Jackson's Woman Read online

  She tucked her arm in the sleeve of the heavy bathrobe. Pretending total fascination with the process of donning the garment, she murmured, “Of course it will. No sweat.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Just an expression.” A dry laugh escaped her lips. They didn’t even speak the same language. She had an insane urge to pepper him with the slang, gangsta rap and buzzwords that had replaced conversation in civilized society. Yo, Jer. Let’s have a hands-on interface and brainstorm a game plan. Maybe we can find a loose circuit in the hard drive and downsize ourselves out of this virtual reality dreamscape.

  He couldn’t possibly grasp the world that molded her thoughts, words and personality. What could she tell Jericho of the twentieth century? A man from these rich and unfettered times would collapse in dismayed shock to learn about congested freeways, governmental licenses required for everything from marriage to dog tags, skyrocketing taxes, intrusive telephones, E-mail, fax machines, free sex and AIDS. What would he think of an entire culture governed by sporting events and MTV?

  Maybe he’d think that living in the past wasn’t so bad. In a way, Vera would be sorry to leave this simpler era.

  She sensed Jericho watching her, that wary, quizzical expression on his face. Obviously, he thought she’d drifted into madness again. Finally, he turned away. “I’ll wait for you in the other room.”

  A second later, his warm and bolstering presence was gone.

  DEPUTY HAMBLIN HAD EATEN at least half of the yeasty breakfast rolls by the time Vera emerged from the bedroom. With her blue-black hair pulled into a twist at the back of her head, her gaunt face stood out in pale relief.

  Jericho’s heart lurched at the difference in her appearance and demeanor since he’d hauled her out of the mine shaft. Those blue smudges under her eyes hadn’t been there before. He was certain. She looked thinner. The hollows beneath her cheekbones more pronounced.

  And she looked infinitely sadder. The struggle to clear her name had stolen all her spit and fire. Her shoulders sagged and she kept chewing on her lower lip, as if the uncertainty of her life expectancy could no longer be endured.

  Although he knew it was crazy, Jericho felt somehow responsible for the changes he saw. As if by failing to help her resolve Rafe’s murder, he’d personally condemned her to the gallows.

  Guilt slashed his belly. Hadn’t he done just that by doing nothing?

  Sure, he’d taken her in and hidden her. Even given her money, though God alone knew what she’d done with it while she was in that... vague state. But Vera was the only one who’d actively tried to uncover the real murderer. She’d gone against her own nature and donned dance hall finery, sang slightly bawdy songs before a teeming mass of woman-hungry males and chatted and joked with these men. All for the purpose of finding someone, anyone, who might have a fragment of information about Rafe Wilson’s death.

  And what had fine, upstanding citizen Jackson done to aid in her pursuit of the truth? Not a damned thing.

  As she moved easily into the room, dressed now in those denim trousers she was wearing that first day, he watched with awed admiration as she threw her shoulders back and gave Deputy Hamblin a weak smile. Why hadn’t Jericho raised a finger to help her?

  The truth washed over him like the icy melt-off at the first thaw. Because in his gut, hidden away where he couldn’t examine his reasons too closely, he guarded the secret knowledge that if Vera’s name was cleared and she was given her freedom, she’d leave him and never return.

  And he selfishly wanted her to stay. He liked hearing her hoots of laughter, liked seeing the unstudied light in her eyes when she encountered something she’d never seen before.

  Like a child who hides beneath the bed, believing if he can’t see the goblin it can’t get him, Jericho had hidden from the truth. He’d never really believed the law would arrest her. Thought somehow he could keep her, a singing bird in his own golden cage, until... until what?

  He didn’t know. Just didn’t know.

  Balancing a porcelain cup of steaming coffee, Vera walked over to stand in front of him. Only the faint tremble of her bottom lip gave away the raw emotion she was trying so valiantly to hide. “Mr. Hamblin says the railroad isn’t functioning so we’re going down the mountain by mule.”

  Jericho nodded. The narrow gauge railroad was often closed down during winter months. Keeping the tracks cleared of snow was nearly impossible given the rugged terrain. During the best of times, the incline was so steep, so twisting, that the locomotive could only sustain five cars.

