His contrary side wanting to prove Allie wrong, Jesse did study the Teddy Bear. Johnny slumped his shoulders. He shuffled when he walked. He strapped his six-shooter too high for a quick draw.
Jesse frowned.
"Blue Thunder needs a man who can track a sheriff killer and stare him down at gunpoint," Allie said. "That man is not Johnny Dufflemeir."
Jesse shrugged. "So the mayor will appoint somebody else."
"You really don't get it, do you?" Her smile was mirthless. She shook her head. "The people in this town didn't grow up fearing for their lives, like we did, Jess. They don't sleep with revolvers under their pillows. They don't lock their doors at night.
"When you go into the mayor's meeting today, look around you. Really look at the farmers and merchants, the husbands and fathers. Not a single one of those men is fit to wear a badge. Not if it means a real, pee-in-your-pants gunfight."
Jesse fidgeted.
"You may be a Texican, Jess." She laid her hand on his forearm. "But your heart's here with Sera, in Blue Thunder." Nodding her farewell, she picked up her skirts to sidestep a puddle before heading back to her shop.
Scowling, Jesse watched her walk away. His ornery side assured him that Allie's head was full of flummery.
But even as he debated about going into that emergency meeting—especially now that the gossip was flying about his gunfighting skills—Jesse thought of Sera. Of Eden. Of Eden's baby. He envisioned Doc Jones taking a bullet while trying to protect his family. That blue-eyed preacher's boy and healer had probably never fired a gun in his life, except maybe to shoot a horse with a broken leg.
In the end, it was that vision of Michael, getting gunned down while trying to protect Sera, that made Jesse stride across the street and enter the two-story, red-brick building that served as town hall and courthouse. He wanted to assure himself that the men of Blue Thunder could stand up to their mysterious "sheriff killer."
When he yanked open the door to the council chamber, the room hushed. At least 100 shaggy heads with grizzled faces turned to stare at him. Some of those eyes were hopeful. Some were doubtful. But the strongest wave of emotion that hit him was fear.
Rabbits and sheep, his gut told him callously.
Uncomfortable with so much scrutiny, he nodded to the assembly and took the chair that was nearest the door. Slumping as low as possible, he tipped his hat over his features. His instinct was to disappear, like his Cherokee totem, the Texas Lynx—which folks around these parts called the Bobcat.
As the first item of business, the mayor announced the council's decision to postpone Founder's Day until the next weekend. That way, a sheriff's deputy would have time to ride south from Williamsburg to help protect the women and children of Blue Thunder.
Then Walter Frothingale announced the two candidates that the town council would be voting upon for the marshal appointment. Jesse was hard-pressed not to scoff when the mayor ticked off the primary qualifications for consideration: a rifle, shotgun, revolver, and bachelorhood.
The first candidate, of course, was Johnny Dufflemeir, who tripped over his own feet as he rose. Shyly shuffling to the front of the room, bespectacled, big-hearted Johnny promised to the mayor and the five council members that he would "make things right for Blue Thunder," the way that his uncle, Eddie Holcombe, had.
The second candidate, Noel Paddington, was a former jockey from Lexington. The wiry, five-foot-two firecracker sported an arm sling when he took the stage for his requisite speech. Apparently, Noel's nephew had inadvertently pounded Noel's thumb with a hammer the day before, while the two Paddingtons had been stringing a banner that read, "Welcome to Blue Thunder's 45th Founder's Day," across the public livery.
When pressed by Councilman Perkins, a retired sawbones, Noel admitted that his gun hand was the affected appendage, but he bravely insisted that he could fire a revolver with his left hand too.
Jesse groaned to himself. Cass would have laughed uproariously to face a one-armed marshal who stood no taller than his nose, much less an accident-prone "dead eye" who wore spectacles. Any gunslinger with dishonorable intentions would have made short work of Noel and Johnny.
Luke Frothingale requested the floor. Dressed in his tailored broadcloth, the law wrangler had cleaned up a bit since calling at Michael's back door. Luke's slicked-back, raven-wing hair gleamed with blue sparks in the sunshine that spilled through the towering, arched windows on the eastern side of the chamber.
Luke faced the men of Blue Thunder.
