Jo and the Pinkerton Man

by Dorothy A. Bell

  Chapter Thirteen

  Adhering to the guidelines, Jo plodded through the remainder of the week. She was afraid if she made one false move Mrs. Jones, Gerald, or one of her students would discover she had a man in her tent.

  Dodie, Jo observed, had her nose down as well. She performed her duties with quiet efficiency and curtailed her interactions with Grace, Twyla-Rose, and the other girls. She offered polite greetings and the occasional giggle, but she avoided prolonged huddles.

  Out prowling around who-knows-where at night, Ryder, Jo knew, slept in her tent during the early morning and possibly most of the afternoon. Little things appeared, announcing he’d made her tent his home: the tin of ground coffee, the jar of blackberry jam sitting on the shelf above her little stove, the paper sack full of peppermint candies spilling out on top of her traveling trunk. He did check in on her throughout the night, and she’d become accustomed to the rustle of the canvas and his soft, ghost-like comings and goings. Sometimes they brushed fingertips in passing, and sometimes she felt his fingers touching her hair.

  Ryder had taken to haunting her residence to rest during the day. Now a new treasure awaited her return every afternoon. She’d discovered a black and white magpie feather tucked within the pages of her romance novel. He’d left her a smooth red stone in her teacup that fit perfectly between her thumb and forefinger. He’d put a milky, opaque quartz streaked with black veins shaped like a heart in her robe pocket, and, yesterday, a yellow rose blossom lay on her pillow.

  Disappointed to find her tent unoccupied, she slumped down on her cot. Suspense gnawed at her peace of mind and having to keep the secret of his presence pricked her conscience. The little tokens were all very nice, lovely, but she wanted to talk to him, see him. She wanted to hear about his investigation.

  Glancing around her small space, Jo thought it looked too neat, too tidy. The quilt folded and draped over the end of the bed, her pillow plumped and smooth, shouted a contrived appearance of vacancy. The only clue he’d been here at some point during the day was the iridescent, blue jay feather poking out between her carefully folded nightgown and the pillow.

  She sat for a long while, running the feather between her fingers to calm her fears. Chilled as the interior of her tent grew dim, she lit her lamp and put some wood in her stove to heat water. Shuffling feet, giggles, and whispers, and the squawk of the privy door opening and closing declared the students had started preparing for bed. Once her own ablutions were taken care of, her nightgown and robe on, and a pair of woolen socks on her feet, Jo wrapped her quilt around her and sat on her cot to compose her first letter home.

  An eternity, not even a full week, five days gone. She now understood why her brother Gabe’s letters home had always been so bland. How did one express one’s fears and disappointments without raising alarm? Any hint of peril would send her father Buck and her brothers Gabe and Van hell-for-leather to her rescue. She didn’t want to look too closely as to why she didn’t want them or need them to come to her rescue. She didn’t need rescuing, did she?

  Ashamed of herself for thinking it, truthfully, she didn’t want her family to discover she’d taken up with an Indian devil who had placed her in danger. And not only that, he’d laid claim to her heart. Her brothers would probably string Ryder up by his heels over the highest beam in the barn if they knew he was sleeping in her quarters. If her father ever found out Ryder was the one who had deliberately kept her in a train car full of train robbers, and that she’d shot someone to defend herself, he’d take him out and strip the hide off him.

  She truly believed Ryder McAdam would never allow any harm to come to her. Oh, she wouldn’t put it past him to put her in danger, but he would always provide protection for her. She trusted him. The idea startled her and gave her heart a sharp tweak. All her life she’d put her trust in her brothers and her father. She could count on them one hundred percent. But now, now she had Ryder McAdam. She didn’t need or want anyone else.

  Tapping her cheek with the feather, her lip tucked between her teeth, she had to decide how much to reveal.

  The blank piece of paper in her lap taunted her. No, she couldn’t tell her family about Ryder, not yet. But what to say without saying anything? That was the question.

  Shaking her head, she told herself, forget Ryder McAdam and his adventures, you’re a teacher.

