Lawless jh-3

by Nora Roberts

  He glanced up as Jake entered. Then he sighed and sent tobacco juice streaming into the spittoon in the corner. When Jake Redman was around, there was usually work to be done.

  “So you’re back.” The wad of tobacco gave Barker a permanently swollen jaw. “Thought you might take a fancy to New Mexico.” His brows lifted when Jake ushered Sarah inside. There was enough gentleman left in him to bring him to his feet. “Ma’am.”

  “This is Matt Conway’s daughter.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Begging your pardon, ma’am. I was just fixing to send you a letter.” “Sheriff.” She had to pause a moment to find her balance. She would not fall apart, not here, in front of strangers.

  “Barker, ma’am.” He came around the desk to offer her a chair.

  “Sheriff Barker.” Sarah sat, praying she’d be able to stand again. “Mr. Redman has just told me that my father…” She couldn’t say it. No matter how weak or cowardly it might be, she just couldn’t say the words. “Yes, ma’am. I’m mighty sorry. Couple of kids wandered on up by the mine playing games and found him. Appears he was working the mine when some of the beams gave way.” When she said nothing, Barker cleared his throat and opened the top drawer of his desk. “He had this watch on him, and his tobacco.”

  He’d had his pipe, as well, but since it had been broken like most of Conway’s bones-Barker hadn’t thought anyone would want it. “We figured he’d want to be buried with his wedding ring on.”

  “Thank you.” As if in a trance, she took the watch and the tobacco pouch from him. She remembered the watch. The tears almost won when she remembered how he’d taken it out to check the time before he’d left her in Mother Superior’s lemony-smelling office. “I want to see where he’s buried. My trunks will need to be taken out to his house.”

  “Miss Conway, if you don’t mind me offering some advice, you don’t want to stay way out there. It’s no place for a young lady like you, all alone and all. My wife’ll be happy to have you stay with us for a few days. Until the stage heads east again.”

  “It’s kind of you to offer.” She braced a hand on the chair and managed to stand again. “But I’d prefer to spend the night in my father’s house.” She swallowed and discovered that her throat was hurtfully dry. “Is there… Do I owe you anything for the burial?”

  “No, ma’am. We take care of our own around here.”

  “Thank you.” She needed air. With the watch clutched in her hand, she pushed through the door. Leaning against a post, she tried to catch her breath.

  “You ought to take the sheriff up on his offer.” She turned her head to give Jake an even look. She could only be grateful that he made her angry enough to help her hold off her grief. He hadn’t offered a word of sympathy. Not one. Well, she was glad of it. “I’m going to stay in my father’s house. Will you take me?”

  He rubbed a hand over his chin. He hadn’t shaved in a week. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “I’ll pay you,” she said quickly when he started to walk away.

  He stopped and looked back at her. She was determined, all right. He wanted to see how determined.

  “How much?”

  “Two dollars.” When he only continued to look at her, she said between her teeth, “Five.”

  “You got five?”

  Disgusted, Sarah dug in her reticule. “There.”

  Jake looked at the bill in her hand. “What’s that?”

  “It’s five dollars.”

  “Not around here it ain’t. Around here it’s paper.” Sarah pushed the bill back into her reticule and pulled out a coin. “Will this do?”

  Jake took the coin and turned it over in his hand, then stuck it in his pocket. “That’ll do fine. I’ll get a wagon.”

  Miserable man, she thought as he strode away. She hated him. And hated even more the fact that she needed, him.

  During the long, hot ride in the open wagon, she said nothing. She no longer cared about the desolation of the landscape, the heat or the cold-bloodedness of the man beside her. Her emotions seemed to have shriveled up inside her. Every mile they’d gone was just another mile behind her.

  Jake Redman didn’t seem to need conversation. He drove in silence, armed with a rifle across his lap, as well as the pistols he carried. There hadn’t been trouble out here in quite some time, but the Indian attack had warned him that that could change.

  He’d recognized Strong Wolf in the party that had attacked the stage. If the Apache brave had decided to raid in the area, he would hit the Conway place sooner or later.