"For the record," he stated in his best lawyer's manner, "I'd like to report that Ben Truitt regained consciousness long enough before his surgery to swear in a local deputy. Since the only men who were present at the time in Ma's house—er, I mean, in Betsy Frothingale's house—were me, Doc Jones, and Preacher Prescott, I took the oath.
"Under the law, when a sheriff is unable to perform his elected duties, a deputy can act as an interim sheriff, with all the legal rights of that office—at least until election day."
"What's that mean, Luke?" some grizzled scarecrow of a man, who looked like he might be a coroner, bellowed from the second row.
Luke turned his bright, book-learned gaze on the coroner.
"It means I get to appoint my own deputy."
A general rumble of surprise circled the room.
"You mean we don't need a marshal no more?" Johnny called, pushing his glasses up his nose and squinting in disappointment.
"Oh, we need a marshal, all right. The trouble is, a marshal's jurisdiction ends where the town ends. A sheriff's jurisdiction doesn't include the incorporated areas—that means the towns and cities, Buck!" Luke added impatiently, when the coroner tried to interject another question.
"So what I'm proposing today, gentlemen," Luke continued, addressing the mayor and the council members now, "is that you appoint my new deputy as your marshal. That way, he'll have the authority to question folks in town, at the sawmill, out in the coal mining camps, and wherever else he needs to go in Whitley County to bring Ben's bushwhacker to justice."
"But who's this new deputy of yours?" Buck bellowed again.
Luke turned to face the assembly once more. When his canny, earth-colored eyes drilled straight to the back of the room, Jesse's scalp pricked in warning.
"Gentlemen," Luke announced, "meet Jesse Quaid."
* * *
That night, while silver storm clouds scuttled across a quarter moon, Sera sat in the dark, before the fluttering, white curtains of her open bedroom window. She was keeping an uneasy vigil for Jesse.
Shortly after sunset, an exhausted but triumphant Michael had returned home to announce that Ben's condition was stable—and that Jesse had a new job.
Sera had been dumbstruck.
Just like that? Jesse's the new marshal? He'll be moving into town? He won't be sleeping in the stable?
She didn't know that she liked the idea. While the marshal appointment gave Jesse a steady salary and a reason to stay in Blue Thunder (besides her, of course!) she didn't know if she could reconcile her Christian beliefs to the thought of marrying a man who had to shoot or kill another man, unless it was strictly self-defense.
To add fuel to her fear, she panicked every time she imagined Jesse risking his life to hunt a sheriff killer. He hadn't come home all day. Michael had refused to hazard a guess where Jesse might be—probably because he'd sensed her upset. But Michael's reticence had only escalated Sera's worry. Maybe Jesse had been out tracking the sheriff killer. Maybe he'd been ambushed too!
She couldn't bear to think that Jesse had suffered the same fate as Ben. She kept telling herself that he had to be safe—that he had to return—if only to fetch the spare pair of dungarees that he'd left drying in the empty stall where he'd spread his bedroll every night for the last six weeks.
Besides, she had so many questions to ask him, starting with how he'd gotten himself appointed a sheriff's deputy and a town marshal all in the same day!
And then there was her
secret question, the one which she didn't dare speak aloud: how was she supposed to convince him to marry her if he kept chasing outlaws by day, and sleeping next door to Allison by night?
Part of Jesse's marshal's pay would include a rent-free apartment in town. That apartment happened to be located over Claudia's store—just a stone's throw from the rooms that Allison shared with Becky.
The thought of Allison's proximity to Jesse's new sleeping quarters tied Sera's stomach in knots. Allison would be able to hail him every morning when he reported for duty and every evening when he returned home. If they decided to live like a married couple, all they'd have to do was knock down a wall!
In light of these sudden, drastic changes, one sizzling kiss in the kitchen didn't seem like much leverage to hold onto a man. Sera needed reassurance. She needed to know that after Ben convalesced, and his bushwhacker was locked in the county penitentiary, that Jesse would publically declare her his sweetheart.
And if he doesn't...
She bit her lip to stave off tears. She just didn't think she could live in the same town with the man. She just didn't think she could bear to watch him sit in a pew every Sunday, in the church that her daddy had built, singing hymns and praising the Lord for Allison Cassidy Quaid!
