Jackson's Woman Read online

  Certain that the girl had no idea how close she was standing to eternity, he decided to keep his tone lighthearted and nonthreatening. At least until he hauled her to safety. Then he might just wring her pretty little neck.

  “Good to know your mouth still works, but what about the rest of you? Any damage?”

  “N-no. Nothing major. A few bumps and scrapes. Where’s everyone else?”

  Momentarily confused, he finally realized she must be concerned that he’d been followed. And with damn good cause. “I came alone. Just like your message said.”

  “My message?”

  “Yeah, the boy reached me a couple hours ago. I came right away.”

  “Are you with the search-and-rescue unit?”

  He pondered that question for a long moment, and finally decided her head injury must be more severe than he’d first thought. She sounded lucid, but then she’d go and say something that made absolutely no sense. Deciding the wisest course was to humor her until he could get her to safety, Jericho bobbed his head. “Yeah. Search and rescue, that’s me.”

  “Thank God.”

  She wouldn’t be so thankful when she realized he was only saving her to swing from the hangman’s noose. Right now, though, he’d best concentrate on getting her out of that pit.

  Looking around, Jericho spied a sturdy-looking spike embedded in one of the remaining beams. He looped the lantern handle over it, and hunkered down over the pit again. “Listen, Ver, I’m going to have to go back outside for some rope.”

  “Why didn’t you bring it in with you?”

  Jericho bit his lip. “If I’d known you were going to hide out at the bottom of a mine shaft, I would’ve. But, listen, I want you to take two more steps toward me, then sit back down.”

  “Why can’t you hoist me up from here?”

  “Dammit, woman, will you stop arguing and just do what I say.”

  He could only see the glitter of her dark eyes and the outline of her fists jammed against her hips, but she finally conceded and followed his instructions. “Now what?” she asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Now you just sit there ’til I get back. You’re resting on a rock ledge jutting out of the wall. If you’d stepped backward another couple feet, you probably wouldn’t have touched bottom this side of China.”

  He heard her quick intake of breath, and saw her head whip around toward the murky emptiness behind her. Satisfied that she would stay put until he returned, Jericho grabbed the lantern and quickly retraced his steps to the mine entrance.

  In minutes he was back, a length of rope tucked under his right arm. He set the lantern back on the post and scanned the area for a nearby beam sturdy enough to bear her weight. Finding a likely-looking timber, he tied one end of the hemp to the post. If his hand slipped, at least she wouldn’t fall too far.

  After a couple of tugs to make sure the knots would hold, he fashioned a loose slipknot on the other end and swung it over the edge of the pit. “Now, step into that loop and draw it up around your waist. It’ll ride up under your arms and that’s fine, just make sure it’s secure. Got it?”

  A faint rustling and a couple of grunts later, she tugged on the rope. “Ready.”

  Jericho knew it would take tremendous hand strength to haul even her slight body up that steep wall. While he figured he was strong enough, he decided to try an old horse wrangler’s trick as added insurance. Years ago he’d watched a slightly built cowpoke hold a wild-eyed stallion by pressing his lariat against his thighs. The extra friction of the rope on his denims was just enough to stop the horse.

  Ought to be enough to raise a nervous filly. “Okay, I’m going to give three hard yanks and then stop for a breath. When I pull you, brace your feet against the wall and start walking up to meet me.”

  “Don’t you have a winch? Or a pulley?”

  Lord, what was wrong with her? She sends a frantic message for him to meet her at an abandoned mine, then expects him to show up with pulleys, ropes and a home-cooked meal. “No, sugar, all I’ve got is a willing mood and that’s fading fast. Now, you ready to come up?”

  “Yes,” she answered meekly, and he wrapped the hemp’s slack around his waist and started to pull her up, one sweat-popping inch at a time.

  Although she was heavier than he expected, the first three pulls were accomplished without a hitch. But in the middle of the next attempt, Jericho stepped backward into a small damp spot and slid onto his rump.

  “Ow!” A shrill cry from the girl verified she’d slipped back down to the starting point.