  The girls, the girls, of course, she could write about her students. They were bright, enthusiastic. Although it was a damn shame they weren’t being challenged to expand their studies. Ah, well, nothing she could do about it. But now and then she did toss in the title of a few books and suggest the library in town might provide information about locations, climates, and customs of foreign countries. While there they could search for a book on mythology, the Greek gods and goddesses. Or if they preferred a bit of adventure, the tales of Robin Hood or Rob Roy. Tales of The Knights of the Round Table might hold their interest while giving them some insight into the past. She’d even gone so far as to suggest they have a reading hour before bed. If she couldn’t teach them, then they could teach themselves.

  Most of her students were eager to discover new worlds. A handful, to Jo’s dismay, dismissed the idea of studying more than the bare minimum to get by. After all, they aspired to be obedient wives, mothers, and God-fearing pillars in their communities, not scholars. To be anything more held the odor of the liberal-minded bluestocking’s and the suffragettes who marched to secure a woman’s right to vote. No man would countenance such a female for his bride.

  Jo scribbled a few more details and put a period at the end of her last sentence, having drawn a blank. She couldn’t talk about her comfortable, snug little cottage, the cottage she’d been promised upon accepting her position. And she didn’t intend to tell them she’d been relegated to an army tent next to the privy. She couldn’t talk about her fellow teachers, Miss Ott and Miss Ames. After a few brief conversations over their evening meals, the conversations had run dry.

  The tent flap opened, and Dodie entered, dressed in her nightgown and a muckle-dun colored blanket wrapped around her shoulders, with a length of it dragging on the ground. She stood stock still, her dark eyes wide, trembling slightly and teeth chattering. She asked, “Have you seen him…talked to him?”

  Jo shook her head and then nodded, squeezing her eyes shut before she explained herself, saying, “Not exactly…seen him? No. I…I mean…Wait, who? Have I seen who?”

  Dodie flopped on the cot and snuggled in next to her. “You know who. Move over. I’m freezing. I’ve been waiting for almost an hour out in the orchard for him. He didn’t show up…again.”

  Jo spread the quilt over them both and tucked it in around their feet. “Ryder? Your brother Ryder? That’s who we’re talking about?”

  Dodie snorted and nudged her with her shoulder. “Yes, Ryder, my brother. When he’s here, he sleeps here. I know he does, but with you in here, I wondered.” She waggled her eyebrows at Jo and snickered.

  Jo sighed and closed her eyes. “Who else knows he sleeps here?”

  Dodie pulled in her little chin. “No one, I hope.”

  “Not even Grace or Twyla-Rose?”

  “No,” Dodie said, her chin down, her fingers playing with the edge of the quilt. “I can’t tell them about Ryder. They know him, of course, we grew up in the same town, for heaven’s sake. And I think they know I see him and talk to him, but they don’t ask about him. They know he’s with Pinkerton. They know his plan allowed Daddy-Royce, Mr. Buttrum, and the sheriff to capture the train robbers. But they don’t know he’s here. They don’t know our secret meeting place. So, you haven’t seen him either.”

  Jo stroked the jay feather, measuring in her mind what she could reveal and what she shouldn’t reveal. “Well, I’ve sort of seen him. I have evidence he’s been here every day. He leaves me things.”

  Dodie jerked to attention. “What? What things? Show me?”

  Jo fished out from beneath her pillow a lace hanky and unfolded
it to reveal her treasures. “I found this magpie feather on my pillow a couple of days ago, the red stone the next day, then the quartz and the rose blossom, and today the jay feather.”

  Dodie picked up the magpie feather and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. “He’s talking to you, telling you what he’s doing. All of these things speak. The magpie is a mimic and a trickster. This red carnelian is a stone of power, holding it, worrying it, will give you confidence. The quartz, milky, opaque, when you hold it up to the light, reveals black veins of the truth of things past. The jay feather is from a bird famous for being a thief and a liar. The rose, the bud of a yellow rose, speaks of unexpressed regard.”

  Jo picked up the rose and held it to her cheek, inhaling its sweet scent, avoiding Dodie’s piercing gaze.

  “You? My brother has chosen you? We’re sisters.” Dodie put her hand on Jo’s arm. “You’ve lost touch with who you are, but my brother saw.”