Please, please, please, Lord. Let him be safe...
A slinky black shadow distracted Sera from her brooding. Prowling out of the moon-silvered grasses, Stazzie strutted across the driveway, her sinews rippling in all their feline sensuality, like a miniature she-panther patrolling her territory.
Sera sucked in her breath.
That darn cat! Michael had apparently failed to lure his wife's recalcitrant pet into the house. Stazzie thought she was queen of the world out there, despite the fact that coyotes and large, swooping owls made midnight snacks of kitties.
Eden will positively croak if something happens to that cat!
With nothing better to do but worry about Jesse, Sera decided to go outside and rescue Stazzie's stubborn, ungrateful hide from woodland night prowlers.
She tugged on boots beneath her layers of calico, muslin, and lace; she wrapped a shawl with purple butterflies and yellow daffodils around her shoulders. Then, her mind fixated on how to coax Stazzie inside without a pan of milk, Sera forgot all about her drawer of neatly folded, matinee-length gloves.
She tiptoed down the back stairs and slipped into the yard.
"Stazzie?" she called, hesitant to really shout. Michael and Eden were sleeping, for once.
The night rumbled with quiet thunder. She shivered to see the electrical-blue light display flickering over the craggy peaks to the east, the source of Blue Thunder's name. Maybe that symphony of nature was keeping Jesse holed up in a cave somewhere. Judging by the mist of rain on the wind and the thrashing of the maple tree by the stable, that storm would soon be striking the valley, causing the usual spring floods and mudslides.
Then Jesse might never come home!
Swallowing a fresh dose of panic, Sera hugged her shawl tighter against the tugging fingers of the wind.
Coyotes, she reminded herself grimly. Bring the cat inside.
"Stazzie?" she called again, trying to croon like Jesse did. Of course, since she was female, Sera suspected that any sound that came out of her mouth—husky, crooning, or otherwise—would have far less appeal to Stazzie than Jesse's rumbly, Texas baritone. But she figured it was worth a try, anyway.
A ripple of transparent colors caught her eye.
A prickly shiver raced over her scalp, like tiny spiders running through her hair. After nearly 20 years of trial-and-error, she'd learned to interpret that creepy-crawly feeling as the presence of one thing, and one thing only: A spirit.
"Gabriel?" she breathed, her heart speeding with anticipation.
More excited than alarmed, she hurried after that fleeing specter as it zipped around the corner of the stable, moving faster than even Tempest could run.
"Wait!" she panted. "It's me! Sera!"
She stumbled to a halt. The ghost wasn't Gabriel.
From her iron-gray braids to her beaded moccasins, Jesse's grandmother crackled with some pale, supernatural energy. But that milky shimmer didn't disturb Stazzie in the least. The cat was weaving in and out of the wizened, old Medicine Woman's ankles as if she was any favored, living human. Stazzie's happy purr of welcome rumbled through the night.
Sera gulped a bolstering breath.
Jesse's grandmother spied her. Grinning, she pointed at her chest. The word, Hiawassee, whispered through Sera's mind.
Her eyes widened. Hiawassee? That was her name?
The ghost nodded.
Sera suspected that she looked bug-eyed, now. Never had Gabriel been able to communicate in her head. In fact, his struggles to convey messages had been a constant frustration to them both. He would pantomime, stomp, or scrunch up his face to make his point known. Sometimes, when she failed to understand, he'd start throwing her pillows and shoes.
Hiawassee's chuckle sounded faint and raspy in Sera's mind. "Young one," the Indian said. "He'll learn."
Sera sucked in her breath.
"You can hear me?" she ventured, incredulous.
Hiawassee nodded.
"Are you Comanche?"
"Cherokee," came the next whispery sigh of sound.
Sera clutched her heart. It felt so full, she thought it might burst.
Jesse was Cherokee. Southeastern Kentucky had lots of peaceful Cherokees, living and farming in self-governing communities. In fact, Ywahoo Falls was a sacred Cherokee burial ground. Whenever she stopped there to water Nag or Tempest, she would spy glimmers of Cherokee ghosts—romping children and curious squaws—peering at her from limestone crags or hickory trees.