  The hairpin turns were so sharp in some places, rumor had it the passengers liked to hang their heads out the windows to get a look at their rear ends.

  He nodded. At this time of year, descent into the Chino Valley and Prescott was best accomplished by pack mules. “Henry’s right It’s safest to travel by mule.”

  She glanced over her shoulder where the deputy was stuffing another buttered roll into his mouth. “Mr. Hamblin had a quaint way of phrasing it He said some trails are only ‘jackassable.’”

  Jericho chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it. Still, if the weather holds, you should make the valley floor sometime tomorrow.”

  Vera’s head jerked up. “Aren’t...aren’t you coming with us?”

  Jericho shook his head. Until five minutes ago, he’d planned on doing exactly that. Now, he thought he’d hang behind. Make sure no one followed them down the mountain and, maybe, pick up a shred of unguarded conversation. If the real killer thought he’d gotten away with murder, he might loosen up a bit. Might say or do something to give himself away if someone was paying close attention.

  While Jericho knew that Vera needed his moral support, she needed his help more. He hoped someday she would understand why he appeared to be abandoning her now. Not wanting her to raise her expectations beyond his abilities, he decided to keep his plans to himself for the moment. “I’ve got some things to attend to here in town. I’ll see you in Prescott.”

  “If I’m still alive,” she said archly. Her cup and saucer clattered onto the mahogany side table.

  Jericho knew she was disappointed in him, but he didn’t know how to reassure her, so he said nothing.

  She straightened her shoulders and pointedly turned toward Henry Hamblin. “Might as well get this show on the road, Deputy. Are you ready?”

  “Mmmf,” he mumbled, stuffing the last morsel of roll into his mouth and grabbing his hat.

  Vera slung her knapsack over her shoulder. “Ready when you are.”

  Hamblin reached for her backpack. “I’ll need to search that, Miz McBride.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have a gun if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No ma’am, I doubt you do. Still, rules say I have to check for myself.”

  Vera surrendered the rucksack.

  The deputy opened the nylon fastener and peered inside. He scratched his head and dumped the contents out onto the settee. One by one, he picked up her personal items and shoved them back inside: comb, hairbrush, change purse, and hand lotion. A few things he kept out.

  “What’s this stuff?” Hamblin poked at several items he obviously couldn’t identify.

  Jericho watched the color rise in Vera’s cheeks as she snatched up a paper-wrapped tube of some kind and stuffed it back inside the canvas pouch. “It’s personal female stuff,” she snapped. “The kind of things men shouldn’t ask about unless they’re ready to be embarrassed.”

  “Oh.”

  Jericho covered his mouth so Hamblin wouldn’t see him grin. Even though most of the men in town stepped aside when Henry Hamblin loped down the sidewalk, he made it a rule never to argue with his wife. Matilda Hamblin was a formidable woman and Henry had long learned to accommodate her. It was obvious the lawman had developed a wary respect for female matters.

  Vera picked up a couple of odd-looking containers. She flipped a cap off one and pressed a button on the top. A soft, flowery aroma filled the air. “This is
cologne.”

  “Never seen it squirt out like that before,” Hamblin exclaimed.

  Jericho’s eyes rolled. “How long since you bought Matilda an atomizer of fragrance, Hamblin? You ought to be ashamed.”

  Grabbing the containers from Vera’s hands, the deputy shoved all her belongings back inside the canvas bag. “Buying women’s fripperies ain’t to my liking, Jackson. Not ever’one’s a ladies’ man like you.”

  Hoisting the straps of the bag over her shoulder, Vera stepped between them. “I hate to interrupt this session of the ole boys club, but hadn’t we better get moving? The sooner we get to Prescott the sooner I can clear my name.”

  The slight note of levity dissolved, as if someone had poured hot water onto a lump of sugar.

  Stepping forward, Jericho reached for Vera’s shoulders, but she backed away from his grasp. Stretching out her arm, she offered her hand. “I want to thank you for all your hospitality, Jericho. It meant the world to me.”

