Holding her arms, he sat her down on the bed and held her steady as she hacked up something vile. With a growl of disgust, he handed her the rag she’d been using for a hankie and then stepped back from the bed. “Don’t push yourself. I want you well enough to leave.”
She wiped her mouth. “We agree completely.”
He pointed to the envelope on the floor with the muddy toe of his boot. “What’s that?”
“A letter from my husband.”
His eyes turned to agate as he picked up the letter and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and on the envelope she noticed a smudge from his warm hands. Wondering if she would see Hank’s fingerprints as clearly, she took the letter and slid it under her pillow.
After he took off his coat, the rancher poured coffee for them both and dropped into the rocker by the hearth. Steam misted the air as he lifted the cup to his lips, giving a damp shine to the whiskers hiding his face. She wondered what he would look like clean-shaven, whether his jaw was square or curved, and what his chin looked like. She suspected it was as hard as the rest of him and just as stubborn.
Stretching his neck and shoulders, he took a deep breath, causing the shirt to gape where a button was missing. He’d also torn the sleeve, probably months ago judging by the ragged hole.
Aside from being in need of mending, his clothes were just plain dirty. He could have passed for the town drunk, but she had never seen him indulge in the whiskey he’d used for her cough. He read dime novels at night, or else he browsed catalogs, making notes on scraps of paper he tucked between the pages. Sober and silent, he spent the evenings ignoring her, just as he was doing now. Except this morning she felt human again, and she needed answers.
Folding her hands in her lap, she asked, “What day is it?”
The rancher shrugged. “What difference does it make?”
It made a big difference. Back in Lexington she had kept a calendar by her bed, marking off the days. Time mattered, even if Ethan Trent didn’t think so. “I need to know how long I’ve been here.”
“Too long,” he said with a huff. Rocking forward, he jabbed at the fire with a broken broom handle. The logs crackled to life and embers plumed up the chimney.
“You must have some idea,” she insisted.
“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s been eight days, nineteen hours and twelve minutes since you showed up uninvited. Is that enough detail for you?”
She would have given five dollars to be wearing her riding costume, complete with boots, leather gloves and a riding crop. She had a good mind to tan this man’s hide.
“Is my horse still here?” she asked.
Nodding, he said, “She’s fit and ready to go.”
“Then I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Midas was less than two hours away. She’d tie herself to the saddle if she had to. She’d manage, just as she always did. Except Ethan Trent had risen from the chair, laced his arms over his chest and was glowering like a man on the wrong end of a bad joke.
“Mrs. Dawson, I want to be very clear. I want you out of here even more than you want to go, but it has to be for good. You’re in no condition to ride, and I won’t fish you out of another snowbank.”
He cocked one hip and glared some more. “You’re so thin you could fall through a crack. You can’t take a full breath without coughing, and we both know you haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive.”
“I’ll manage.” Except she could barely use the chamber pot herself, and the coffee cup in her hand weighed ten pounds. “I can take care of myself.”
“Like hell you can,” he said, scratching his neck. “But I’ll make you a deal. As soon as you can walk to the barn and back without gasping like a broken-down nag, I’ll ride with you to Midas.”
She bristled at being compared to a sorry excuse for a horse, but she held her tongue. “I know the way. You don’t have to go with me.”
“I’m not that kind of man.”
“And I’m not that kind of woman. I don’t want your help.”
“But you need it. I’ve buried enough bodies. I don’t want to find your bones picked clean by buzzards next time I go to town.”
“Really, I can—” A wet cough rose in her throat like cream in a butter churn. She tried to be discreet, but there was nothing dainty about the hack coming from her chest. Facing facts, she coughed as hard as she could while Ethan Trent poured a cup of water.
“Here,” he said, shoving it in her face.
It tasted fresh, giving her hope that tomorrow would be a better day. Putting the cup on the nightstand, she met his gaze. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll leave as soon as I’m well, but there’s something I have to say.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Do you read minds, or are you just plain rude?”