  They passed no one. They saw only sand and rock and a hawk out hunting.

  When he reined the horses in, Sarah saw nothing but a small adobe house and a few bartered sheds on a patch of thirsty land.

  “Why are we stopping here?”

  Jake jumped down from the wagon. “This is Matt

  Conway’s place.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Because it didn’t appear that he was going to come around and assist her, Sarah struggled down herself. “Mr. Redman, I paid you to take me to my father’s home and I expect you to keep the bargain.”

  Before she could stop him, he dumped one of her trunks on the ground. “What do.you think you’re doing?” “Delivering your luggage.”

  “Don’t you take another piece off that wagon.”

  Surprising them both, Sarah grabbed his shirt and pulled him around to face her. “I insist you take me to my father’s house immediately.”

  She wasn’t just stupid, Jake thought. She was irritating.

  “Fine.” He clipped her around the waist and hauled her over his shoulder.

  At first she was too shocked to move. No man had ever touched her before. Now this, this ruffian had his hands all over her. And they were alone. Totally alone. Sarah began to struggle as he pushed open the door of the hut. Before she could draw the breath to scream, he was dropping her to her feet again.

  “That good enough for you?”

  She stared at him, visions of a hundred calamities that could befall a defenseless woman dancing in her brain. She stepped back, breathing hard, and prayed she could reason with him. “Mr. Redman, I have very little money of my own-hardly enough worth stealing.”

  Something came into his eyes that had her breath stopping altogether. He looked more than dangerous now. He looked fatal. “I don’t steal.” The light coming through the low doorway arched around him. She moistened her lips.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  He nearly laughed. Instead, he leaned against the wall. Something about her was eating at him. He didn’t know what or why, but he didn’t like it. Not one damn bit.

  “Probably not. You want to take a look around?” She just shook her head. “They told me he was buried around back, near the entrance of the mine. I’ll go check on Mart’s horses and water the team.”

  When he left, she continued to stare at the empty doorway. This was madness. Did the man expect her to believe her father had lived here, like this? She had letters, dozens of them, telling her about the house he’d been building, the house he’d finished, the house that would be waiting for her when she was old enough to join him.

  The mine. If the mine was near, perhaps she could find someone there she could speak with. Taking a cautious look out the doorway, Sarah hurried out and rounded the house.

  She passed what might have been the beginnings of a small vegetable garden, withered now in the sun.

  There was a shed that served as a stable and an empty paddock made of a few rickety pieces of wood. She walked beyond it to where the ground began to rise with the slope of the mountain.

  The entrance to the mine was easily found, though it was hardly more than a hole in the rock wall. Above it was a crudely etched plank of wood.

  SARAH’S PRIDE

  She felt the tears then. They came in a rush that she had to work hard to hold back. There were no workmen here, no carts shuttling along filled with rock, no picks hacking out gold. She saw it
for what it was, the dream of a man who had had little else. Her father had never been a successful prospector or an important landowner. He’d been a man digging in rock and hoping for the big strike.

  She saw the grave then. They had buried him only a few yards from the entrance. Someone had been kind enough to fashion a cross and carve his name on it. She knelt and ran her palm along the rubble that covered him.

  He’d lied. For twelve years he’d lied to her, telling her stories about rich veins and the mother lode. He’d spun fantasies about a big house with a parlor and fine wooden floors. Had he needed to believe it? When he’d left her he’d made her a promise.

  “You’ll have everything your heart desires, my sweet, sweet Sarah. Everything your mother would have wanted for you.”

  He had kept his promise-except for one thing. One vital thing. He hadn’t given her himself. All those years, all she’d really wanted had been her father.

  He’d lived like this, she thought, in a mud house in the middle of nowhere, so that she could have pretty dresses and new stockings. So that she could learn how to serve tea and waltz. It must have taken nearly everything he’d managed to dig out of the rock to keep her in school back east.

  Now he was dead. She could barely remember his face, and he was dead. Lost to her.

