by Eden Carson
Before she could even open her mouth to ask, Jackson cut her off, “It’s too dangerous, even by train.”
Ruth thought about her options. She didn’t much like the thought of being trapped at a homestead with strangers. But then she figured if she couldn’t get out, no one could get in, either. Even if the law figured out she had killed Jasper Smith, it seemed unlikely that they’d send a posse after one lone woman. She hadn’t done anything wrong before, and in her heart knew she hadn’t done anything wrong in shooting Smith. But she also knew a claim of self-defense was a tricky thing for a woman.
She wasn’t ready to trust her fate to a stranger, badge or not. Even though she’d defended Jackson’s back during the train robbery, he would no doubt feel a stronger obligation to the law than to a woman he’d just met. He might not even believe her story of self-defense.
“I can see I need a guide to make that trip,” she conceded. “So I’ll wait until spring, if you think it best. But I won’t give up on my dream for good.”
He nodded his understanding. She wasn’t ready to trust him. “What I’m telling you is for your own safety. Rest a bit at my ranch. Talk to folks nearby. They’ll give you the same advice, including how foolish it is for any woman – young or old, pretty or not – to travel alone in this country. If your fiancé is truly a good man, and worthy of a woman as gutsy as you, he’d come fetch you himself. We can write a letter to him and tell him where you are.”
Ruth shrugged and said nothing, not wanting to embellish her lie any more than necessary. She’d let him think that was her plan, simply because she has no alternative beyond running again. “I’ll take your advice, and your much needed hospitality, Marshal. And thank you for it. I know I’ve caused unthinkable trouble by following you.”
Jackson ignored Ruth’s last comment. It was already in the past, as far as he was concerned. “Good. That’s settled. There are a number of women living nearby who will be thrilled to have another female to talk to. You’ll be happy there. You’ll see.”
Chapter 30
“Talk to her?” Mike took three unconscious steps back. “Emmett, my boy, if I never have to talk with another female in this lifetime, I’ll know I’ve pleased my Maker and will die a happy man.”
“But you’ve got to make an exception here,” Emmett draped his arm across Mike’s shoulders, slowly steering him up the front steps. “Anyone with a scent for trouble and one good eye knows the pretty widow has a tender spot for you.” Emmett didn’t bother hiding his amusement at old Mike’s expense.
“The widow has nothing to recommend her, beggin’ the pardon of my Maker for speaking ill of a female, but it’s the goddamn truth.”
“She’s not so bad to look at, and she’s mighty dedicated to her cause.” Emmett deliberately baited his old mentor, thinking of anything he could add to take the lady’s side.
“Dedicated?” Mike snorted. “She could be the prettiest twenty-two year-old virgin for one hundred miles, and it wouldn’t change the fact that she’s a do-gooder out to save my everlasting soul.”
“She would probably expect you to give up drinking.” Emmett did his best to put a sympathetic look on his face. “But you’d have a warm, soft woman to keep your mind off the liquor.”
“I’d just as soon have the liquor to keep my mind off all warm, soft women, thank you very much,” Mike grumbled under his breath.
Emmett laughed outright at his friend, and kept marching up the porch of the lady in question. “You’d best take a last long swig. Because we need her help.”
Ignoring Old Mike’s stuttering protest, Emmett started pounding loudly at the Widow Thornton’s imposing front door.
Mike grabbed the younger man’s burley arm. “If you’ve got any love for me at all, don’t do it. Let’s try the sheriff. He’s bound to know something.”
“That old drunk?” Emmett snorted in disgust. “He’s bound to know nothing more useful than the location of the closest potato still. But the Widow’s information is reliable as rain in the bayou. She knows everything that goes on in Colorado – and in most surrounding territories, for that matter. I’ve heard she’s even gone straight into the Indian Nation with her preaching. She’s got her eye on any man who does anything not expressly condoned in the Good Book.”
“That’s Old Testament only, young man,” corrected a distinctly feminine voice. “There’re too many loose and tumble rules in the new one, to my way of thinking.”
