Untamed Journey (14 page)

J
ackson came awake
instantly at an unfamiliar sound in the night. He kept his eyes
closed and his body perfectly still until his instincts identified
the sounds as Ruth. He glanced down the length of his body until he
could see her restless form, curled upon itself for warmth.

He barely felt the near-freezing temperatures
as he untangled his large frame from his bedroll and quietly went
about stoking the fire. It was almost pitch black in the cave and
Jackson silently cursed his clumsy efforts to re-start the fire
with no moonlight. He got a spark on his third try, then fed more
tinder to the fire.

He turned to glance at Ruth again, only to
see her thrash about more wildly than before, as she started
mumbling in her sleep. From the tone of her voice, she seemed
agitated, so he reached over to gently calm her.

At the unexpected touch, Ruth bolted upright
and nearly knocked herself out cold on the short overhang of rock
they were huddled underneath.

Jackson remained perfectly still, showing
both hands palms up in the faint light shed by the fire.

“It’s Jackson, Ruth. You’re safe. It’s just a
bad dream.”

At the sound of Jackson’s now familiar voice,
Ruth’s body visibly relaxed. He could see her wild eyes settle on
him and instantly calm in recognition.

“Bad dream?” He continued speaking, since the
sound of his voice seemed to have a soothing effect on her. “Can’t
imagine they’re too good, after all you’ve been through. I’ll add
some more wood to this fire so you can warm up.”

At her jerky nod of understanding, Jackson
felt free to move behind her to collect a few more logs for the
fire.

“Sorry I woke you,” Ruth mumbled, running her
hand through her tousled hair. “I was dreaming I was back on that
train, and when it crashed I woke up.”

Her voice shook when she spoke, and she
clamped down hard on her tongue in disgust. She hated the fact that
Jasper Smith could still make her scared, even from the grave. But
she’d get over it soon enough. She almost never dreamed about the
War and hiding from marauding soldiers with her sickly mother. So
she knew she could will Smith out of her thoughts, too – given
enough time.

Jackson knelt down next to Ruth’s shaking
form and gently took her hand in between his much larger ones. “Let
me warm you up, Ruth. You’re still shivering, even with the fire.
And we can’t afford a bout of pneumonia.” He knew well enough the
difference between shivering from cold and shaking from fear, but
figured her pride and modesty would better accept the former
excuse.

At her nod of acceptance, Jackson
matter-of-factly settled his bedroll behind hers, placing her
between the crackling fire and the heat of his body. He pulled her
in close, and wrapped his left arm around her, hoping she’d find
some comfort in his touch.

Ruth stopped shivering almost immediately,
and basked like a lost pup in the first human embrace she’d felt
since her mother died.

Trying to put her at ease enough to fall
asleep, Jackson began a running commentary of his life. He’d found
that the simple act of sharing your family with someone and finding
common ground could gain a person’s trust. As a lawman for ten
years, he’d spent as much time talking to prisoners as brandishing
his firearm.

“The very first night I spent in this dugout
was with my brother, Emmett. We were both practically kids when we
came through here. My father was always testing our tracking skills
and sending us out hunting on our own. It was the middle of winter,
and we’d been chasing the trail of what turned out to be a doe. She
had a fawn with her, and we were young enough and not quite hungry
enough to shoot.”

“Better times.” Ruth’s quiet voice hinted at
memories of times she
had
been hungry enough to shoot the
mother and offspring both.

“Better times, for sure.” Jackson agreed. “So
after wasting half the day with nothing to show for it, my
headstrong little brother stomped off in frustration. He walked
right over a not quite frozen creek. He was soaked through and
night was coming on. I was a bit lost on top of everything else,
though I’d never admit that to my brother.”

She smiled and quickly promised Jackson she’d
never reveal his secret to Emmett.

“How did you find this place, then?” Ruth
asked.

“Pure, dumb luck,” Jackson replied. “I was
looking for someplace to warm the kid up and stumbled across some
old tracks. I followed them, not knowing where they’d lead. But as
luck would have it, they led straight here. I had a small hatchet
my father always insisted we carry, winter or summer, and spent
half an hour chopping off any branch I could reach. The whole time
I was cutting, my brother was running circles in his long
underwear, trying to stave off frost bite.”

