Jackson's Woman Read online

  Looking at her face, soft and trusting in sleep, he felt another stab of wishful thinking. Why hadn’t he seen the promise of such powerful womanhood in Verity before Rafe’s murder?

  And what had gone so terribly wrong with her that she kept slipping in and out of herself, forgetting simple things she’d known her entire life? Well, before her mental confusion cost Verity her life, he had to do what he could to help.

  Nodding decisively, Jericho slipped out of the room and headed back downstairs to the hotel dining room where Doc Greavy had been shoveling in a healthy pile of flapjacks a few moments ago.

  The corpulent physician had finished his breakfast and was sitting back, savoring a mug of coffee, his sausagelike fingers tapping against the rim of the steaming brew. He was holding court like a despotic ruler. His audience, unfortunately, included Jess Wiggins.

  Jericho slid into the vacant chair between Wiggins and Yorkie Delong, directly across from Stuart Greavy. “Momin’, Doc. Fellas.”

  Cursory greetings were exchanged before they returned to the ongoing discussion.

  Wiggins fingered his stubbled chin. “Doc here says the posse’s on their way in.”

  That wasn’t good news. Since their thoughts had been locked on finding Verity for the past few days, someone might see through her Vera LaFleur disguise. Pretending only mild interest, Jericho said, “That right? Then she’s on the way to the Prescott jail or are they bringing her back here?”

  “Nope, she done got clean away,” Yorkie offered.

  Jericho’s eyebrows rose. “How’s that possible? There were what...almost a dozen men looking for that girl?”

  Doc Greavy shrugged. “Nonetheless, she appears to have outwitted the lot of them.”

  “It’s in her blood,” Wiggins said blackly. “Rafe never should’ve taken that squaw in. Apaches have always been cutthroats, always will be.”

  Jericho had heard that familiar refrain enough to know where Wiggins was headed. The only good Indian was a dead Irrdian—in the eyes of far too many of his acquaintances. Anxious to deflect the discussion from Verity, he leaned forward. “Get that new youngun of Mrs. Nesbitt’s into the world?”

  Doc sipped his coffee and shook his head. “The little beggar didn’t wait for me. Another hardheaded boy.”

  Wiggins snorted. “What’s that make for ole’ Luther, five...six boys now? He sure fires a loaded pistol.”

  Fearing the conversation was going to degenerate into a long discussion of Luther Nesbitt’s sexual prowess, Jericho broke in. “Say, Doc, if you’ve got a few minutes I’d like to see you up in my room.”

  “Sure, what’s the problem?”

  Jericho’s glance shifted to Wiggins and Yorkie. “Kind of, er, private, Doc, if you know what I mean.”

  The heavy man drained his coffee and pushed back from the table. “Why, Jericho, you’re not embarrassed by a...social ailment passed on by one of Miz Rosie’s ladies, now are you?”

  Jericho allowed a sheepish grin to cross his face. “Now don’t go spreading a rumor like that, Doc. Might hurt my snow-white reputation.”

  His companions roared at the joke and Jericho led the way upstairs to his apartment. Doc Greavy’s breath was heaving in his chest by the time they climbed the last few steps. Jericho opened the door and ushered the panting man inside.

  “Sit down a minute and take a load off.” Jericho nodded toward the horse hair sofa.

  The doctor was only too happy to comply and sank into the cushions. He fished out a handkerchief, stained to a dull red by multiple washings in the mineral rich local water, and mopped his face. Leaning back, he asked, “So what’s the problem, son? You aren’t stupid enough to crawl into the sack with a diseased woman.”

  Jericho pulled over a side chair and faced the doctor. He had to word his request very caiefally. Greavy was a respected leader in Jerome; he might balk at helping a suspected felon. Jericho decided to ease into the problem. “You really figure that girl killed Rafe Wilson?”

  Greavy’s wiry eyebrows raised in surprise. “You have evidence to the contrary?”

  “No. Only that I’ve known her since she was knee-high to a bullfrog and killing a man in cold blood just isn’t in her.”

