My Heart's Desire

by Jo Goodman

  Jarret rocked her gently, and when she was asleep he laid her down and tucked the blankets around her, then himself against her. "You couldn't make me sorry," he said, smoothing the back of her silky hair. "Not about this."

  * * *

  Dancer Tubbs tracked the riders for two miles. The man was familiar; his companion was not. He scratched the whiskerless, scarred side of his face, searching for a name to put to the man. He had a vague memory of setting a shoulder years ago and a more recent recollection of going toe to toe, barrel to barrel, with his shotgun and the bounty hunter's carbine. "Sullivan," he muttered to himself. "Damn Irish just walk on any man's land."

  Dancer's eyes shifted to the second rider. Even from his position in the rocks above them, Dancer could see it was a woman. A deep crease formed between his brows as he frowned. She was swaying more in her saddle, leaning weakly forward as though she couldn't keep her balance. Occasionally Sullivan would reach over and steady her, but she always sagged limply when he removed his arm.

  Dancer lowered his gun but kept track of their progress. They were headed right for his cabin. "Trespassers," he mumbled. His damaged vocal chords gave his voice a guttural, raspy quality. "Damn Irish squatters." He looked back at his iron gray gelding. "They think I'm running a boardin' house?" he asked. The gelding pawed the ground nervously, not used to Dancer's rough voice.

  The prospector looked back at the travelers. He watched Sullivan finally give up trying to steady his companion and simply pull her onto his own saddle. She went without protest, for all purposes too weak to mind the discomfort of riding double. Dancer swore softly and spit. He put his weapon away and mounted. It wouldn't hurt to get a little closer and take another look.

  * * *

  "Do you think he's seen us?" Rennie whispered against Jarret's coat.

  "There's no knowing for sure," he said. "He's around here somewhere, though. The hair's standing up on the back of my neck."

  "Are you afraid?" she asked.

  "I'd be a damn fool if I weren't. A good sense of fear keeps you cautious. The trick is not to let it overwhelm you."

  It was too late for Rennie to learn that lesson. Her heart was slamming against her breast, and the chill she felt in her bones had little to do with the cold. Her stomach roiled and she moaned softly. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  "Good," he said practically. "It fits the plan." But he held her more securely just the same.

  * * *

  Dancer Tubbs used his gelding to block the narrow trail a mile before his cabin. When Rennie and Jarret rounded the curve they were met squarely by the muzzle of Dancer's Winchester.

  Rennie had steeled herself to face the man but never quite believed the reality could be worse than her imaginings. It was. The scars on Dancer's face were set in white relief against his skin, like a hundred twisted webs stacked thinly on one another. His half ear was curled and flattened against his head. The left side of his mouth was pulled taut in a perpetually savage grin. His beard grew down from the right but only covered three quarters of his face. It was thick and ill kempt, as black as boot polish and long enough to reach the second button of his woolen blue-gray overcoat. A gold braid epaulet dangled from his right shoulder. A saber dangled at his waist.

  Rennie tried not to show her alarm, or worse, her pity. Fear simply knotted up inside her, making it impossible to breathe, and she felt a familiar tide of shadows lapping at the edges of her consciousness. Jarret was holding her too tightly. She tried to tell him. When he realized what was happening it was too late. Rennie slumped forward in a faint.

  Dancer's laughter was a high-pitched cackle that sounded as if it were breaking in the back of his throat. He made a stabbing motion with his rifle in Jarret's direction. "You should told her about me, Sullivan. This ol' face of mine sets 'em swoonin'."

  Jarret felt a moment's relief that Dancer Tubbs remembered him. He needed every second for negotiations, not introductions. "She's not the kind of woman that's put off by a pretty face, Dancer. She's sickening for something."

  "That so?" he asked suspiciously.

  "See for yourself." Jarret raised Rennie's chin, lifting her face for Dancer's inspection. He noticed it was obligingly pale.

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "I don't know. She started complaining last night. I thought it was a ruse, but it appears I was wrong."

  One of Dancer's eyebrows arched. He pointed with the rifle again. "Eh? What's this about a ruse? What do you mean? Is she runnin' from you?"

