from his body should it prove necessary for him to drag the hood from his face and dodge out the door.

“Jacob Grey?”

Jacob stiffened at the sound of a deep raspy voice, one that seemed vaguely familiar—yet he couldn’t pinpoint where he had heard it before.

When he didn’t answer, the voice came again.

“You are Jacob Grey, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Marshall of Madison City?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Three months.”

There was a murmur of voices, and Jacob sensed their disapproval of his lack of experience.

“And how did you obtain that position?”

A surge of fury cut through Jacob’s fear. “Now, see here!”

“Answer the question!”

The tip of a revolver was pressed none too subtly against his temple.

Stiffening, Jacob muttered, “I was appointed after the death of Morely Shipton.”

“That’s enough.”

The murmuring came again, but too softly for Jacob to hear beyond his own panting breaths.

“Jacob Grey,” the raspy voice began again, “are you familiar with the spurt of robberies that have been occurring in this vicinity for the last three months and those that occurred in this area of the state nearly five years ago?”

Jacob slowly straightened, gritting his teeth. “Yes.”

“Are you familiar with the methods used by the thief?”

“Yes.”

“You believe these methods to be the work of whom?”

Jacob hesitated.

“Do you believe these robberies to be the work of the Gentleman Bandit?”

Once again, Jacob hesitated, unsure why he felt it would be better to remain silent, but keeping his own counsel all the same.

“Jacob Grey, are you aware that two lawmen have been hurt while trying to apprehend this man?”

Anger and frustration shuddered through Jacob’s system at the other man’s words. Jeb Clark had
died
tonight.

“Are you aware—”

“Yes!”

Someone grasped Jacob’s hand and he jerked free, but the unknown person caught his wrist and held it with an iron grip, pushing it down. Jacob tried to wrench away, wondering what he was being forced to do. When his fingers encountered a nubby flat surface, his brow creased in confusion, and his eyes strained to see through the tough weave of the flour sack. Although a faint light seeped through the cloth, it came from behind, offering him nothing of value—no blocks of shape, no hazy shadows.

“Jacob Grey, you now have your hand upon the cover of the Holy Bible. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Jacob felt a rush of confusion at the familiar oath. “Yes.”

“Are you aware that in breaking your oath, you will be held accountable with your very life?”

The variation of the oath caused Jacob to pause before answering. “Yes.”

“Do you know who is responsible for these robberies?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Once more he hesitated before answering. “Ethan McGuire.”

“Jacob Grey, have you ever been associated with a group known as the Star Council of Justice?”

A sickness swirled in Jacob’s stomach and he began to shake. How should he answer? If he weren’t in the presence of the Star, admitting his involvement would mean death. If he
were
in the presence of the Star Council, the penalty for breaking the code of silence… would also mean death.

“Answer.”

Jacob remained stubbornly silent. He jerked when the barrel of a revolver was placed against the side of his temple.

“Answer!”

Growling deep in his throat, Jacob lashed out, jabbing his captor in the groin and grasping the revolver in one hand while ripping the flour sack from his head with the other. In one instinctive motion, he was on his feet, the revolver aimed and ready.

Then his eyes adjusted to the light and he grew still when he found himself in the company of seven exhausted, dusty men who had crowded into the cramped keeping room of the abandoned Johnston farmhouse.

“Sit down, Jacob.” The voice came again, much more warmly this time.

His gaze swerved across the room to connect with that of Judge Harry Krupp, the man who had been interrogating him.

Very slowly, Jacob sank into the chair, but he did not relinquish his hold on the revolver.

Judge Krupp pushed himself to his feet and crossed toward Jacob. His white hair gleamed in the dim lamplight, making him appear more of an elderly grandfather than the “hanging judge” he was reported to be.

“Gerald, take a seat,” the judge ordered.

Behind Jacob, Gerald Stone gasped for air, bending his body at an awkward angle and swearing. “Dammit all to hell, Jacob,” he muttered, hobbling toward the nearest chair. “Why’d you have to hit me?”

Jacob’s gaze once again swept across the room. He recognized each of the men present: Walt Moore, a lawyer from Petesville; Slim Garson, a deputy from Dewey; Tony Lambert, Lincoln’s only attorney; Judge Garson Miller, from the circuit; Thaad Cusper, marshal from Libbyville; and Judge Harry Krupp, also from the circuit. And the community men: Silas Gruber and Ned Abernathy.

“We apologize for the theatrics, Grey. But not many people are allowed an introduction to the governors of the Star. We have to make sure those who do are honorable enough to keep our identities a secret”—he leveled a piercing gaze in Jacob’s direction—“but not so honorable as to reveal our identities to a United States marshal.”

