Jackson's Woman Page 10

“What’s he trying to do, fatten me up for the kill?”

  Susannah gave her a quizzical glance. “Reckon Mr. Jackson just wants you to build up your strength. Seein’s how you’re so sickly. Ain’t many men who’d treat a woman so special.”

  Feeling the sting of her gentle rebuke, Vera nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t mean anything except... it’s really too much food. Can you join me?”

  The barmaid’s face lit with pleasure. “Thanks anyway, hon, but I’ve got to get back downstairs. Now that the posse’s back there’s plenty of thirsty men awaitin’ my attention.”

  Vera picked up a drumstick and bit into the crunchy coating. “Mmm. Delicious. The posse. They, um, didn’t find the girl’s trail?”

  “Nope, she’s disappeared like a steam offen a hot kettle. Just gone.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” Vera murmured as she forked up a healthy bite of potatoes.

  “Reckon you’re right at that. Ask me, the town’s better off without that no-account Rafe Wilson anyway. Course, Sally don’t agree. Rafe used to bring her lots of presents.”

  “Sally?”

  “The one with the bottle-yeller hair. Poker dealer. Her and Rafe was friends.”

  “Really? I thought he was married”

  Susannah laughed, holding her arms across her stomach. “Oh, honey, you’re a pure pleasure. Since when has marriage stopped a man from bringing ribbons and bolts of fabric to a gal he fancies? For a gal who works in saloons, you’re such an innocent.”

  Innocent? No, but out of step with the times, yes. Once again Vera realized how flimsy was the fabric of her cover story. Sooner or later one of her slips was going to cause someone to ask questions. Questions she couldn’t answer.

  Wiping a bead of moisture from her eyes, Susannah patted Vera’s arm. “Well, gotta go, hon. You’re a prize, you are.”

  She started for the door and paused in midstride. “Ooops. Almost forgot.” Returning to the bedside, she pulled a small brown bottle from a pocket in her voluminous skirt. “Mr. Jackson says you’re supposed to take this tonic the doctor ordered. Five drops in this glass of water.”

  Vera made a dismissive gesture. “Just set it down...I’ll take it later. Probably just a placebo anyway.”

  “Don’t know what a placebo is but Mr. Jackson said you was supposed to drink it now. Whilst I’m here, then I have to bring the bottle back to him.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud! I’m not a child, I’ll take my medicine when I’m ready.”

  Susannah shook her head, her almost pretty features jutting in determination. “Nope. You gotta take it now. Else Mr. Jackson said he’d come up here and pour it down your gullet.”

  His attempt to intimidate her by threat would normally cause Vera to plant her feet and refuse the elixir—no matter how much she needed the medication. But the knowledge that she still owed Jericho an apology, combined with the quivery sensation that kept her off-kilter whenever he was nearby, was enough to make her capitulate. She’d deal with Jericho and these worthless patent medicines in the morning, after she’d finished Verity’s journal and had a better idea how to proceed.

  Shrugging with defeat, she flicked a thumb toward the water tumbler. “All right, fill her up.”

  Susannah carefully measured five drops of a vile-smelling green liquid. The water clouded and a virulent-looking scum floated on top.

  Vera sniffed and drew back. “I’m not putting that stuff into my body. It might be lethal.”

  “Then I’ll fetch Mr. Jackson.”

  With a growl, Vera snatched the glass from her hand and downed the contents. The potion tasted as venal as it looked and she quickly chased it with another bite of fried chicken.

  The red-haired barmaid clucked with satisfaction and slipped the bottle of tonic back into her pocket. Vera could hear her chuckling as she closed the outside door.

  Wiping her greasy fingers on the cloth napkin on the dinner tray, she poured a fresh glass of water and picked up Verity’s journal.

  February 19, 1896. The baby started coming the other night. It weren’t like the other boys. This one come hard and was taking too long. Mama didn’t want me to leave her so I had to send Tad to fetch the doctor. Seemed like forever before they got back. I was so worried.

  Doc delivered the baby, another boy. His mouth was open and he was hollering, just like his daddy. But Mama was still sickly afterward. Doc told me to fetch Rafe.