  Jarret felt Rennie stir in his arms. He didn't let his relief show. "There's a bounty on her. Three hundred dollars."

  "How's that? What'd she do?" He cackled again. "Robbery or murder?"

  "Murder. Took leave of her senses one evening and stabbed her husband to death."

  Dancer considered that. "He probably deserved it. Don't know many men who don't. Where you takin' her?"

  "Denver. That's where I'll get the reward."

  The prospector's teeth were bared in a parody of a thoughtful smile. "Maybe I'll kill you and take the bounty myself."

  Jarret shook his head. He felt Rennie tense, and a warning squeeze of his fingers was enough to keep her still and silent. "You wouldn't do that, Dancer."

  "How's that again?" he asked, his face reddening everywhere but in the web of scars. "And what's to stop me?"

  "You're a healer," Jarret called back, inching his horse ahead. "That's why I brought her to you, because you can help her."

  "So you can take her back and let her swing from a rope? Seems like a waste of my time."

  Jarret was silent, not wanting to overstate his case. He let Dancer think about it.

  The prospector fixed his stare on Rennie. He lowered his Winchester by slow degrees. "All right," he said reluctantly, "but you can't stay a minute past her being well."

  Jarret nodded. "Agreed. We'll stay only until she can travel again."

  Dancer put the weapon away, gave Jarret a brief nod binding the agreement, then swung his horse around.

  Urging Zilly forward, Jarret caught up to Dancer. They rode single file until the path widened. A corridor of pines sheltered them. "Have you seen that train wreck by the Jump?" asked Jarret.

  "Could be." He glanced sideways at Jarret. "You travel up this way from there? Seems like you been goin' a mite out of your way to get to Denver."

  "Don't I know it." Jarret propped Rennie up. Her head flopped forward like a rag doll's. "She's led me a merry chase."

  "Don't seem like she'd be able to survive long in these mountains on her own."

  "You're seein' the truth of that right now. She would have died of exposure if I hadn't finally caught up to her."

  Dancer's mouth puckered whitely as he pursed his lips in thought. His clear, frost blue eyes would have been uncommon in any face, but in one so disfigured they were especially remarkable. Like twin points of searing light, they burned Jarret with their heat. "You got a mighty poor way of makin' a livin', bounty hunter, trackin' folks down only so's they die in civilized country." He gave a short bark of laughter and shook his head slowly. "Thank God I been saved from civilization."

  There wasn't anything Jarret wanted to say to that. He stayed abreast of Dancer Tubbs in silence.

  The prospector's cabin was built with the timber that had been cleared to make room for it. It was situated on a small knoll, protected by towering pines and aspens on three sides and a wide, shallow stream on the fourth. They splashed through the stream and rode up to the lean-to, where Dancer hitched the horses. Jarret pretended to steady Rennie while he dismounted then helped her slide down into his arms.

  "You go on," Dancer said. "Take her inside. I'll see to the horses and your supplies."

  Jarret hefted Rennie and carried her to the door. He pushed it open with his good shoulder, and when he stepped inside he let her drop.

  "Well, thank you very much," she whispered, stumbling on her feet.

  Shaking out his arm, Jarret said, "You're lucky I di
dn't pitch you in the snow."

  "Your arm?"

  "Mm-hmm." He didn't give it another thought. He worked his fingers, folding and unfolding them as he looked around the cabin. There was a stone hearth that Dancer used for heat and cooking. The prospector couldn't have been bothered with amenities like a stove. There was also no pump, which meant water was hauled from the stream. The furniture was pine and had been crafted with considerable care. The table surface was smooth and cornered cleanly with hard right angles. Two high-backed ladder chairs had been sanded in a way that brought out the wood grain. Pots and kettles hung on the wall near the fireplace, and a colorful rag quilt covered the bed. Jarret's eyes swung from the bed to the ladder that led to the loft. He was going to investigate what use Dancer had for the loft when he heard the prospector's approach. He gave Rennie a push in the direction of the bed.