“You’re going to thank me for saving your life. I didn’t do it for you, Mrs. Dawson. I wish you had never come here.”
“That may be true,” she said. “But you’ve been considerate, except for the first night.”
“You should have asked for help.”
“You should have offered.”
The rancher walked to the window and slid the wood cover an inch to let in a bit of fresh air. A shaft of sunshine hit his eyes and he squinted against it. Through the whiskers, she saw his jaw clench in a wolflike snarl.
She had seen that look once before on a dog that had been run over by a wagon. Too young to know better, she had tried to pet it. The mutt had nipped her hand, drawing blood and leaving two small puncture marks. Louisa McKinney made sure her daughter never made that mistake again.
“You can’t trust an animal when it’s in pain,” she had said. “They don’t know what they’re doing and they don’t care who they hurt.”
Jayne still had a scar from the dog’s fangs, and she had never forgotten its eyes, watery and glazed with suffering.
The rancher snatched his hat from the nail. “I’m going back to work.”
As the door slapped shut, Jayne sagged with relief—until she remembered Hank’s letter waiting under her pillow. Her fingers trembled as she slid a half dozen sheets of paper out of the envelope. She riffled through them, catching words that made her stomach flip.
Dear Janey,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I love you, girl. I wanted to give you that “always” we talked about, but I can’t. I hope you can forgive me for what I’ve done. I’ve lied to you about so many things.
I never was a marshal. In fact, I’ve never had a thing I didn’t lie, cheat or steal to get. The past is ugly, but here it is. I met Timonius LeFarge a year ago in Wyoming and we started robbing banks together. We were good at it, but the last job went bad. A marshal named Franklin Henry Dawson chased us into the badlands.
I’ll never know if my bullet killed the man or if it was Tim’s, but it doesn’t matter. I saw his last breath as if it were my own and knew I had to change. Tim got drunk that night and passed out, so I took the money and the marshal’s badge and ran for my life.
A month later I found you in church, all sunlight and hope. I wanted you, girl—enough to turn into someone else, a deputy named Hank Dawson. I hope I gave you some happiness, because deep down I know I stole you, too.
If you’re reading this, I’m dead and Tim is alive. He wants the money, but it’s the only way I can give you that future I promised. I wired three thousand dollars to the First Bank of Los Angeles. All you have to do is show the manager our marriage certificate and the will.
Tim doesn’t know about you, but keep your eyes open. He’s older than me, a skinny fellow with red hair, light eyes and a scar on his left cheek. If you see him, go the other way. I’ve seen him do awful things to men and women alike.
I’m praying to God that Tim never finds us. And if he does, I’ll be praying I can end things right. That’s why I’m carrying the marshal’s badge. It’s a reminder that a man has choices.
No matter what happens, Jayney-girl, know that I love you.
You gave me a second chance I didn’t deserve. Be safe.
Love,
Hank
P.S. Dawson was the marshal’s name. It’s a better name than mine and the only one I want you to remember me by.
One by one, she squared the pages into a neat pile. Tears welled for her losses, but anger burned even brighter. She didn’t even know her husband’s real name, and that was the cruelest lie of all.
Propped against a pillow in Ethan Trent’s bed, she wondered what had possessed her to marry a man she had known for just a few months, except she knew the answer. She’d been alone, had a thirst for adventure and was curious about a man’s company. She wanted to hate Hank for what he’d done, but the choice to marry him had been hers.
Right or wrong, she had to live with her decision. She would go to the sheriff as soon as she could ride and tell him the truth. Somewhere in this world, the real Mrs. Dawson was grieving for her husband. And somewhere in New Mexico a man named Timonius LeFarge was looking for his money, which meant he would be looking for her.