“The bright red kind, you mean?” Ruth
couldn’t help asking, nearly laughing out loud at the picture of
Jackson’s brother as a lanky youth cursing his freezing fate.

“The same,” Jackson replied. “I finally got a
fire going, and we stayed put all night, afraid to let the fire go
out, but too proud to share a bedroll. As soon as the sun came up,
we chopped more firewood for the next man on the trail and tucked
tail for home. Hungrier than when we left, but too grateful for
Mother’s hot coffee to mind the ribbing from our daddy.”

She wondered if leaving firewood for the next
man were really a common western custom or if Jackson was the rare
man to have started it. She would have liked to ask someone, but
realized had no one.

Aside from Jackson and the old couple on the
train, whom she’d probably never see again, Ruth didn’t know a
living soul out West. Perhaps she should start learning more about
her unexpected protector.

“Where does your family come from?” she
asked, now completely at ease – and considerably warmer – in
Jackson’s arms.

“New Orleans,” he replied. “My mother, that
is. My father was the son of a prospector. He thinks he was born
somewhere in the California Territory, but no one could ever say
for sure. His mother died in childbirth, so we don’t know much
about her. His father had him by his side, panning in the early
days of California gold fever. Then later they wandered through
Nevada looking for silver. My father grew up on the trail, but had
his fill of mining when his father died in a cave in. Daddy was
just fifteen, but he could find his way out of a pitch black mine
through instinct, so he joined the army and became a scout. What he
didn’t know about the earth above ground, he quickly learned at the
side of some of the best Indian trackers alive.”

“How did he meet your mother, if she was in
New Orleans?” Ruth asked.

“Pure dumb luck, if you were to ask my
mother. Fate, if you were to ask my father.”

At Ruth’s raised eyebrows, he continued. “The
story goes that my father was invited to New Orleans by Colonel
Nathan Childers for saving the life of his favorite nephew. My
mother was a distant cousin to the Colonel, and was present at a
dinner to honor my father. He claimed as many dances as propriety
would allow, and one more besides, but he knew he wouldn’t be
allowed to court her formally. The Colonel might have been in his
debt, but he still saw my father as the son of a failed miner with
limited prospects.”

“So what did he do?” Ruth prompted.

“He fell off her balcony rescuing her prized
South American parrot, or so the story goes. My mother nursed him
back to health in her father’s house, since he’d been injured
rescuing her beloved pet and was without family in New Orleans. My
mother always accused my father of taking that fall on purpose. My
father would claim she’d let that damn bird out deliberately, to
trap his handsome self into marriage.”

Ruth laughed at the story and settled more
comfortably into Jackson’s warm embrace. Propriety seemed a cold
companion this night, and she drifted off to sleep in Jackson’s
arms, too weary to listen to the rules of a world she’d left
behind.

He watched Ruth nod off, feeling much like
his father must have felt on the fateful day he met Jackson’s
mother.

J
ackson set about
chopping the last of the firewood needed to replenish the shelter’s
standing woodpile, glancing at Ruth every few moments, assuring
himself she was close enough for him to protect. The weather had
cleared overnight and they weren’t the only ones on the trail that
knew of this shelter. He smiled at his actions, thinking he hadn’t
ever met a woman who needed less protecting than Ruth Jameson.

From his first – very mistaken impression –
Jackson had assumed she was just another naive city girl from back
East, chasing a foolish dream of the West while fleeing a war-torn
land that had no more dreams of its own to offer. Although he’d
been attracted to her from the first, he’d been worried that life
on his remote ranch wouldn’t suit her. But he’d been amazed at what
he’d discovered in Ruth. She’d never shirked one difficult task
he’d put before her, nor shed one tear through days of hard riding
with men at their heels.

And Jackson hadn’t missed the sidelong
glances she’d been sending his way. He supposed the timing was way
off, but if he’d learned anything during the War, it was to take
advantage of his time above ground. He’d been close to death too
many times to count, and he wasn’t going to miss the chance to lay
eyes on a beautiful woman.