  “Maybe I should explain why I’m not going—”

  “No!” She held up her hand, stopping his explanation. “It’s...it’s not necessary. You’ve done far more than I, uh, a near-stranger could ever expect. You’ve ignored your business far too long already on my behalf. I just wanted you to know I appreciated your taking me in.”

  A near-stranger? Ignoring his business.? Were her feelings for him so shallow that they couldn’t survive one perceived failure on his part? How could she have fallen into his arms with such abandon last night, to treat him like a mere acquaintance this morning? He realized he’d disappointed her, but she should have more faith in him than to think this damned saloon meant more to him than her life.

  Even if they’d never moved beyond the friendship stage, his debt to her mother and basic human decency would have demanded he do everything in his power to help her. For Vera to imply that he’d forsaken her because of business cut into him like a rusty sword. She’d inflicted a wound that would take a very long time to heal.

  Unable to speak, he simply nodded and walked to the door. Holding it open while Deputy Hamblin escorted her into the dimly lit hallway, Jericho watched in silence until they descended the staircase and disappeared from sight.

  His hurt building to an anger that bordered on rage, he stalked back inside and slammed the door.

  FOUR HOURS LATER Vera was so saddle sore she felt like her backside must have swollen to twice its normal size. When Deputy Hamblin held up his hand to signal a rest stop, she could have kissed him.

  Easing off the jenny, whom the deputy had obtained for her use, Vera rubbed her aching fanny and walked around the small clearing. If she lived long enough to get down this mountain, she vowed never again to climb onto the back of any animal. Especially one that moved with the rolling, jostling, jarring gait reminiscent of a drunken sailor.

  After tying their mounts to a tree limb and giving them water, Hamblin ambled over to where Vera was still massaging her backside. “Uh, if you need to take a trip into the bushes, I’ll unroll a saddle blanket to give you some privacy.”

  That took her attention off her throbbing posterior. “If I go back into the bushes far enough, you won’t need to do that.”

  Hamblin took off his hat and rolled it around his fingertips in a nervous gesture. “No ma’am, I can’t rightly let you out of my sight until I turn you over to the sheriff in Prescott.”

  Vera’s arms flew outward, encompassing the endless wilderness. “Come on, Deputy, look around you. We’re a hundred miles from civilization and you have the mules right here beside you. Where do you expect me to go?”

  He shook his head doubtfully. “Iffen it was any other lady but you, Miz McBride, I could take your point. But ever‘body knows you can find your way around this mountain like a mother bear finding her squawling cubs. No, ma’am, if I let you go off alone, you’d be smokin’ a peace pipe with your kin before I even knew you was gone.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Then I’ll just forgo the pleasure for a while longer.” She flopped to the ground, cringing when her tender bottom made contact with the still-frozen ground.

  Hamblin reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a set of crude-looking handcuffs. “Well, it’s your choice, Miz McBride, but I’m afraid I can’t hold my water as well as you. So you just make yourself comfortable right here until I get back.”

  Too tired to protest, she held out her arms. Having the decency to look chagrined, the deputy snapped the heavy cuffs around her wrists, then ratcheted them until they fit snugly. “Make sure they’re tight enough. I wouldn’t want you to take any chances that a dangerous, notorious criminal could flee justice while in your custody.”

  Vera knew her words were heavy with sarcasm and that she was taking her frustration out on the hapless lawman. But she was exhausted and frightened. And wished Jericho was here.

  When Hamblin wandered into a stand of head-high mesquite bushes, she allowed her mind to roam over the satirical aspects of the past few days. That she, a peace officer, was now a shackled prisoner accounted for only the most blatant irony. She’d come to Arizona in the first place to find out what had become of her long-lost ancestor, Verity McBride. She was about to discover the girl’s grisly fate from a firsthand perspective.

  Perhaps the most ironic aspect of this entire, unreal episode was her unexpected...appreciation for Jericho Jackson. Oh, the man’s frontier chauvinism occasionally drove her wild. Nor did she understand what motivated and drove him. Yet, she’d never imagined she’d find a man she felt so comfortable with, a man she could rely on, a man who rang her chimes until her toenails tickled.

  Yet she’d found all these things in Jericho.