  Jo shook her head in denial. “What? Saw what? I don’t understand.”

  Her black eyes narrowed, concentrating, Dodie looked deep into her eyes. “Tell me of your mother, your father?”

  Jo hesitated, sat up straight, and blinked a few times trying to think her way out of answering these questions. “My father and my brothers live near Baker City. They work a ranch and a guest hot spring.”

  Dodie smiled at her and shook her head. “No, who are the people of your parents?”

  Thinking to herself, Jo tipped her head to the side, not because of shame for her mother’s Indian blood, but for fear of exposing herself and her family to the prejudices it invoked. The Indians were persecuted and exploited, their children ripped from their arms and sent to schools where they were punished for speaking their own language. Dodie and Ryder were unmistakably Indians. Poor little Dodie, looked upon as inferior, treated as a servant by the arrogant Mrs. Jones, was a prime example of the current attitude of the white man. Jo did not want to be tossed into a category with a bunch of bigots, but on the other hand, she hesitated to confess her lineage aloud.

  Mustering her courage, she said, “My mother, Petra, was of the Kootenai people. Her mother married a white man, a wealthy man, who protected and pampered my mother, and her mother, from the world. My mother escaped an abusive man, and luckily my father found her and worshiped her. Our home is away from town and the politics of the day. My mother, for most of her childhood, thought of herself as white. Not until she had her first child did she come to value the ways of her people. She took us, her children, to visit several times, but when her old aunt passed, she stopped making the effort to stay in touch. To be honest, I never felt comfortable with my mother’s people.”

  Dodie smiled and gave her a hug. “My brother is alive and doing what needs to be done. I have another sister now. We will wait. Hold the red stone in your palm when you sleep. Do not hold the white one. It will give you bad dreams. I have to go,” she said, disentangling herself from the quilt.

  Before leaving, Dodie turned to say, “Our mother was of the Cayuse people, a healer, and our father a horse trainer of Scottish descent. They loved horses, all animals, as do I. I was three when they…they died. Our sister Tru, she took care of us as best she could. She was eighteen at the time. Ryder was ten and Ben not even a year old. I don’t remember my parents. Tru told us stories to keep them alive in our hearts. Ryder says he doesn’t remember, but I don’t believe him. Daddy Royce and Mama Cleantha adopted us, loved us, and gave us a true home. We were lucky.”

  The tent flap closed, and a waft of frosty air rushed in. Hurriedly, Jo finished her letter with a few more tidbits. The orchard walks with her students, the difficulty she found having to adhere to the guidelines and limitations of the school’s curriculum, and a few inquiries directed to Birdie-Alice and the expected child, the first grandchild. She closed, sending her love to them all, assuring them she was well and doing fine.

  She put more wood in her stove. With a cup of warm tea in her hand, she blew out her lantern and got between the covers. Sitting in the dark on her cot, with Ryder’s gifts spread out on her pillow, she waited for him to come to her. He would come to her tonight, the rose told her so.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Twice she started to nod off, and twice to keep herself awake Jo stoked the stove with more kindling to warm the tea in her kettle. Close by, the hoot of an owl brought her to full alert. Holding her breath, she heard the canvas rustle at the back of the tent. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, tucking her legs to the side to make room for him.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The interior of the tent was dark, dank, and cold, making it impossible to see anything or anyone. But when he bumped into the stove and the lid of her tea kettle rattled, she knew precisely where he stood. When the little cup of utensils on the shelf above the stove clattered to the dirt floor and he cursed, she thought he might be drunk.

  “You’re supposed to be asleep, damn it. I need my bedroll. It’s under your cot.”

  No, not drunk. In a foul mood, but why?

  Going down on his hands and knees in front of her, his cold hand landed on her knee. She put her hand over his before he could withdraw it. “Why are you leaving? Why not sleep here at night too?”

  His fingers dug into her leg. He quickly let go, slipping his hand out from under hers. Rising, he said, “I sure as hell wouldn’t get any sleep if I stayed here. So yeah, I’m leaving.” Turning away from her, he stubbed his shin on her travel trunk and let out a low-level howl of pain.