He watched Ruth care for their horses, and
walk back toward him with their bedrolls in hand. Even half-dead on
her feet, she walked like a woman should walk - all curves and
swaying hips.

He shook his head at his good fortune, not
sparing more than a passing thought about the unknown fiancé.
Jackson had known his share of seamen, and figured even if this
character had actually proposed or his family had on his behalf,
he’d make a lousy husband. Any man who spent ten months away from
hearth and home was bound to find trouble in a skirt somewhere
else. And never mind the trials the wife and kids would face on
their own in a city as raw as San Francisco.

Jackson figured he had a hell of a lot more
to offer Ruth right here in Colorado Territory. And some wandering
sailor she’d never even met was no threat to the seduction Jackson
was already half-forming in his mind. He’d win over Ruth first;
then deal with her family’s hurt pride over a broken
engagement.

M
ike and Emmett set a
hard pace for the blacksmith’s next job and arrived at the Waterman
Ranch in less than two hours. It was only seven o‘clock in the
morning, but the ranch was humming with activity. It didn’t take
the lawmen long to locate the visiting blacksmith, who had set up
temporary shop behind a fallow pasture. They hailed the man by name
as they rode up alongside the well-maintained fencing.

“Svenson Mars?” Emmett shouted above the
hammering of the burly man.

“Who wants to know?” The blacksmith shouted
back, never missing a beat as he finished nailing a new shoe onto a
nervous young colt.

“The Widow Thornton sends her regards. She
thought you might be able to help us. We‘re on the trail of three
wanted men that might have passed through here, two, maybe three
days ago.”

“What are they wanted for?” Sven checked each
newly shod hoof for perfection before untying the skittish colt and
sending him back to the herd with a slap to the rump.

“Murder and theft,” Mike replied. “They
robbed the train six days ago, near Bakeman’s Pass. Cowards killed
two passengers and a Marshal. Engineer’s dead too. They damaged the
tracks so bad it’ll be weeks before another train can go
through.”

Sven looked Mike and Emmett over carefully.
“What’s it to you who got robbed? I know most of the Law around
these parts, and I‘ve never seen you two.”

“Beauregard Jackson’s my brother. We‘ve been
on the trail of these men for three months, and Mike and I here
have been deputized for the duration,” Emmett explained as he
handed over his badge to the cautious blacksmith.

“Nice workmanship,” Sven commented as he
handed the forged metal star back to Emmett. “But I heard Jackson
retired from the Marshal Service.”

“You heard right,” Emmett conceded. “He’s
doing a favor for our cousin, who works for the railroad. They‘re a
might upset at this latest string of robberies, just as they‘re
getting ready to lay new track. I have a letter from the Widow
Thornton, vouching for us.” Emmett gestured to his vest pocket,
waiting for permission to approach the blacksmith with the
letter.

Sven had already judged the two before him as
decent folk with clear eyes and steady hands. He‘d crossed paths
with enough liars and thieves in his time to spot their kind
quickly enough.

He read the letter anyway.

“Looks like the good Widow vouches for you.
Tell me how I can help.” Sven gestured them over to the fire. He
had a coffee pot hanging next to his tools, which were kept heated
at all times, ready for use.

“Much obliged.” Emmett and Mike dismounted
and accepted the coffee with gratitude.

“The Widow thought you might know something
about these men we‘ve been trailing. There’s three altogether.
One’s a big man on a brown mare - pale skin, pale hair. One looks
to be a Mexican, thin, about Mike’s height. He rides a black horse.
Last one we‘ve never seen. We‘ve just tracked his mount - brown,
with two white feet in the back. He’s maybe sixteen hands. He looks
to have thrown a shoe about two miles outside of town.”

Sven nodded his understanding. “I‘ve seen
that third man. He came by my shop in the middle of the night, two
nights past. He needed a new shoe on his gelding. Woke me up in the
middle of the night with a gun in my face, he did. If he‘d been
smarter, he would have waited three hours, come in at sunup like
normal folks, and handed me his dollar. I wouldn’t have paid him
any mind.”