"Is Jesse safe?" she asked next.
Hiawassee nodded again.
Sera swallowed, blinking back tears. She had a sense that it took great effort and concentration for Hiawassee to make her thoughts known. Sera wondered if being a Medicine Woman in her mortal life had prepared Hiawassee to communicate with humans as a spirit. Gabriel had certainly never had such training.
"Help you?" Hiawassee offered. "Help Jesse?"
"Yes," Sera said eagerly. "Please. He can't remember something. Something that he fears he did. He asked me to see the past for him, but I don't know how. I mean, I don't know where he was, or what he thinks he did. I need some clue. Some place to start."
Hiawassee's expression grew somber. Sera suspected that the ghost knew exactly what she was referring to.
"Come," Hiawassee said.
The ghost turned and floated through the stable wall as if it were air. Stazzie bounded after her, only to slide to a halt. She yowled at the towering, stretch of wood that loomed in her way.
Sera smirked to see the lashing tip of the cat's tail.
"Maybe you'll be able to walk through walls in your next life, Stazz," she said, shoving aside the main, rolling door.
It squealed with an ungodly racket, making her wince. She wished that she'd had the presence of mind to enter through the feed room door, even if its stash of oats made it a favorite haunt of mice at this time of night. Anxiously, she glanced toward her brother's darkened bedroom window.
No light flared.
She loosed her breath in a tremulous rush.
In the moonbeams that stretched their pearly shimmer all the way to the rear of the building, Sera could see the glint of Brutus's, Nag's and Tempest's eyes. Their welcoming whinnies and twitching ears helped her discern horse from timber columns, latched doors, pitch forks, and unlit lanterns.
Hiawassee, meanwhile, was waiting. Her supernatural glow bobbed in the last stall, the one beneath the window, where Jesse spread his bedroll each night on freshly pitched hay.
The ghost beckoned.
Sera shifted uncertainly from foot to foot. Certain social protocols forbade an unmarried woman from entering her beau's sleeping quarters, especially at night. But Jesse had asked for help. And Hiawassee didn't seem to be concer
ned about social conventions.
Raising her chin a notch, Sera decided to think less like her father and more like Laura Clay.
Gulping down a breath for courage, she entered the building, giving Nag's nose a rub and Tempest's ears a scratch as she made her way to Jesse's stall.
Meanwhile, Stazzie leaped onto the narrow, top slat of the stall, which bordered Jesse's. The cat prowled as agilely as any tight-rope walker along the three-inch width of that beam until she could leap to Tempest's rump. The filly sorted affectionately. Stazzie settled down for a snooze.
Some mouser you are, Stazz.
Amused, Sera turned her attention back to Hiawassee.
"Sit," the ghost said, pointing at a three-legged stool beside Jesse's neatly tied bedroll. Both sat beneath a small, rectangular mirror where Sera had once spied Jesse giving himself a shave. His stiff, dry dungarees were draped over that stool.
Gingerly, Sera traded places with Jesse's clean trousers, careful to keep her gloveless fingers far from brass studs and the buttons of his fly as she began to fold the fabric.
Hiawassee shook her head. "Touch," she commanded.
Sera's gut clenched. "Are you sure?"
"Must learn," the Medicine Woman urged. "Focus. Vision come."
A tiny shudder—half thrill, half fear—shivered through her. Hiawassee was right. For a week, Sera had been praying every morning and every night for a vision that would help Jesse.
But in the stairwell, when he'd confessed to needing her help, his anxiety had unnerved her. Some part of her had grown afraid to know what he'd forgotten, what he thought he might have done.
As the days had passed, and her prayer sessions had gotten more fervent, she'd become more frustrated. Every time swirls of color would come, that fearful part of her would shut them off or chase them away before they could coalesce into a full-blown vision.
But Hiawassee had spoken truth. Sera did need to learn. She needed to know.
Uneasily, she gazed at the spirit that had cared enough about Jesse to raise him like a son. "Is it terrible?"
Hiawassee's eyes glowed with a warm and reassuring light.
"Love first. Wisdom next."
Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3) Page 13