  “You know better than that, son. Pushed against the wall, even the most peaceable folks will defend themselves.”

  Jericho shook his head. “This isn’t about defending. This is about back-shooting, and Verity McBride’s no back shooter.”

  “Maybe not But why doesn’t she turn herself in and tell her story to a jury? That’s what an innocent person would do.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t even realize what’s going on.”

  “Then where is she? Why’d she and her whole family hightail it outta town?” Greavy shoved the damp hanky into his coat pocket.

  “Seems to me we’re jumping to a whole lot of conclusions, Doc. If Verity was a white woman, we’d’ve asked questions first. Not sent a posse out to hunt her down like a mad dog.”

  “You’ve got a point, son, but you can’t change the ignorant ways of a whole territory.”

  Jericho’s fist slammed on his knee. “Ignorance is no excuse!”

  Greavy didn’t reply for a long moment as he quietly assessed the younger man. “So, what is it you’re asking me to do?”

  “I’m asking you to remember you’re a doctor first. Didn’t you take some kind of vow to help everybody?”

  “The Hippocratic oath, that’s right Are you trying to tell me that you know where that girl is? That she’s injured?”

  Jericho nodded wordlessly.

  Greavy closed his eyes and appeared to think about Jericho’s request. Finally he looked up. “That code I mentioned also guarantees a patient a degree of confidentiality. Reckon I can stretch that to mean I shouldn’t disclose her whereabouts. At least until her wounds are healed up.”

  “That’s all I’m askin’, Doc.”

  “Then I give you my word,” the doctor gravely intoned. “Now where is the young lady and what’s her injury?”

  Dropping his voice, Jericho filled the doctor in on Verity’s oddly fluctuating behavior for the past two days. “It’s almost like she’s two entirely different people,” he finished. “Until her mental confusion’s cured, it’s impossible for her to get a fair trial. She might say anything, admit to anything. Even if she didn’t do it. If we turn her in now, we might as well just string her up ourselves.”

  “I see your point. Mental confusion, loss of memory. I’ve read of similar cases in my medical journals. Difficult to treat, I’m afraid.”

  “You gotta try, Doc.”

  Greavy heaved his bulk off the sofa. “All right. Let’s see what we can do.”

  An hour later, he snapped the latch of his black satchel and stood up. He turned to Jericho. “Perhaps I can speak with you outside?”

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Vera reached out and grabbed the heavy man’s wrist. For the past hour she’d endured his questions, probing and other indignities. No way was she going to be dismissed like a naughty child while the “adults” discussed her condition in the other room. “I want to hear every word.”

  Greavy turned to Jericho and cocked a questioning eyebrow. When Jericho nodded, he said, “All right. As you wish. It’s my opinion, young lady, that you are in excellent physical condition—exceptional actually. I don’t believe I’ve ever examined a woman whose musculature is as well developed as yours.”

  Vera decided not to mention the three hours a day she spent at the gym using free weights and boxing with a male sparring partner. “I try to keep fit.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, as I said your. uh, physique is in excellent condition. But your mind is another matter entirely. I don’t know if you can truly appreciate what I’m saying, Miz McBride, but your brain seems to have suffered an injury. You have a large contusion just behind the left ear which probably accounts for your muddleheadedness.”

  Muddleheadedreess! Vera was about to expound on the good doctor’s own lack of
mental acuity when Jericho, as if reading her mind, stepped between them.

  “So, what’s the cure? Do you have some powders or tonics to help her?”

  “I’m afraid not The only thing I can prescribe is total bed rest. No excitement. Sometimes memory and clear thinking return in a few days. Sometimes, unfortunately, the patient remains in this state of bewilferment. Time, I’m afraid, is the only hope.”

  He picked up his bag and started for the bedroom door. “I’ll check in again in the morning. But I warn you, undue excitement can be detrimental to your health, young lady.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” she smiled weakly. If that pompous ass called her “young lady” in that patronizing tone one more time, Vera wouldn’t be responsible for her reaction. She contented herself by imagining how surprised he’d be if she gave him a stiff-fingered jab to the solar plexus.