  Sadly, he was lost to her from the moment they’d met. Not only were they divided by opposing cultures, goals and societies, but by a broken fragment of time that separated their destinies by more than a hundred years.

  He, too, must have sensed the futility of their budding relationship. How else could she explain his sudden coldness this morning? His bland statement that he was going to remain behind?

  She’d never forget how abandoned and utterly alone she’d felt when he said he wasn’t accompanying her to Prescott. It was as if she’d lost friend, lover and mentor all in a single moment Even now, the empty feeling in her stomach made her feel like a fish who’d been jerked from its supply of life-sustaining water, then gutted and filleted.

  Her body was only an empty shell. Her heart, soul and the vibrant parts that comprised Vera McBride had somehow turned to dust.

  She wondered if she’d ever see Jericho again.

  A harsh, stinging lump formed in her throat and she swallowed deeply to stave off the hot tears behind her eyes. She wouldn’t cry over this man. She wouldn’t.

  A rustling sound in the bushes behind her told her that Deputy Hamblin had completed his nature call As he stepped back into the clearing and sauntered toward his mule, he grinned. “Whew, feel much better. Forgot to ask if you wanted a drink of water.” He unlooped a canteen strap from his saddle pommel.

  He started unscrewing the cap as he walked toward her. “Sure you don’t want to change your mind about—”

  The earsplitting sound of a rifle blast cut off the rest of his words.

  Chapter Twelve

  A shrill scream reverberated in the air just after the gunshot.

  With a jolt of surprise, Vera realized the scream had issued from her own lips.

  Henry Hamblin stared at her. His eyes widened in disbelief. The canteen fell slowly from his fingers and clattered on the hard ground. Vera watched in horror as a bright red stain blossomed across the front of his shirt, beneath his open sheepskin jacket.

  Looking like a character in a western movie, the deputy clutched his chest and fell forward slowly and dramatically, as if drawing out his last scene in hopes of an Oscar nomination.

  He sagged onto his knees for a heart-rending moment before falling facedown in the dirt across Vera’s legs. He didn’t cry out with pain or
protest. A soft gurgling from somewhere deep in his chest was the only sound in the too still air.

  Vera’s heart thundered out a fierce, erratic rhythm. She lowered her manacled hands to his head as she numbly searched for a pulse point in his neck. “Deputy Hamblin? Henry? Oh sweet heaven, are you all right?”

  But she knew the answer to that inane question. She’d seen fatal gunshot wounds often enough to recognize the death rattle emanating from his throat. Henry Hamblin was at death’s door and there was nothing she could do to help him.

  A violent tremble took hold of his body and Vera leaned over, lending her heat to his. For the briefest second she felt his fingers clutch convulsively at her leg, then, his grip loosened and a small shudder rippled through his large body.

  The gurgling sound ceased. The good-natured lawman was dead.

  Vera didn’t know how long she sat there, bent over the deputy’s lifeless body. Her mind was blank, her body numb. She wasn’t aware of the cold, her hunger or her fear.

  She had no doubt she’d been spared death yet again. The killer surely had been aiming for her when he’d accidentally struck Deputy Hamblin. The fact that the lawman was still ten feet away from her when the bullet struck him was of no consequence. She knew these ancient firearms were notorious for their inaccuracy.

  It was only a matter of moments now until the murderer came in closer for the kill. Next time he wouldn’t miss and Vera was too mentally and physically exhausted to care. At least it would all be over soon.

  As the dead man’s blood cooled on her legs, Vera leaned back against the trunk of a scrub oak, closed her eyes, and waited for her executioner.

  She’d almost drifted into a listless sleep when she heard the thrumming beat of approaching hooves. Now, she thought, would be a good time to talk to her maker. Maybe a last-minute plea for mercy.

  Apparently the rider was taking no chances on missing his target again for he galloped directly into the clearing. She could hear the horse snorting from exertion. Although she’d accepted her imminent death, a sliver of curiosity poked at her. If she was going to die, at least she ought to know who was taking her life. A last wish for the condemned; see the real murderer. Her cuffed hands still resting on Hamblin’s neck, she raised her head and opened her eyes.