Desperado's Gold

by Linda Jones

  Catalina placed one knee on the bed, still unable to look at Jackson. “Sit here,” he ordered gruffly, and she sat beside him, her back against the wall, her tired body leaning against his good side.

  “Look at me,” he ordered gruffly, and Catalina lifted her face to his. “And tell me again.”

  A smile grew slowly on Catalina’s face. He wasn’t angry, and he wasn’t agitated. There was a spark of warmth in his eyes and a softening of his hard lips that she’d rarely seen.

  “You made me fall in love with you,” she whispered. “I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but it’s true.”

  “I don’t understand how one woman could change my life so fast.” There was a hint of childlike wonder in Jackson’s voice.

  Catalina snuggled easily against Jackson’s side. “It’s going to work out perfectly, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so,” Jackson conceded.

  “And you’ll let me cut your hair and shave your beard?” She reached up and rested her palm against one cheek. She’d gotten accustomed to that bearded face in a very short time.

  “Darlin’,” Jackson said lightly, “if you’ll kiss me, I’m yours to do with as you please.”

  Catalina scooted up onto her knees and knelt beside him. He could still barely move, so she laid her lips over his gently and gave him a tender kiss. She rested her palms against his neck, her thumbs brushing his bearded jaw.

  “I love you,” she said as she pulled slowly away. It got easier, she decided. Especially knowing that he cared about her. Even if he didn’t love her. Yet. At least he wasn’t horrified that she’d fallen in love with him.

  “Catalina … I … ” Jackson’s voice was gruff, uncertain. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing is that?”

  “Marry me,” he whispered.

  Catalina smiled and gave him one more slow and gentle kiss before she backed away from him and off the bed.

  “Yes.”

  Fourteen

  *

  The advantage of such a small house, Catalina decided, was the absolute necessity of organization. It took her no time at all to find Doc’s razor and a pair of scissors.

  Jackson was frighteningly cooperative, leaning back and allowing her to cut away. She started with his hair, because she figured that would be easiest. Thick strands of softly curling hair fell away, taking all the sun-lightened strands and leaving only stark black. His hair had once waved over his shoulders; now it curled softly at the nape of his neck.

  There was a cowlick at his widow’s peak, and that hair had a will of its own. The streak of white she had seen at Alberta’s, as he’d pushed the mass away from his face, was visible at one temple. It was thin, small, a streak of lightning across a black sky.

  His right shoulder was tightly bound, so Catalina had to shave him as well. He didn’t move a muscle, and those bright eyes never closed or left her face. Trust was something new for Jackson, she was certain. It was probably a big step for him to allow a woman to hold a razor to his throat.

  She was slow and painfully careful, scraping away the soap and the black beard, aware, with every passing second, that this transformation was much deeper than the obvious physical changes — much more than the shedding of his beard and the shortening of his hair.

  The skin she revealed was a shade lighter than the rest of Jackson’s face, and she uncovered a surprising pair of deep dimples.

  When she was finished Catalina sat back and surveyed her work. If not for the eyes, she wouldn’t have recognized him herself.

  Jackson ran his mobile hand over his clean-shaven face and the shortened hair at the back of his neck. He appeared — for the first time since she’d offered this idea — to be skeptical.

  Catalina returned the scissors and the shaving implements to their proper places, and then rejoined Jackson with a small hand mirror. It was silver-backed, and definitely a woman’s. Doc’s late wife’s?

  Catalina handed the mirror to Jackson and waited for his reaction. He turned his face first one way and then the other, but he didn’t smile. He didn’t exactly frown, either.

  “Well,” Catalina snapped impatiently. “What do you think?”

  Jackson lowered the mirror slowly. “What do I think? What difference does it make what I think? What do you think?”

  Catalina sat on the edge of the bed and took the mirror from his hand, “I think you’re beautiful.”

  Jackson snorted.

  “I’ll miss the beard, but I love the dimples.” Catalina smiled and leaned in slightly. “No wonder you grew that beard. It’s difficult to look formidable with dimples like that, isn’t it?”