The steady pounding of a hammer broke through her thoughts. Warning the rancher about LeFarge was the right thing to do, but she hesitated. If he wouldn’t let her ride to Midas alone, what would he do if he found out she was being pursued by an outlaw? She didn’t want to find out. LeFarge was her problem, and she’d solve it herself.
Fresh anger welled as she thought about her five short days with her husband. He should have come clean with the law. If he’d given her a choice, she would have stood by him. Instead he had trespassed on her future without so much as a please or a thank-you. Nothing killed love faster than lies.
Tugging at the bedsheet, Jayne thought of the rancher sleeping on the hard floor while she slept in his bed. She’d stolen a piece of his life just as surely as Hank had stolen her future. Rolling onto her side, she vowed to leave just as soon as she could ride.
Chapter Four
E than took Mrs. Dawson’s cloak off the nail, saw a bit of straw on the sleeve and gave the garment a good shake. Her letter fell out of the pocket and landed next to his boot. He wasn’t a snoop by nature, but with the widow taking care of private matters outside, he was sorely tempted to read it.
Almost every night she had slipped it out from her pillow as soon as she thought he was asleep. With the hard floor digging into his shoulder blades, he would watch her eyes glitter in the firelight. He envied her those final words from her husband. Laura’s last words to him had been so ordinary he couldn’t remember them.
Ethan studied Dawson’s thin writing and the ugliness of the words “In the event of my death.” He hated the need for such a letter, but he respected the man for writing it. Not once had Ethan written a letter to his wife. They’d grown up together and there had been no need. Now he wished he’d given her that small pleasure.
He didn’t know if it was nosiness or thoughts of Laura that made him open the envelope. Being careful of the dog-eared flap, he took out the sheets. Curiosity got the better of him and he started to read.
I lied…stole…Timonius LeFarge…second chances… Love, Hank.
The punk fool didn’t know a damn thing about love. He’d left his wife in the middle of nowhere without a friend or an honest dollar to her name. He didn’t deserve the widow’s tears or the devotion that drove her to see him buried. If Dawson had walked through the door at that moment, Ethan would have bloodied his nose on general principle.
He didn’t want to look too closely at those feelings. Over a month had passed since she had come to his ranch, and yesterday she had marched to the barn and back without coughing once.
“I’m well enough to leave,” she had announced at supper last night.
They had taken to sitting together at the tiny table, eating in silence. Ethan had just scraped the last bite off his plate. “I can see that. Where will you go?”
“Home to Kentucky.”
“Do you have family there?”
“No, but I’ll be fine.”
He believed her. If the widow could put up with him, she could put up with anything. Yesterday she’d scrubbed the floor and he’d tracked in mud. She tossed him a rag and told him to wipe it up. The mud had stared at him for a good hour before he wiped up the mess and told her to mind her own damn business.
There wasn’t much of a chance of that, though. For one thing, she’d helped herself to his books, reading everything from his dime novels to Laura’s volumes of poetry to the Bible verses their sons had circled for Sunday school. A few times he had glanced up and caught her staring at him. He stared back, daring her to ask him what had happened to his family, which she did but only with her eyes.
Ethan put the letter back in her pocket. She insisted she was well enough to travel, but he wasn’t so sure. Twice he’d heard her retching in the garden, and in spite of long afternoon naps, she looked exhausted.
Reminding himself that he wanted her to leave, he walked to the barn, hitched up the workhorse and tied the livery mare to the back of the wagon. As he led the horses through the yard, he looked at the privy. The door was ajar, and he didn’t hear her in the cabin. Where the hell was she? “Mrs. Dawson?”
“Just a minute.” Her reedy voice had come from the garden.
Irritated, Ethan strode around the corner of the cabin just in time to see Mrs. Dawson toss up her breakfast.
It was a familiar sight to a man who had fathered three children, and his heart squeezed at the realization that the widow was expecting a baby. Memories of Laura carrying their first child washed over him. It had been a glorious time. It should have been a wonderful time for the widow, but knowing what she had ahead of her, Ethan couldn’t swallow.