  Vera stifled a yawn. She’d spent so much time in bed that her body thought it was tired. What she needed was to go outside and jog a couple of miles. She smiled, imagining Jericho’s expression if he found her racing through the packed dirt street. He’d have her committed on the spot.

  It was hard to believe that only a few days ago she seriously considered him a lunatic—or worse. In such a short time he’d become such an important element in her life. So important, in fact, that it frightened her.

  Rubbing her eyes, she pushed aside disturbing thoughts of Jericho and focused again on the journal.

  I rode Bessie, the mule, up the mountain to the new mine only to find out that Rafe was over to the Balbriggan. Fellas said he was elk hunting. Nothing to do but go after him. Three more miles. Lordy, was it bitter cold. No snow, but the coldness near about froze my bones solid.

  Course, Rafe wasn’t there neither. Even looked in the old mine shaft. Nothing in there but creaky timbers and that old silver shoe. That’s when the snow started coming down. Hard. Barely made it back to the line shaft. Had to stay all night and half the next day. Weren’t much to eat but a couple scraps of hardtack the mice hadn’t got to.

  Couldn’t leave Bessie in the storm so I brought her inside with me. Sure smelled bad in that old shack by morning.

  Vera dropped the journal to her chest and yawned. Reading Verity’s journal again was like taking a walk through history. So much hurt accepted so matter-of-factly. The girl’s make-do attitude was a characteristic lost by so many of Vera’s own generation.

  Yet she couldn’t help mourn Verity’s lost innocence. She should have been courting boys, going to dances and choosing new dresses, not riding bone weary through the wintery nights in search of her drunken, no-good stepfather. How hard the girl’s life was, going to bed hungry more times than not Vera’s nose wrinkled, yet she couldn’t suppress a smile at the image of Verity sharing her humble lodgings with a mule.

  Pressing back another yawn, Vera delved again into Verity’s intriguing saga.

  When I finally got back to the house yesterday, Rafe was waiting. Hollered at me ’cause I wasn’t helping Mama and tried to hit me. Him being so drunk made it easy for me to get away but I had to lay low in the barn most of the day. I’m so tired of being cold, hungry and scared. Maybe one of these days I’ll grab that silver shoe and just go away. Mama says it’s dangerous but I don’t know what could be worse than living here with Rafe. Although the new baby’s real sweet.

  The journal slid from Vera’s fingers as a heavy lump congealed in her throat. That poor girl; living in the shadow of a bully like Rafe Wilson. She had to clear Verity’s name so the young woman could live in peace with her mother’s people. It was the only chance she had to lead a decent life. Vera frowned.

  Where was the real Verity? Vera’s eyes felt like they’d been cemented shut. She couldn’t recall ever being so tired. She needed to think about Verity and her trek through the wilderness and about those silver shoes. Did the Apache have a similar legend to the Cinderella fairy tale?

  If the silver slippers fit Verity, would she be swept away to a place where she’d find Chief Charming and life happily ever after? Vera sighed. There was so much she’d like to share with her young ancestor; despite Vera’s own self-reliance, wasn’t she, too, always looking—hoping—to meet her own Chief Charming?

  And why did Jericho Jackson’s visage leap to Vera’s mind whenever she thought about happily-ever-after?

  Well, fairy tales were myths and legends—not real life—and the sooner Vera got her own fair
y tale shoved firmly into place the sooner she would be able to concentrate on getting out of this time. Alive, with any luck.

  Unable to fend off sleep any longer, Vera blew out the lantern and drifted into a restive slumber, her dreams filled with barefoot girls and snow and silver slippers. And dark-eyed men who dressed in black.

  IT WAS THE ICY WIND seeping into her bones that brought Vera to a state of near wakefulness. At first she thought the dream of Verity wandering lost in the snow had become too real. But the cold was too deep, too penetrating to be a dream.

  Vera nestled deep beneath the heavy feather comforter. Her face was numb yet she felt strangely alert—even though her sand-filled eyes begged for more sleep.

  What had awakened her? Had something in Verity’s journal nudged her subconscious?

  A sound, so slight she almost missed it, penetrated her sleepy fog. A mouse? Vera hated the furry little —rodents. Eyes still closed, she listened intently for the scratching of tiny claws on the planked wood floor.