  “Oh, Papa, didn’t you know how little it mattered?”

  Lying across the grave, she let the tears come until she’d wept her heart clean.

  She’d been gone a long time. Too long, Jake thought. He was just about to go after her when he saw her coming over the rise from the direction of the old mine. She paused there, looking down at the house her father had lived in for more than a decade. She’d taken off her bonnet, and she was holding it by the ribbons. For a moment she stood like a statue in the airless afternoon, her face marble-pale, her body slim and elegant. Her hair was pinned up, but a few tendrils had escaped to curl around her face. The sun slanted over it so that it glowed richly, reminding him of the hide of a young deer.

  Jake blew out the last of the smoke from the cigarette he’d rolled. She was a hell of a sight, silhouetted against the bluff. She made him ache in places he didn’t care to think about. Then she saw him. He could almost see her chin come up as she started down over the rough ground. Yeah, she was a hell of a sight. “Mr. Redman.” The grief was there in her red-rimmed eyes and her pale cheeks, but her voice was strong. “I apologize for the scene I caused earlier.”

  That tied his tongue for a moment. The way she said it, they might have been talking over tea in some cozy parlor. “Forget it. You ready to go back?” “I beg your pardon?”

  He jerked his thumb toward the wagon. Sarah noted that all her trunks were neatly stacked on it again. “I said, are you ready to go back?”

  She glanced down at her hands. Because the palms of her gloves were grimy, she tugged them off. They’d never be the same, she mused. Nothing would. She drew a long, steadying breath.

  “I thought you understood me. I’m staying in my father’s house.”

  “Don’t be a fool. A woman like you’s got no business out here.”

  “Really?” Her eyes hardened. “Be that as it may, I’m not leaving. I’d appreciate it if you’d move my trunks inside.” She breezed by him.

  “You won’t last a day.”

  She stopped to look over her shoulder. Jake was forced to admit that he’d faced men over the barrel of a gun who’d had less determination in their eyes. “Is that your opinion, Mr. Redman?”

  “That’s a fact.”

  “Would you care to wager on it?”

  “Look, Duchess, this is hard country even if you’re born to it. Heat, snakes, mountain lions-not to mention Apaches.”

  “I appreciate you pointing all that out, Mr. Redman.

  Now my luggage.”

  “Damn fool woman,” he muttered as he strode over to the wagon. “You want to stay out here, hell, it don’t matter to me.” He hefted a trunk into the house while Sarah stood a few feet back with her hands folded. “Your language, Mr. Redman, is quite unnecessary.” He only swore with more skill as he carried in the second trunk. “Nobody’s going to be around when it gets dark and you change your mind.”

  “I won’t change my mind, but thank you so muchfor your concern.”

  “No concern of mine,” he muttered, ignoring her sarcasm. He scooped up the rest of her boxes and dumped them inside the doorway. “Hope you got provisions in there, as well as fancy dresses.”

  “I assure you I’ll be fine.” She walked to the doorway herself and turned to him. “Perhaps you could tell me where I might get water.”

  “There’s a stream half a mile due east.”

  Half a mile? she thought, trying not to show her dismay. “I see.” Shading her eyes, she looked out. Jake mumbled another oath, took her by the shoulders and pointed in the opposite direction. “That way’s east, Duchess.”

  “Of course.” She stepped back. “Thank you again, Mr. Redman, for all your help. And good day,” she added before she closed the door in his face.

  She could hear him swearing at her as he unhitched the horses. If she hadn’t been so weary, she might have been amused. She was certainly too exhausted to be shocked by the words he used. If she was going to stay, she was going to have to become somewhat accustomed to rough manners. She peeled off her jacket.

  And, she was going to stay. If this was all she had left, she was going to make the best of it. Somehow.

  She moved to the rounded opening beside the door that served as a window. From there she watched Jake ride away. He’d left her the wagon and stabled the rented horses with her father’s two. For all the good it did her, Sarah thought with a sigh. She hadn’t the vaguest idea of how to hitch a team, much less how to drive one.