Emmett nearly lost his footing at the unexpected presence at the door. He’d been so preoccupied with freeing his right arm from Mike’s clawing grasp that he’d had his back turned when the subject of their conversation corrected his statement.
“Yes Ma’am.” Emmett quickly gathered his thoughts and removed his hat. “I couldn’t agree with you more. My daddy was an Old Testament sort himself.”
Emmett ignored his partner’s snort of disbelief and kept right on conversing with the widow, as if Old Mike weren’t even there. “If we could impose and come in for just a moment of your time, I’d be much obliged, Ma’am.”
“Well, since your brother is known to me, and he speaks fondly of you on occasion, you may come in.” The Widow Thornton stepped aside and motioned Emmett in, but turned just enough to block Old Mike’s passage. “It’s lovely to see you again, Michael. I’d be pleased to have you sit with me at Sunday Service.”
Just to be ornery, Emmett chimed in quickly before Mike could make up some excuse. “We’ll be there for sure, Ma’am.”
Mike’s face turned three shades of red when the Widow smiled in triumph and took his arm, practically dragging him into her parlor. She yanked him down next to her onto a tiny settee without a by-your-leave.
“Now what can I do for you fine gentlemen on this lovely autumn day?” she offered.
“It’s near thirty degrees out, and we’re on the trail of murdering thieves. So there’s nothin’ lovely about it,” Mike interjected sourly.
Emmett interrupted before his partner antagonized the best source of information they had. “That might be true, but with such lovely company, this day’s perking up considerably.”
At the widow’s responding smile, Emmett hurriedly continued. “Ma’am, we sure could use your help. We’re desperate for it, in fact. And I know of no other man, woman or child for two hundred miles who knows more about the goings on of this community.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s a slight exaggeration,” the widow added graciously, “but I’ll certainly do my best to help you.”
“No exaggeration at all, Ma’am, if you’ll pardon my forwardness,” Emmett replied.
“Now, tell me what I can do for you two handsome gentlemen.”
Emmett watched her bat her eyelashes at Mike, as if they were teenagers on their first church picnic. When he saw the delicate lady in question squeeze his friend’s thigh, Emmett quickly explained their quest. “We didn’t find anything to indicate names on the bodies of the outlaws who were killed during the train robbery.”
The widow frowned. “Just like the last time.”
“How’d you know that?” Mike demanded. “We kept that piece of information amongst the Marshals.”
“Don’t be so naïve, Michael,” she admonished. “Everyone pillow talks - especially lonely lawmen passing through this den of iniquity.”
Emmett couldn’t stop a grin at the astonished look on Mike’s face. “If you’ll pardon my question in advance, Ma’am, how might a righteous lady like yourself come to hear such things?”
“Young man, I don’t sit in church seven days a week waiting for lost souls to come to Jesus,” she explained. “If they knew their way, they wouldn’t be lost, would they?”
“No Ma’am,” Emmett agreed, hiding his grin. “I confess. I hadn’t given it much thought. But it makes perfect sense.”
“Of course it does,” Widow Thornton nodded her head. “And since the preacher’s wife doesn’t take kindly to his visits with the fallen women at the Rusty Pecker, it ju
st makes sense for me to go to them. And you should hear the things they have to say, Lord help me.” The Widow vigorously fanned her over-heated cheeks.
Emmett couldn’t help but wonder if she was blushing at the pillow talk that involved illegal dealings or talk of a different nature entirely.
The handsome woman crisply replied. “My point is, men are men. Law Badge or not, their mouths flap just like anyone’s when they’re distracted by a woman. Thus I have it on excellent authority that you boys have nothing by way of evidence on the other robberies.”
“Officially, we can’t say,” Emmett explained, shrugging his heavy shoulders. “But we’re not obliged to deny your statement, either. Have you heard of or seen any strangers pass through in the last several days? Maybe outsiders who might have been involved?”