  Something brushed against the foot of the bed.

  Something much larger than a mouse, something huge. Human-size. Jericho? Willing her weary eyes to open, she stared into the darkness, trying to discern a shape, a reason for her awakening, out of the shadowy recesses.

  There! Hadn’t something moved in that corner? Something almost hidden in the shadow cast by the wardrobe.

  Focusing intently until her eyes burned from the effort, Vera almost decided the movement was a leftover fragment of dream when she sensed another motion. This time she was certain; a large shape was half hidden in the recess beside the mahogany bureau.

  “Jericho?” Her voice was a weak croak in the stillness.

  No one answered yet, but she had the strong impression of another presence in the room. A malevolent presence that chilled her blood.

  The curtain fluttered and another gust of frigid air swept through the bedroom. Vera absolutely remembered closing that window before climbing into bed. A native of Southern California, she wasn’t accustomed to these crisp wintry nights.

  Someone had opened the window.

  Someone was here in the room with her. Waiting.

  Fully awake now, Vera tried to remember where she’d tossed her backpack. Although she hadn’t brought her service revolver with her, she’d thrown a canister of pepper spray into her knapsack at the last minute. A woman, even one well schooled in self-defense, traveling alone on long, empty stretches of desert highway needed a measure of protection.

  If she could get her hands on that backpack...

  It was safely tucked into the wardrobe, she remembered now.

  The familiar click of a pistol being cocked reverberated like a kettledrum in the quiet room. Her heart leapt to her throat. Chilled blood raced through her veins.

  The intruder was going to shoot her!

  The thought barely formed in her mind as Vera instinctively threw herself off the bed and landed with a painful thump on the hardwood floor. At the same moment, a gunshot blasted the air.

  She rolled under the bed, scuffling to hide herself from the mad gunman, her senses recording every movement, every sound, like a slow-motion camera, preserving the horrifying events for eternity: The harsh, guttural sound of labored breathing as the killer came ever closer. Heavy footsteps pounding on the pine plank flooring in the other room. Shouts from far away. Her own heart, beating so wildly she feared her blood vessels wouldn’t stand the pressure.

  Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open.

  “Vera! Are you all—” Jericho’s voice broke as another gunshot rang out.

  She heard a cry of pain—Jericho?—then a grunt and the sounds of a struggle. Muffled curses punctuated the fight as bodies hit, flailed and thumped against the wall.

  Then, a crashing sound at the window, as glass shattered, showering the room with clinking shards.

  The room suddenly flooded with light and she peeked from under the bed. A dozen pairs of feet, booted, bare and clad in holey socks, milled around the small bedroom. The owners of those feet all seemed to be talking at once. The once silent bedchamber rang with chaotic voices.

  Feeling safe at last, Vera slid from beneath the bed and stood up on wobbly knees. Several people had brought candlesticks and lanterns and a flickering golden glow bathed the room. Blinking against the brightness, Vera looked around for the one face she needed to see.

  The one face that was missing.

  As the miners gathered around her, asking a hundred questions at once, her bare foot touched something warm and moist

  Where was Jericho, she wondered as she glanced down.

  A sharp pain, fed by nausea, filled her stomach.

  She was standing in a pool of bright red blood.

  Chapter Nine

  Casting wildly about, Vera pushed aside Jess Wiggins and two other miners who were bent over a rumpled heap on the floor in front of the bureau.

  “Jericho! Oh my God, are you—” her voice broke off as she stared in mute horror. Still as death, Jericho’s blanched face was all but hidden by the smear of scarlet seeping from his hairline.

  Dropping to her knees beside him, Vera shouted to the stunned crowd, “Someone get the doctor! Quirk.”

  “I’ll fetch him, though I suspect we’re too late.” Jess Wiggins said.

  In response Vera ripped open Jericho’s bloodstained shirt and laid her head on his chest. Gesturing for quiet, she listened intently for the reassuring beat of his heart. For a moment she heard nothing. Come on, come on, she prayed. Beat, damn you, beat!

  Relief poured over her like a warm bath on a winter night as his strong, steady heartbeat thumped its reassurance against her ear.