  She continued to watch Jake until he was nothing but a cloud of dust fading in the distance. She was alone. Truly alone. She had no one, and little more than nothing.

  No one but herself, she thought. And if she had only that and a mud hut, she’d find a way to make the best of it. Nobody-and certainly not Jake Redman-was going to frighten her away.

  Turning, she unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves. The good sisters had always claimed that simple hard work eased the mind and cleansed the soul. She was about to put that claim to the test.

  She found the letters an hour later. When she came across them in the makeshift loft that served as a bedroom she wiped her grimy hands as best as she could on the embroidered apron she’d dug out of one of her trunks.

  He’d kept them. From the first to the last she’d written, her father had kept her letters to him. The tears threatened again, but she willed them back. Tears would do neither of them any good now. But, oh, it helped more than she could ever have explained that he’d kept her letters. To know now, when she would never see him again, that he had thought of her as she had thought of him.

  He must have received the last, the letter telling nun she was coming to be with him, shortly before his death. Sarah hadn’t mailed it until she’d been about to board the train. She’d told herself it was because she wanted to surprise him, but she’d also wanted to be certain he wouldn’t have time to forbid her to come. Would you have, Papa? she wondered. Or would you finally have been willing to share the truth with me? Had he thought her too weak, too fragile, to share the life he’d chosen? Was she?

  Sighing, she looked around. Four bedrooms, and a parlor with the, windows facing west, she thought with a quiet laugh. Well, according to Jake Redman, the window did indeed face west. The house itself was hardly bigger than the room she’d shared with Lucilla at school. It was too small, certainly, for all she’d brought with her from Philadelphia, but she’d managed to drag the trunks into one corner. To please herself, she’d taken out a few of her favorite things- one of her wildflower sketches, a delicate blue glass perfume bottle, a pretty petit-point pillow and the china-faced doll her father had sent her for her twelfth birthday.

  They didn’t
make it home, not yet. But they helped. Setting the letters back in the tin box beside the bed, she rose. She had practical matters to think about now.

  The first was money. After paying the five dollars, she had only twenty dollars left. She hadn’t a clue to how long that would keep her, but she doubted it would be very long. Then there was food. That was of immediate concern. She’d found some flour, a few cans of beans, some lard and a bottle of whiskey. Pressing a hand to her stomach, Sarah decided she’d have to make do with the beans. All she had to do now was to figure out how to start a fire in the battered-looking stove.

  She found a few twigs in the wood box, and a box of matches. It took her half an hour, a lot of frustration and a few words the sisters would never have approved of before she was forced to admit she was a failure.

  Jake Redman. Disgusted, she scowled at the handful of charred twigs. The least the man could have done was to offer to start a cook fire for her and fetch some water. She’d already made the trip down to the stream and back once, managing to scrounge out half a bucket from its stingy trickle.

  She’d eat the beans cold. She’d prove to Jake Redman that she could do very well for herself, by herself. Sarah unsheathed her father’s bowie knife, shuddered once at the sight of the vicious blade, then plunged it into the lid of the can until she’d made an opening. Too hungry to care, she sat beside the small stone hearth and devoured the beans.

  She’d think of it as an adventure, she told herself.

  One she could write about to her friends in Philadelphia. A better one, she decided as she looked around the tiny, clean cabin, than those in the penny dreadfuls Lucilla had gotten from the library and hidden in their room.

  In those, the heroine had usually been helpless, a victim waiting for the hero to rescue her in any of a dozen dashing manners. Sarah scooped out more beans. Well, she wasn’t helpless, and as far as she could tell there wasn’t a hero within a thousand miles. No one would have called Jake Redman heroic- though he’d certainly looked it when he’d ridden beside the coach. He was insulting and ill-mannered. He had cold eyes and a hot temper. Hardly Sarah’s idea of a hero. If she had to be rescued-and she certainly didn’t-she’d prefer someone smoother, a cavalry officer, perhaps. A man who carried a saber, a gentleman’s weapon.