“Nothing that obvious,” she replied. “I know everyone who passes through here, and no strangers have been dallying about. However, I heard the blacksmith had a pre-dawn visitor two days past. And the blacksmith didn’t much like being jerked out of bed so early.”
Mike and Emmett shared a long look. “Let’s get out to the blacksmith’s place right now.”
They stood to leave, but the Widow’s voice stopped them.
“You won’t find him there,” she replied without looking up.
“Well, spit it out, woman,” Old Mike prodded. “I can see that you know something.”
“I might know something,” she averred. “And I naturally want to do my civic duty, but what if I’m wrong? My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Emmett quickly offered up a compromise, as both Mike and the Widow appeared ready to dig in their heels for the duration of the long, cold winter. “Why don’t we join you for afternoon services and maybe the good Lord’s teachings will help your memory?”
“We haven’t got time for this nonsense!” Mike insisted, slapping his hat against his thigh. “We’ve got lives at stake, woman. These men are bad. They could be plotting their next robbery as we’re cooling our heels on a church pew with a bunch of hypocritical do-gooders.”
Emmett cringed at the look of outrage on the widow’s face. He immediately stepped in between the two, and tried to salvage the situation. “Ma’am, please - Old Mike didn’t mean that. You know he has a temper, and the good Lord would look kindly on you if you could help him curb it. If I give you my word that we’ll come back through, specifically to attend services with your lovely self, would you agree to help us?”
“Your solemn oath?” the Widow insisted.
“My solemn oath,” Emmett promised, raising his hand to his heart before Old Mike could voice an objection.
“Boy, you have no right. Why I ought to turn you over my knee and –”
“Too late,” Emmett grinned unashamedly. “I’ve already sworn my solemn oath to this saintly lady, here. It’ll be my eternal soul on your conscience if we don’t show up.”
Emmett had slowly inched his wily backside away from Mike with every word, so he would be partially protected by the Widow’s considerable girth.
The Widow Thornton wasted no time chiming in. “And the souls of those poor, defenseless passengers on the next train – you might be able to save them if you stop the next robbery.”
Mike opened and closed his mouth several times, before stomping his way out of the parlor without saying a word.
The pleased-as-punch widow gave Emmett exact directions to the neighboring ranch, where the blacksmith was set to work that day. As she waved farewell to Mike’s departing back, she leaned over to Emmett and whispered, “That man’s a catch. You be certain and bring him along to services, like you promised.”
Chapter 31
Jackson came awake instantly at an unfamiliar sound in the night. He kept his eyes closed and his body perfectly still until his instincts identified the sounds as Ruth. He glanced down the length of his body until he could see her restless form, curled upon itself for warmth.
He barely felt the near-freezing temperatures as he untangled his large frame from his bedroll and quietly went about stoking the fire. It was almost pitch black in the cave and Jackson silently cursed his clumsy efforts to re-start the fire with no moonlight. He got a spark on his third try, then fed more tinder to the fire.
He turned to glance at Ruth again, only to see her thrash about more wildly than before, as she started mumbling in her sleep. From the tone of her voice, she seemed agitated, so he reached over to gently calm her.
At the unexpected touch, Ruth bolted upright and nearly knocked herself out cold on the short overhang of rock they were huddled underneath.
Jackson remained perfectly still, showing both hands palms up in the faint light shed by the fire.
“It’s Jackson, Ruth. You’re safe. It’s just a bad dream.”
At the sound of Jackson’s now familiar voice, Ruth’s body visibly relaxed. He could see her wild eyes settle on him and instantly calm in recognition.
“Bad dream?” He continued speaking, since the sound of his voice seemed to have a soothing effect on her. “Can’t imagine they’re too good, after all you’ve been through. I’ll add some more wood to this fire so you can warm up.”
At her jerky nod of understanding, Jackson felt free to move behind her to collect a few more logs for the fire.
“Sorry I woke you,” Ruth mumbled, running her hand through her tousled hair. “I was dreaming I was back on that train, and when it crashed I woke up.”