  Chapter Eight

  “The poor girl is terribly addled.” Doc Greavy shook his head, his tone a funereal murmur.

  Jericho took the physician’s arm and led him away from the closed door. They stood just outside his room. He didn’t want Vera’s tender spirit further bruised by overhearing the doctor’s blunt words. “Is there nothing we can do for her?”

  Greavy rubbed his chin and stared thoughtfully into the air. “Not much, I’m afraid. Complete rest is the only possible hope. Perhaps in a few weeks her... soul will return.”

  Jericho was hesitant to accept this advice. For one thing, he didn’t think Vera’s “soul” was lost, just a few of her memories seemed to be misplaced. Secondly, he was wary of keeping her confined to his apartment—her continued presence would surely cause talk.

  Eventually, someone would connect the sudden appearance of the mysterious chanteuse with the sudden disappearance of Verity McBride. Heavy makeup, different hairstyle and clothing could only confuse the issue for so long.

  “Course,” Greavy continued, “her craziness might be a good defense. If she can convince a jury that she’s tetched in the head, they might agree to let her live out the rest of her days in a sanitarium someplace.”

  Jericho suppressed a shudder. He’d heard about the appalling conditions in those “hospitals” for the insane. He couldn’t condemn her to spend her life in such a dreadful place. No. There had to be another way.

  “How is she otherwise?” he asked. “Physically, I mean.”

  “Oh, fit as a fiddle, I’d say,” Greavy chortled. “A mite more, er, filled out than I recalled.”

  Jericho’s head jerked up. So the doctor had noticed it, too! Last night, when Verity had appeared in the alley, and later in the kitchen, despite the bulky overcoat she’d worn, he’d had the impression of a scrawny, frightened young girl.

  But when he’d returned to his apartment and found “Vera,” the shift in her appearance had been incredible. Her figure was more...lush, full in all the right places. Her voice was lower-pitched, sensual. A woman in every sense of the word.

  But a woman who was in danger.

  For the first time in his life, Jericho felt completely helpless. The futility of his efforts infuriated him. Slamming his fist against the door frame, he stared into Greavy’s eyes. “Are you telling me there’s absolutely nothing I can do to help her?”

  After a brief pause, the doctor nodded. “Maybe. I’ll send around a bottle of medicine this afternoon. Put four or five drops in a glass of water and give it to her before bed and every twelve hours afterward. It’ll help her sleep. Plenty of sleep just might relax her enough so’s her mind can mend itself.”

  Grateful to be able to help in some small way, Jericho readily agreed to administer the dosage.

  “Now in her state she might not want to take the medicine,” Greavy warned.

  “She’ll take it. I’ll make certain.”

  “I’ll have Yorkie bring it around shortly,” the doctor said. “Give her the first dose around ten tonight. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.”

  After thanking the doctor and stuffing some cash into his hand, Jericho stepped back inside the apartment Tapping lightly on the bedroom door, he entered at Vera’s command.

  Wearing one of Jericho’s shirts as a nightdress, she sat up against a mountain of pillows, a battered book open on her lap. When he entered the room she closed the book and laid it on the bedside table.

  “So, what’s the diagnosis? Am I certifiable and condemned to a home for the criminally insane?”

  Cringing at how closely she’d targeted Greavy’s diagnosis, he cast about for a shift of subject He pointed to the book on the bedside. “What’re you reading?”

  Vera tapped the worn cover. “A journal.”

  “Yours?”

  She smiled, a strange enigmatic smile that made a gentle mockery of his question. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You never told me what the good doctor had to say.”

  Seeing she wasn’t going to be distracted, he lowered onto the edge of the bed. “He said the only thing that might help ease your...confusion...is for you to stay in bed for a while. And he’s sending some medication.”

  “Stay in bed! Mental illness, if that’s what he thinks I’m suffering from, can’t be helped by bed rest Besides, I need to be downstairs, meeting the people, searching for information that might help me find Rafe Wilson’s real murderer. I can’t waste my time lolling about in bed.”