  A gush of hot tears filled her eyes and Vera swiped them away with the back of her hand. Relief that a human hadn’t died, she told herself. Nothing more. To distract herself from the maelstrom of emotions whirling inside her, she looked up and spied Yorkie. “Thene’s a basin of water on that nightstand. Bring it to me.”

  The shy young man darted to do her bidding.

  Spotting Susannah Sweet’s bright red hair, Vera called out, “Bring some towels. Hurry.”

  When they hurried back with the items she’d requested, Vera dipped a corner of rough toweling in the pan of tepid water and sponged the blood from Jericho’s face. His eyes fluttered open. He blinked twice and wordlessly reached up to caress her cheek.

  The raspy feel of his work-roughened fingers felt like the finest silk against her skin. Biting her lip against the flood of emotion that moved like molten fire through her veins, Vera’s trembling fingers returned to their task.

  “I’m okay,” he whispered. He started to sit up, then groaned and grabbed his head.

  “Lay still!” she commanded, bundling a clean towel beneath his head and gently pressing him onto his back. Her voice was hoarse and quavery. She still couldn’t quite believe that the horrendous-looking wound hadn’t proved fatal.

  A brusque voice cut through the gaggle of hushed murmurs. “Move aside, let me in. Pete, move the hell outta the way, will you?”

  Doc Greavy knelt beside her. “What have we got here—a lovers’ quarrel?”

  The miners chittered appreciatively and Vera fought down a biting retort. She cared little for the doctor’s dry frontier humor—it always seemed at her expense. “He’s been shot,” she said tightly.

  The medic’s blunt fingers probed Jericho’s scalp, eliciting a cringe of pain from the wounded man. After a moment, Greavy rocked back on his heels. “Shot at, maybe. But only grazed. Get up, Jackson, and fetch me a beer. You’ll live.”

  Jericho grunted. “Not unless I find a better sawbones.” Reaching up for Jess Wiggins’s helping hand, he rose to his feet. Taking the damp towel from Vera’s limp hand, he wiped his face and tossed the used towel on the floor. He cast a rueful glance at the bedroom window, the white curtains flapping against the frosty air. “Reckon he got away.”

  “Who?” Wiggins strode to the window and stared down at
the empty street. “Ain’t nobody out here.”

  “Maybe he’s hiding,” Yorkie Delong added.

  “Yeah, like your brain’s hiding,” Wiggins snorted to the amused snickers of the onlookers.

  With Vera holding tight to Jericho’s arm, they followed Wiggins to the window. A narrow balcony made a complete circle around the frame structure just below the second-story windows. Obviously, the would-be killer had used the veranda to effect his entry—and his escape.

  She sagged against Jericho’s firm chest. “I thought he’d killed you,” she whispered, oblivious to the crowd and the danger of being exposed for who she really was. Oblivious to everything but the sick feeling of near loss trumpeting through her breast.

  Jericho reached down and knuckled a silky strand of ink black hair from her eyes. He felt like kicking something. If he had half the sense of a billy goat, he should’ve anticipated an attempt on her life. It was just fool’s luck that Vera hadn’t been killed. Obviously, someone had seen through her disguise, even if the men currently in this room didn’t seem to. Unfortunately, the same someone who’d shot Rafe Wilson in the back wouldn’t balk at killing a woman. Although the attack on Vera wouldn’t clear her reputation insofar as the general population was concerned, it was proof enough for Jericho that her altercation with her stepfather ended with a whack from a cast iron skillet. The real killer must have taken advantage of Rafe’s unconscious state to finish him off. At the same time, shifting the blame to Rafe’s innocent stepdaughter.

  Justice had failed to protect her, and now Jericho, too, had failed to keep her safe. He swore it wouldn’t happen again.

  Wiggins turned away from the window and smirked, a gap-toothed grin that held no humor. “Looks like the bandit got clean away. Iffen he ever existed, that is.”

  Jericho released Vera and stepped forward until he stood jaw-to-jaw with the quarrelsome miner. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Wiggins shrugged, his broad shoulders nearly touching his ears. “Just sayin’, that’s all.”

  A new voice boomed over the buzzing crowd. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what happened here, Mr. Jackson?”