  Rennie lay on her side on top of the quilt, her knees raised slightly toward her chest and her arms folded across her middle. It was not so difficult to pretend she was sick when disappointment and defeat gnawed at her insides with the power of a living thing.

  She had not fully realized her own expectations until she stood on the threshold of Dancer's cabin and saw nothing of her father. She had warned Jarret she wasn't prepared for that eventuality, and she wasn't. No matter how unreasonable the prospect, Rennie had always held a different vision in her mind's eye, one that had her stepping into her father's outstretched arms and being congratulated for her persistence and single-minded determination.

  Rennie's soft moan gave sound to the ache in her heart. It was quite real.

  Dancer glanced from Rennie to Jarret. "I left your supplies in the lean-to. You go get what you need." He took off his gloves and dropped them on the table. "I'll see about brewing something for her. I got a few herbs that might turn the trick."

  Jarret did not want to leave Rennie alone, but he couldn't afford to let his reluctance show. He stepped outside.

  Dancer waited until the door closed before he shrugged out of his coat. "That man don't trust you," he said. "He thinks you're gonna get up and walk away." He looked at Rennie thoughtfully. "Could be he's right."

  Rennie's eyes fluttered open. Dancer was stroking the ends of his long, black beard. She made the pain she felt work in her favor, but didn't know if it would be enough. She was no actress and never before had any cause to want to be. "I'd like to walk away," she said raggedly, wetting her dry lips. She winced as though seized by another stomach cramp. "But I can't."

  "Could be you're tryin' to fool me," he said, turning away. He rummaged through the open shelves, shuffling jars and bottles and tins until he had what he wanted. By the time he had everything set on the table, Jarret had returned to the cabin. Dancer didn't bother looking up as Jarret swung a chair around and straddled it. "She's still here," he said.

  "I see that."

  Dancer pinched some herbs and stems from each of the tins and ground them together in a porcelain mortar. He hefted the kettle on the hook in the fireplace and found it was empty. "This needs fillin'," he said, handing it to Jarret. When Jarret was gone Dancer placed the grounds in a tin tea strainer. "You know, ma'am," he said in his raspy, damaged voice, "I could kill him afore he steps inside."

  Rennie sucked in her breath in reaction, then tried to cover it by curling in a tighter ball. She was afraid to look at Dancer to gauge the effectiveness of her playacting, so she kept her eyes squeezed shut.

  Dancer tapped the tea strainer against the edge of the table, waiting for Jarret's return, and continued to subject Rennie to his intense blue-white stare.

  Jarret knocked snow off his boots by kicking the doorjamb. He held out the kettle for Dancer. "Do you need more wood?"

  "Got plenty," Dancer said, taking the kettle. "Put your coat on that peg over yonder and then take the lady's coat. You might put her under the quilt, get her dry and warm." He hung the kettle on the hook and poked casually at the fire, raising the flames. "I offered to shoot you for her, just so's she could get away. I guess she ain't much interested in that right now. We'll have to see what she thinks about it when she's feelin' better."

  Jarret finished helping Rennie under the covers. Out of Dancer's sight he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "It will be something to look forward to."

  Dancer's breaking laughter filled the tiny cabin with sound.

  Straddling the chair again, Jarret laid his forearms along the top rail and rested his chin on the back of his hands. "You know much about that train wreck?" he asked indifferently.

  "Could be." Dancer tilted his own chair against the wall while he waited for the water to boil. His feet dangled off the floor, so he hooked his heels on one of the leg supports. "That's the second time you mentioned the wreck. Why you so interested?"

  Jarret shrugged. "It's kind of a curiosity, don't you think? Not much happens in these parts. Mountains must have been swarming with people for a while."

  "Damn near had a parade goin' through here," Dancer grumbled.

  "No one bothered you, did they?"

  "Ain't many people know where I am." He gave Jarret a sour look. "Can think of about two others save you that coulda found me on purpose."

  "Did you ever go down to the wreck?"