  Regaining his feet, he tightened up the slack on the rope. “You all right down there?”

  “F-fine, except for the rope burns on my...upper body. What happened?”

  “A little slip and I landed on my caboose.”

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t go get some more help? Maybe the fire department has a portable ladder.”

  Fire department? Jerome did have a fire brigade of sorts. The ramshackle wooden structures, and the close proximity of the town buildings to one another, made fire an ever present danger. But what they had was a wagon that carried a one-hundred-gallon barrel drum of water and a brass bell. At the first sign of smoke, somebody yanked on the bell and every able-bodied soul in town came running. If the bell rang long enough, even the brothels and Jericho’s saloon emptied out.

  But of what possible use did she think the volunteer fire brigade could be? A good many of them had been drinking buddies with Rafe and would be happy to tie the noose around her scrawny little neck.

  Ignoring her suggestion, he redoubled his efforts to get her out. The only thing he could do to help her now would be to get her safely to her mother’s folks on the reservation and hope the posse didn’t track them.

  “Let’s try once more. Ready?”

  “I guess. But take it easy on the...chest, okay?” Her voice was thin, wavery, like she’d all but given up hope.

  That she’d overtly mentioned her, er, private areas, was proof positive that she was suffering from some sort of shock. Which was probably why she was showing so little faith in his ability. Unaccountably spurred by her distrust, Jericho bunched his muscles and jerked with all his might. The rope snapped tightly and he felt her body raise a full foot. Eight more to the edge of the pit.

  By continually tightening the length of hemp around the post, he was able to secure the progress they’d made, and fifteen minutes later, her dark hair appeared over the lip of the pit. Jericho strained to hold the rope taut with his left hand while he fashioned a double-hitch knot around the post with his right. Sweat dripped in rapidly flowing rivers down his face by the time he finally gripped her wrists and pulled her to safety.

  She was no sooner on her feet than she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so tightly Jericho thought she just might slip inside his skin. His face was buried in her great dark cloud of hair and he was surprised at how soft, how oddly fragrant it was. Verity normally kept her ebony mane in a single braid down her back; he’d never really noticed its silky texture before.

  In fact, there were several things he’d never noticed about Verity McBride. Jericho had always thought of her as a girl; he knew she was only eighteen or so. But the warm, supple body pressed against his was that of a woman. A full-bodied woman. With pillowy soft breasts pushing with gentle insistence against his chest.

  He gulped and leaned backward, deliberately disengaging himself in hopes of breaking that surge of heat rising from his groin. Jericho Jackson might be the scalawag most decent folks thought him to be, but he didn’t lust after young girls. Especially not the young daughter of a woman he called a friend.

  But she smelled so damned enticing!

  Placing his hands on her shoulders, he held her at arm’s length, maintaining a gentlemanly distance between them. “Think you’re okay to ride?”

  As if sensing his discomfort, she took a step backward and said hesitantly, “I’m sorry. I was just so damned glad to be out of that pit!”
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br />   Although surprised by her casual use of a swear word, he patted her shoulder, chagrined that he’d pushed her away when she was only expressing her gratitude. The poor kid hadn’t had much affection in her life. Which reminded him that her life was apt to be a short one if he didn’t get her away from Jerome before the law tracked her down. “I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. Feel up to riding?”

  “I feel up to riding to Panama, if you’ll get me out of this mine.”

  He started to unravel her from the loop of rope when he noticed she was wrapped in a thick quilt. “What in the world are you wearing?”

  “Oh, this must have been in the shaft. Good thing...I was freezing.”

  Jericho retrieved the kerosene lantern from the nail and stared at the faded quilt. It was a Seven Sisters design; he remembered watching Min-e-wah stitch the intricate pattern while she was in the family way with one of the boys. Even recalled that bit of bright red coming from an old vest he’d given Min-e-wah. The quilt had been a Christmas gift for Verity, but now the girl didn’t even recognize it.