  Throwing back her cover, Jo rose to her feet and slammed into his back. To keep her balance, she put her hands on his shoulders. “Why? You’ve been sleeping here during the day all week.”

  He turned and slipped an arm around her waist. “Keep your voice down.”

  Swatting his arm, she shook her head. “You can’t leave. I am fully awake, and I want to know what you’ve found out. If you don’t sleep here, then where do you go?”

  On a deep sigh, he put his forehead to hers. “You don’t need to know where I sleep, or if I sleep at night. I’ll let you know when I find out something important. Right now, I don’t have much to report. I personally watched Mr. Jones mail his letter to Mr. Omar Jaynes. He mailed it to the Port of Portland.

  “I sent a wire, and an operative in Portland reported the captain of the Oracle, Omar Jaynes, is rumored to be holed up in a dockside bawdy house. I contacted the comptroller of the Port of Portland. He doesn’t know what the hell the Oracle is hauling. It’s not a passenger ship—that he did know. The Oracle has paid dockage for the rest of the month, estimated date of departure is mid-October.”

  He huffed and then heaved a weighty sigh. “As for Gerald, he’s a horrible gambler, in debt all over town. Like I said, I’ll be around, keeping an eye on you. I can’t stay here,” he said and turned away to leave.

  “No,” she said, clutching his arm. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to stay right here and sleep on my floor where I know you’re safe. Dodie. Dodie was here looking for you. She’s worried too. You didn’t meet her in the orchard.”

  “So, she knows?”

  Pressing her lips together, she nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her.

  He gave her a little shake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here. You could get in real trouble.”

  Clutching at the front of his coat, she said, “No. It’s good she knows. I can talk to her. We can worry about you together. She explained to me the meaning of all your little gifts. I love them. I keep them here under my pillow.”

  “Yeah, Dodie and I, and my brother Jewel, we look for things to convey messages, it’s a game, a habit. I couldn’t think of any other way to let you know what I was doing. Let you know I’m thinking of you, can’t get you out of my head. You, you’re driving me out of my mind. I can’t, Jo, I have to keep my head clear, for your sake, I have to.”

  Her finger, tracing along his jaw and scraping the stubble of whiskers, awakened in her a disturbing maternal instin
ct to hold him and feed him. “You need to stay here, stay here with me, and rest. Have some food. I have some sausage and bread, and an apple, of course.”

  In a swift move that took her breath away, he jerked her into a tight embrace. His hand pressed to her lower back, he pulled her in, curving her body into his hips. With the evidence of his aroused manhood against her stomach, she gasped, eyes wide open now.

  “That’s why I can’t sleep here,” he said, his voice a primal growl. “I can’t sleep here, not with you sleeping in your cot in nothing but your nightgown, your hair down around your shoulders, falling to your waist, smelling warm, sweet, fresh and clean. The perfume, or the soap, whatever it is you use, it drives me mad, it fills the air, coils around my head. I can’t think straight. God, Jo, let me go. I have to go.”

  On a groan, he gently shoved her aside to go around her. A cold draft moved in around her bare legs. She blinked, staring into the darkness, reality sinking in. “You want me? No one has ever wanted me. I mean…no man has ever wanted me.”

  He growled in the dark, a primal, guttural snarl. “I gotta get out of here.” The canvas rustled.

  “No, you wait right there, Ryder McAdam. You have to help me understand this. Am I right? You want me, you want to…to…?”

  “Yeah. I really want to.”

  His verbal admission knocked the wind right out of her sails.

  “Why?”

  “Christ, why do you think?”

  “‘Cause I’m vulnerable. I’m alone. I’m an easy conquest.”

  His bedroll landed on her foot. She took a half step back and nearly fell. He caught her, breathing hard, trembling, and pinned her against his chest. “You are not easy. I suspect a lot of men have lusted after you, but you turned up your nose, attacked them with that sharp tongue of yours and sent them away, ears burning and their…their expectations limp in their trousers. I can testify you are not vulnerable. You are very capable of taking care of yourself. As for easy conquest, yeah, it’s why I can’t stay here in this tent with you. Why I don’t sleep here. I come in, get my bedroll, and leave because taking you wouldn’t be any challenge at all.”