She was standing in the shade with one hand braced on the cabin wall and the other holding her abdomen. “Please don’t watch me, Mr. Trent.”
Nodding, he went to the water pump, filled the bucket and brought it to her with a ladle. She rinsed her mouth and grimaced as she spat on the ground. “Is the wagon ready?” she asked.
“It’s ready, but you’re not.”
“I’m fine. The bacon didn’t agree with me, that’s all.”
Her eyes glazed at the thought of the grease and Ethan almost smiled. “I think it’s more than that.”
She shook her head. “It can’t be. I have to leave.”
He knew she felt both guilty for taking advantage of him and fearful of LeFarge. He wanted to tell her he understood, but he didn’t want her to know that he had read her letter. “Look, I know I’ve been a little—”
“It’s not that. I have to get settled, that’s all.”
Lifting her skirt, she stepped over a patch of mud and rounded the corner of the cabin. Ethan was two steps behind her when she suddenly swayed on her feet. Grabbing the wall for support, she leaned against the logs and slid to the ground. “I’ve never been this nauseous in my life,” she said.
The sight of her took him back to the day of the storm. His breath caught in his chest and he knew that he couldn’t let her leave. Dropping to a crouch, he touched her shoulder. “Looks like I’m stuck with you.”
“But I need to go home.”
He gave her the hardest look he knew how to give a woman. “What you need is rest.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just that—”
“You’re going to have a baby.”
The joy in her eyes was mixed with sadness, making her seem older than her years. Understanding flashed across her face, as well, and Ethan felt cold and exposed.
“It seems you know about these things,” she said.
“I do.” His gaze held hers. Was that relief he saw in her eyes, or fear? She would be in danger if she left, but he’d made it clear that he didn’t want her to stay. Without giving his motives a thought, he made a decision. “You’re staying here while I go to town.”
“I was better yesterday,” she said. “Maybe we could go tomorrow.”
“Trust me. The sickness won’t go away for a while, an
d I’m low on everything from beans to bacon.”
Her face knotted and he wondered what he’d said wrong until he heard a sound that reminded him of a stream bubbling over smooth stones. When she tilted her face up to the sun, he realized she was laughing. How long had it been since he’d taken pleasure in a woman’s good humor? “What’s so funny?” he asked.
The widow tilted her face to his and poked him in the chest. “Don’t ever say bacon to me again. Just the thought turns my stomach.”
Ethan grinned. “So we’ll eat sausage instead.”
The widow got the giggles, and the next thing he knew, the spot she’d touched on his chest was burning, but he was laughing at the same time. The joke hadn’t been that funny, but she had tears streaming down her face, and so did he. Laura used to say that a belly laugh was good for the soul. Except he didn’t have a soul. He’d lost it in Raton. As quickly as it started, his laughter faded into a grunt. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
She looked confused, as if he’d blown out a lantern and left her in the dark. “Mr. Trent?”
Ethan stared straight ahead. “What is it?”
“Will you tell the sheriff I need to speak with him?”
She wanted to tell the sheriff about Dawson, but she didn’t want to share that problem with Ethan. Given his foul mood, he could understand her reluctance. “I’ll do that,” he replied.
“There’s one more thing.”
Ethan flinched. “What?”
“You are going to pay for that bacon remark.”
God help him, he smiled. “Am I now?”
“Definitely. When you least expect it. I’ll sew up your sleeves. Or—”
“Put salt in the sugar jar?”
She shook her head. “You don’t use sugar in anything.”
It was true. He hadn’t eaten so much as a cookie in two years, but this morning his mouth watered at the thought of something sweet—maple syrup on cornbread or a stick of peppermint candy.
With the widow leaning on his arm, he steered her to the cabin and left her by the door with her back pressed against the coarse wood. Then he climbed into the wagon, picked up the reins and doffed his hat.
West of Heaven Page 4