  She started to rise but Jericho’s firm hand pressed her back against the mound of pillows. “You’re going to stay right where you are.”

  “But it’s a waste of time!”

  “So what are you now? A doctor, too? What makes you think you know better than him?”

  “About a hundred years of more knowledge than he has,” she snapped.

  Jericho waggled his hand in the air. “Whoa, aren’t we the high-and-mighty one so pleased with ourself?” He flicked his hand toward the book on the bedside table. “So, you figure you’ve read a hundred years’ more information than an educated man like Doc Greavy?”

  “Exactly. If he’s such an accomplished physician, why’s he wasting his time in a jerkwater town like Jerome?”

  The moment the words escaped her lips, Vera wished with all her heart she could have them back. The slash of pain that darkened Jericho’s features stabbed her with the force of a Bowie knife.

  He stood up slowly. She couldn’t gauge the emotion that glittered in his dark eyes but she could hear the barely contained quiver of rage in his voice. “Yeah, we ignorant clods who live in this jerkwater town are surely beneath your exalted stature. But right now, we’re the only people standing between you and an early grave. So you’ll stay in this room and you’ll follow every bit of advice the doctor prescribes, or you’ll find yourself out on the street again. See how long it takes these jerkwater natives to find a rope to fit your superior neck!” He turned and stalked from the room, the door reverberating in his wake.

  Vera flopped back against the pillows. That was clever, she berated herself. She’d allowed her own frustration to mutate into displaced anger—against the doctor, against Jerome, against the very man who sheltered her.

  Yet how could she apologize? How could she explain that she was only railing against Doc Greavy’s ignorance of the tremendous advances medical science had made in treating mental illness in the past century?

  Vera sighed. The irony of her situation was sadly laughable. It didn’t matter what medical strides Doc Greavy did or didn’t know about. She wasn’t “confused” anyway; she was the victim of an inexplicable circumstance that a hundred years of bed rest wouldn’t cure.

  But how could she get back to her own time, her own people? The answer, she felt certain, was contained somewhere on the pages of Verity’s journal. Only when she’d figured out how to purchase a one-way ticket back to the twentieth century could she hope to explain to Jericho.

  Picking up the book once more, Vera started at the beginning and stepped into the life and dreams of the girl who’d influenced her own life for so many years.


  October 20, 1896. I went with Rafe into town today. Mama’s too close to the end of her confinement and I got to shop for the staples to see us through the winter. Buying flour and sugar and suchlike wasn’t much fun, but Rafe left me at Pike’s Store while he went to do some business. After we loaded the supplies I looked at all the new calico fabrics. I’d love to have a pretty dress made out of bright red calico. And a lacy petticoat peeking out beneath the hem. I’d twirl my skirts as I walked along the boardwalk and maybe somebody would ask me to the harvest dance they always have in Goodie Blenkenship’s barn.

  Rafe wouldn’t let me go anyhow. And Mama says I need to stop worrying my mind about Mr. Jackson. She says he’s too old for me and too worldly. Don’t know what she means by that.

  Anyway, the trip was fun. Until the ride home. Rafe must have done his business at one of the saloons. He was all liquored up and almost run us off the road more than once. Had to give him an elbow so’s he’d keep his hands offen me.

  But I love going to the city. All the ladies in their fine clothes and the excitement in the air. Everyone seems in such a hurry.

  Someday I’m going to the city for good. Won’t no one ever talk me into living in a shack on a lonely mountainside like Mama.

  Vera set the journal down. Verity seemed so young. So lonely. Would she ever realize her wish to live in the city—even a tiny little village like Jerome? On a more personal level, Vera wondered if she would ever get back to California. If she’d ever see her own apartment, her cat again. Maybe. If she and Verity both managed to survive these next few days they both might just see their dreams come true.

  THAT EVENING Susannah Sweet, the barmaid with the fiery red hair nicknamed Sweet Sue by the men, brought up a dinner tray for Vera.

  “What’s the matter, honey? You feelin’ poorly?” She uncovered a plate heaped with enough fried chicken and mashed potatoes to feed the entire mining town.