  He swung the lantern up and studied her face. Her eyes looked clear and focused. Other than that, Jericho had no idea how to figure out the severity of a head injury. It was risky, but maybe he should try to sneak her into town and see Doc Greavy before taking her to her mother’s tribe. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to Min-e-wah’s daughter while she was entrusted to his care.

  Nodding at the quilt, he said, “Hold that thing up so you don’t trip on it. And stay right on my heels.”

  They’d only taken a couple steps when she called out, “I never did thank you properly, Mr....”

  “Jackson. Jericho Jackson,” he said automatically, then stopped abruptly and whirled to face her. “You don’t remember my name?”

  She frowned and slowly shook her head. “Your name is familiar, though I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Was she pulling his leg? She should know his name almost as well as her own. Years before, Min-e-wah had nursed him back to life after he’d been almost killed by a javelina. The wild boar had charged him from behind, breaking several ribs in the initial attack before butting, stomping and biting him until Jericho had somehow managed to cock his pistol and shoot the crazed animal. Min-e-wah found him two days later, wracked with fever and almost dead from the lack of water.

  After that, Jericho had become almost like a brother to the lovely Apache widow and her half-white child. He’d cautioned her against marrying Rafe Wilson but Min-e-wah wanted her daughter raised in the white man’s world. Rafe was a mean drunkard, but after Jericho had whipped his cowardly butt for beating his wife, there’d been no more incidents of violence. At least, none had been reported to Jericho.

  But now Verity was staring at him with the eyes of a stranger.

  He reached out and ran a fingertip over her soft, grimy cheek. “It’s not important, Ver. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  WHEN THEY FINALLY EMERGED from the mine entrance, Vera was startled to discover darkness had fallen. The tour bus had reached the Balbriggan around ten-thirty that morning. Granted, dusk came early in the winter, but still, she must have lain, unconscious, in that pit for several hours. Vera shuddered, faced with the grim reminder that she nearly lost her life in the fall.

  Incredibly, snow had fallen sometime while she was trapped inside. The guide had warned them about rapid weather changes. Now the ground was covered with a thin layer of crunchy white. She was doubly glad she’d held on to the quilt while Mr. Jackson was towing her to safety. Vera remembered she’d left her jeans jacket in the tour van, and glanced at the spot where they’d parked the van. Empty. Not even a bare patch of ground in the snow. It was as if the van never existed.

  Halting abruptly, she glanced around. Something was wrong; terribly wrong. There were no rescue vehicles, ambulances, patrol cars or helicopters. No flashing blue lights, no stretcher or any other sign of an organized rescue. If Jericho Jackson had driven his personal vehicle, it, too, was missing. Only a pair of horses were tied to a post near the mine entrance.

  Suddenly, she wished she’d been able to bring her service revolver with her. She felt naked without its comforting and equalizing weight.

  Bewildered and slightly frightened, she turned to Jericho. “Wh-where’s the rescue rig? And the paramedics?”

  “What are paramedics?” he asked after a long pause.

  “Maybe you call them something else around here, EMTs or medics.”

  “EMTs?”

  She waved an impatient hand. “Emergency Medical Technicians, or something like that. Where’s your unit? I don’t understand, why are you here all alone?”

  Another long pause. “Because your message specifically said for me to come alone. Because of Rafe.”

  “Rafe?”

  “Yeah, some folks are taking his death kind of hard. Especially him being killed by an Indian.”

  Vera tossed her head, to clear the cobwebs so she could try to make sense of his words. What on earth did she have to do with some man who was killed by an Indian? And why did Jackson keep referring to some message she supposedly sent?

  Had those blows to her head caused her to have some kind of amnesia? Vera didn’t think so because she could clearly remember every detail up until the time the rotted board broke and plunged her headlong down that mine shaft.

  Maybe she’d talked with him when she was only half conscious. That must be it; he was referring to some conversation they’d had when she was only semiconscious. She’d go back to the hotel, get a good night’s sleep and it would all be clear in the morning.