Since the judge waited, Jacob nodded his head in confirmation of the warning.

“Getting back to our original purposes: A message was left for you at the old oak explaining that Ethan McGuire had been found guilty and should pay for his crimes.” Krupp continued in an almost negligent manner, his voice calm and low, “Judging by what you’ve just said, you agree that Ethan McGuire is responsible for the robberies.”

Though Jacob felt a twinge of uneasiness, he stated, “Yes.”

“And Jeb’s death?”

Jacob paused. “Yes.”

The judge took a deep breath and nodded in approval. “You’ve been a devoted member of the Star for what—five years now?”

“Six.”

Once again, the judge paused and turned to his companions. “Gentlemen, your decisions. All in favor.”

The room echoed with a chorus of resounding “Ayes.”

“All opposed.”

Silence.

The judge turned.

“Jacob Grey, would you willingly defend the secrets of the Star with your life?”

A slight chill seemed to feather down Jacob’s spine, then a slow realization. “Yes.”

“Would you take a blood oath to that effect?”

“Yes,” he stated firmly, thinking of Jeb. It was Jeb Clark who had introduced him to the Star Council, who had taught him the secrets of the lightning-blasted oak.

“Jacob Grey, you have been nominated to replace Jeb Clark on the Star Council of Justice. Do you accept?”

Jacob straightened ever so slightly in his chair, and his eyes slipped over each member of the group. A powerful combination of anger and revenge began to tumble through his veins.

“Yes. I accept.”

Only then did Jacob taste the metallic bitterness of foreboding lingering on his own tongue.

Dawn streaked across the sky, scarlet and heavy, with thick sultry clouds. Feeling the first insistent fingers of light pressing against her eyelids, Lettie blinked and snuggled a little more deeply into her pillow, regretting the fact that another dawn meant another day at the boardinghouse: cooking, cleaning, washing, milking. Once again, the chickens would have to be fed and the eggs washed. There was bacon to fry in the morning, sandwiches to make in the afternoon, and vegetables to scrub in the evening.

A heavy sigh pushed against her chest and escaped in a slow puff of air. As always, morning was the worst time of day for Lettie. She buried her nose into the pillow in regret, wishing that she could have the time, just once, to lie in bed and linger until the sun had completely risen.

“Lettie?”

From the door below, she heard her mother’s soft tap and she jerked completely awake. “Coming!” she called. Despite her efforts, the lack of enthusiasm in her response was evident.

Rolling onto her back, Lettie pushed her hair away from her face and rose to a sitting position. Almost immediately, as had become her habit, her eyes swung to the man who slept in a nest of blankets and sheets on the opposite side of the room.

Her arms wrapped around her legs and she rested her chin on her knees. She had delayed moving Ethan into his room until she could prepare him for his new role. A smile flitted across her features when she noted the way Ethan’s neatly trimmed hair lay closely cropped around his ears and neck and a little longer on top, emphasizing the bold bone structure of his face. Although a night’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, the strong lines were free of the darker whiskers, which had been there until last night.

Yes indeed, her Ethan was a handsome man.

Lettie’s smile flickered and disappeared beneath a warm wave of awareness. Last night her fingers had been allowed some small measure of freedom as she’d wrapped a bath sheet around his shoulders and trimmed his hair to a more fashionable length. Time had seemed to pass as slowly as an inchworm measuring a stalk. With each moment that moved by, something warm and infinitely sensual had begun to simmer between them in the hot summer night until the very air seemed heavy and static, like the tangible beginnings of a lightning storm. Soon, Lettie had barely been able to maintain her grip on the shears. And when Ethan drew her between his legs to hold her tightly against his chest, she hadn’t demurred. She’d simply threaded her fingers through his hair and bowed to hold him tightly against her.

For long moments they’d remained that way, remembering their fear when the posse had come and pushing aside their fear for the days ahead. Somehow, without really intending it, the bond between them had strengthened, becoming an almost tangible thing that drew them together as surely as a spider’s web. Then Ethan had drawn back and looked into her eyes. Despite the dim lamplight, despite the gloom of evening, Lettie had felt something open and blossom inside of her at the expressions she found there: strength, desire… hunger. And she’d known, deep in her heart, that it would be only a matter of time before she and Ethan became joined in the most intimate manner possible.

Now Lettie blinked, allowing her eyes to slip from Ethan’s jaw to the breadth of his shoulders. He’d flung an arm above his head during his sleep, and her eyes lovingly traced the firm contour made by his ribs as they swept in a beguiling arc to the narrowness of his stomach.