  Dancer scratched his beard. "Now, what cause would I have to do that? Got no use for pokin' my nose where it don't belong." He tipped the chair forward, landing lightly on his feet, and used a towel to unhook the kettle. He set the tea strainer in a chipped, thick-lipped mug and poured the hot water. "I heard the crash," he said, setting the kettle aside. Fragrant steam rose from the cup. "Seemed like it echoed for near on five minutes. I took a look-see for myself, but folks from the train were already takin' care of it by the time I got there. No sense in hangin' 'round after that."

  He slid the mug across the table to Jarret. "You give it to her. She might not want me touchin' her."

  Rennie opened her eyes now and made a weak attempt to sit up. "No," she said, her voice almost as throaty as Dancer's. "I'd rather have it from you."

  Dancer's eyes widened. "Whoooeee," he said, slapping the table. "She don't trust your no-account self." He picked up the mug and carried it over to the bed. "You have to sit up, ma'am. Can't take this down unless you're sittin' up."

  Rennie let Dancer help her. She pushed back hair that had come loose from the ribbon at her nape and then accepted the mug. Raising it gingerly to her lips, she sipped. Simultaneous to the brew burning her tongue, the steaming fragrance cleared her head. Her eyes widened a little at the effect.

  Dancer chuckled at her surprise. "Got a kick, don't it? Go on. It's good for you." He waited until she had finished all of it. "Now you just put yourself down again. You mind if I touch your head, ma'am?"

  Rennie shook her head. She made certain she looked him squarely in the face, her eyes unafraid and not repulsed. The pads of his fingers were calloused and rough, but his touch was gentle. He turned his hand over and laid his fingers across her forehead.

  "You're cool enough," he said. "Don't suppose you'll be needin' more than a day's rest afore he's ready to take you outta here." He straightened and spoke to Jarret. "I got work to do at my claim. Just let her sleep. If I remember rightly, you're a fair to middlin' cook. You might fix dinner as payment."

  When he was gone Rennie sat up. She tucked in the tails of her shirt and refastened the ribbon in her hair. "What are we going to do now?" she asked wearily. "We got close enough to talk to him, but Jay Mac isn't here. Why didn't you ask him straight out if he knew anything about my father?"

  "Because he doesn't trust us yet. It's his nature to be suspicious. He's not entirely certain you're ill, and he can't figure out if you're pretending so you can get rid of me or if we're both pretending to get near him. If he knows something, he may not tell us, and that's worse than him not knowing anything at all."

  Rennie pushed her legs over the side of the bed. Her shoulders were hunched and her head bowed. "I just thought..."

  The cha
ir scraped against the floor as Jarret moved to sit beside her. He put an arm around her shoulders and let her lean against him. "I know what you thought. Let's play it out a little longer and see what happens." Jarret's eyes strayed to the two chairs at the table and then to the loft. "It's too soon to jump to conclusions one way or the other."

  She nodded. Her forehead rubbed against his shoulder. Jarret lifted her face and met her eyes. She watched his glance drop to her mouth and linger there. He bent his head and kissed her with sweet poignancy.

  Jarret drew back and studied her face. Her tear-washed emerald eyes glistened; her mouth was invitingly parted. He cupped the side of her face and ran his thumb along her lips. "Trust me, Rennie. I can't make any promises about the outcome, but trust me to be doing what's best."

  "I do."

  He released her and stood. "Why don't you see what Dancer's got stocked in his larder while I have a look in the loft? Set out what you want me to make for dinner. Make certain you look in his dirt cellar. He's bound to have some vegetables in there. I'll get the meat from the curing shed out back."

  Rennie wondered what Jarret expected to find in the loft, so while he went to the curing shed she climbed the ladder herself. There were a few trunks, all of them filled with clothes or blankets and the few odd treasures. A feather tick, much like the one Jarret had in his loft, took up most of the floor space. Unlike the smoothly made bed below, no attempt had been made to straighten the covers here. They were lumped together at the foot of the tick.

  Shrugging, Rennie climbed down, and when Jarret came back she was rooting through the dirt cellar, picking out the potatoes and turnips that she wanted for their stew. She handed them up to him, then let him pull her out. She saw him shake out his right arm again, but made no comment. It seemed that since his fall from Zilly, he had been having more trouble with it. "Anything interesting in the loft?" she asked.