  Lifting her chin, she noted the look of concern on his rugged face. Nice face, actually. Lean, lots of angles and a neatly trimmed mustache. Maybe not a luxuriant Sam Elliott mustache, but sexy nonetheless. She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. “I must have bonked my head pretty hard. Eight hours on a soft pillow and I’ll be good as new. So, where’s your car?”

  Jericho shook his head, and stared hard into her eyes. Even though she could barely see his eyes in the dim light cast by his lantern, she could make out the confusion and worry. “My car?”

  “Or truck, or whatever you drive.”

  He shook his head, looking as awestruck as a first-grader trying to make sense of Einstein’s theory of relativity. Unless Vera was badly mistaken, he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. They were having a serious breakdown in communication here. The wind was blowing frigid gusts down her back, she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to slide between a pair of crisp white sheets.

  Drawing on an almost empty reserve of patience, she tried again. “Inside you asked if I was ready to ride. So I’m asking, ride in what? Where did you park?”

  He hitched a thumb toward the horses. “Over there.”

  “A horse! You expect me to ride ten miles into town, in a snowstorm, on horseback?”

  Her tone brought him out of his apparent stupor. “I’m damn sure not going to carry you piggyback, Verity. Now let’s quit jawing and get going. We’ve got a long ride, because we can’t use the main road.”

  “Why on earth not?” She wrapped the quilt tighter around her shoulders. None of this was making any sense. And his peculiar behavior was starting to frighten her. She wasn’t about to go off on any side roads with this odd stranger.

  After a long, tense, pause, he said softly, “Verity, we need to get you to Doc Greavy’s right away. I don’t know what’s happened to you here, but something’s dreadful wrong.”

  “You got that right, but I’m not the one with the problem. And stop calling me Verity, it gives me the creeps. My name is Vera.”

  He took off his black hat and pushed his fingers through a thick patch of equally dark hair. “I’ll call you any damn thing you want if you’ll get on that horse over there.”

  Her head swiveled to follow his pointing finger. “Is that the only way into town?”

  He shrugged. “Unless you want to walk.”


  Vera considered her options. She could either mount a horse, which she’d never done in her life, and go off into the night with this very strange man, or she could try to walk ten miles through heavy snow into Jerome. Or she could wait here and hope that help arrived before she froze to death.

  Marching through the packed snow, she cautiously approached the animals. “Do they bite?”

  SILENTLY, THEY COVERED the two winding miles down the side of the mountain. Jericho was still pondering her strange behavior. Verity McBride had almost been born in a saddle; he knew for a fact she was a skilled horsewoman by her tenth birthday. But tonight she acted as if she’d never seen a horse before. He’d had to coach her on mounting, tell her how to hold the reins, and how to nudge the horse’s side with her foot, all the while constantly reassuring her that her own horse wouldn’t harm her!

  And those funny shoes she was wearing. Jericho had never seen anything like them. Pure white leather except for some purple swirl across the heel. And short rubber soles. Ugly and not very practical. You needed a thick sturdy heel to grip the stirrup, and high leather boots to protect your legs from burrs and chaparral.

  When they reached the bottom of the mountain, she didn’t argue when he headed them toward the narrow mine road into town, instead of the coach road. He kept glancing behind, keeping a wary eye on her. She looked so forlorn, huddled in that quilt, as if she were lost and didn’t have a friend in the world. Well, she wasn’t so far wrong at that.

  When Rafe Wilson’s body was found with a single bullet wound in his back, folks had gotten riled about him being killed by a coward. Not many were actually grieving for Rafe, being the no-account drunk that he was, but the hardy townspeople didn’t much cotton to killing a man from behind.

  The original speculation was that he’d been caught cheating at cards; Rafe was known for lending fate a hand from time to time.

  But then the oldest Wilson boy had rushed into the saloon looking for Jericho, who was...indisposed over at Rosie’s Sporting House for a couple hours. The frightened boy blurted out his news that had spread like wildfire; Verity McBride had killed her pa for smacking her mother. The hot-blooded miners had reacted immediately; Rafe Wilson might have been an SOB, but he didn’t deserve to be shot in the back. And certainly not by his half-breed stepdaughter.