Her voice shook when she spoke, and she clamped down hard on her tongue in disgust. She hated the fact that Jasper Smith could still make her scared, even from the grave. But she’d get over it soon enough. She almost never dreamed about the War and hiding from marauding soldiers with her sickly mother. So she knew she could will Smith out of her thoughts, too – given enough time.
Jackson knelt down next to Ruth’s shaking form and gently took her hand in between his much larger ones. “Let me warm you up, Ruth. You’re still shivering, even with the fire. And we can’t afford a bout of pneumonia.” He knew well enough the difference between shivering from cold and shaking from fear, but figured her pride and modesty would better accept the former excuse.
At her nod of acceptance, Jackson matter-of-factly settled his bedroll behind hers, placing her between the crackling fire and the heat of his body. He pulled her in close, and wrapped his left arm around her, hoping she’d find some comfort in his touch.
Ruth stopped shivering almost immediately, and basked like a lost pup in the first human embrace she’d felt since her mother died.
Trying to put her at ease enough to fall asleep, Jackson began a running commentary of his life. He’d found that the simple act of sharing your family with someone and finding common ground could gain a person’s trust. As a lawman for ten years, he’d spent as much time talking to prisoners as brandishing his firearm.
“The very first night I spent in this dugout was with my brother, Emmett. We were both practically kids when we came through here. My father was always testing our tracking skills and sending us out hunting on our own. It was the middle of winter, and we’d been chasing the trail of what turned out to be a doe. She had a fawn with her, and we were young enough and not quite hungry enough to shoot.”
“Better times.” Ruth’s quiet voice hinted at memories of times she had been hungry enough to shoot the mother and offspring both.
“Better times, for sure.” Jackson agreed. “So after wasting half the day with nothing to show for it, my headstrong little brother stomped off in frustration. He walked right over a not quite frozen creek. He was soaked through and night was coming on. I was a bit lost on top of everything else, though I’d never admit that to my brother.”
She smiled and quickly promised Jackson she’d never reveal his secret to Emmett.
“How did you find this place, then?” Ruth asked.
“Pure, dumb luck,” Jackson replied. “I was looking for someplace to warm the kid up and stumbled across some old tracks. I followed th
em, not knowing where they’d lead. But as luck would have it, they led straight here. I had a small hatchet my father always insisted we carry, winter or summer, and spent half an hour chopping off any branch I could reach. The whole time I was cutting, my brother was running circles in his long underwear, trying to stave off frost bite.”
“The bright red kind, you mean?” Ruth couldn’t help asking, nearly laughing out loud at the picture of Jackson’s brother as a lanky youth cursing his freezing fate.
“The same,” Jackson replied. “I finally got a fire going, and we stayed put all night, afraid to let the fire go out, but too proud to share a bedroll. As soon as the sun came up, we chopped more firewood for the next man on the trail and tucked tail for home. Hungrier than when we left, but too grateful for Mother’s hot coffee to mind the ribbing from our daddy.”
She wondered if leaving firewood for the next man were really a common western custom or if Jackson was the rare man to have started it. She would have liked to ask someone, but realized had no one.
Aside from Jackson and the old couple on the train, whom she’d probably never see again, Ruth didn’t know a living soul out West. Perhaps she should start learning more about her unexpected protector.
“Where does your family come from?” she asked, now completely at ease – and considerably warmer – in Jackson’s arms.
“New Orleans,” he replied. “My mother, that is. My father was the son of a prospector. He thinks he was born somewhere in the California Territory, but no one could ever say for sure. His mother died in childbirth, so we don’t know much about her. His father had him by his side, panning in the early days of California gold fever. Then later they wandered through Nevada looking for silver. My father grew up on the trail, but had his fill of mining when his father died in a cave in. Daddy was just fifteen, but he could find his way out of a pitch black mine through instinct, so he joined the army and became a scout. What he didn’t know about the earth above ground, he quickly learned at the side of some of the best Indian trackers alive.”