  Jackson ignored the comment. “Do I look … different enough to suit you?”

  Catalina nodded once. It was true. No one would recognize him like this. They could go anywhere, start fresh, leave Kid Creede behind.

  Doc Booker threw open the door and stomped in, his eyes on the floor. He didn’t approve of all that had gone on … in his house or before … and he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten or forgiven rising that morning and finding her sleeping in the same bed with Jackson. Shocking.

  “Doc?” Catalina called softly to the old man.

  He lifted his head and glanced sourly toward the bed. His hard gaze lit on Catalina and then on Jackson. His eyes grew large, then narrowed, and then he stepped toward the bed.

  “What the heck?” he muttered, staring down at Jackson. “Kid?” Doc looked his patient up and down, disbelief and more than a little suspicion etched on his face.

  Catalina stood. “Doc Booker, I’d like you to meet Jackson Cady. My fiancé.”

  Consternation. That was the only word for the expression on Doc’s face.

  They would need Doc Booker’s help if this was going to work. Catalina explained her plan to him quickly, before he could think to question her. There was a moment of dead silence when she was done.

  Finally Doc lifted his eyes from Jackson to her. “Fiancé?”

  Catalina nodded and smiled.

  “No more killing? No more … Kid Creede?” For this question he turned his attention back to Jackson. Jackson shook his head slowly.

  “And you expect everyone will just take your word that he’s dead?” Doc asked Catalina skeptically. He was squinting at Jackson, looking — she assumed — for some sign of the outlaw he knew was there.

  “Mine,” she answered softly, “and yours.”

  Catalina tugged with one finger at the choking collar of the black dress for what seemed like the thousandth time since they’d left the ranch. This was another of Mrs. Booker’s dresses, a black muslin mourning dress with a high collar and long sleeves that puffed high at the shoulders. Her hair was pulled back into a simple bun, at Doc’s insistence, and she clutched a lace-trimmed hanky in one hand. She’d been instructed to dab at her eyes with that handkerchief at regular intervals.

  “I’m a little nervous,” Catalina confessed when Baxter was in sight. They passed a gnarled old tree, a sentinel at the edge of town.

  “You should be very nervous,” Doc said darkly. “If we don’t do this right, we could all three end up dead.”

  She hadn’t wanted to leave Jackson alone, even for half a day. He was still weak, and Doc had assured her that he would be for some time. If he was found … if Harold Goodman decided to go to the ranch while Doc Booker was in town … Jackson would be defenseless.

  Doc parked his buckboard in the same place she and Jackson had found him a week earlier. It was near the church, and they walked directly to the white steepled building that stood apart from the rest of the town. There was already a crowd out front, and everyone turned to stare at her and Doc. All conversation stopped.

  Catalina expected that at any moment they would stoop to pick up handfuls of rocks and stone her. There wasn’t a smiling face in the crowd. Not a forgiving one, either. That woman … Millicent, was it? … stepped forward. She stood in the middle of the pathway, direct
ly in front of the wide front door of the church.

  “Mrs. Brown,” Doc said solemnly, a greeting as well as a touch of challenge in his voice as he nodded his head in the direction of the disapproving woman.

  Millicent Brown didn’t move. She alone stood on the pathway, the crowd around her supportive of her action but separate from it.

  “You’re not bringing that woman into God’s house?” It was more an order than a question.

  Catalina put her hand on Doc’s arm, and he patted it consolingly. They had expected some opposition. “The young woman has come to pray for the soul of her lost friend. Surely you wouldn’t deny her that comfort.”

  Millicent didn’t move, but crossed her arms defiantly. “Kid Creede had no soul. The world’s a better place without him. He’s burning in hell, and he’ll burn there for all eternity.”

  “Move aside, Millicent,” Doc ordered harshly.

  “Yes, Millicent,” a soft voice added, and a plain woman who was dressed in black, much as Catalina was, stepped forward. “Where is your Christian charity? We all know that Doc Booker is a God-fearing man with a stern but good heart. If he can support Miss Lane in this difficult time, surely we all can do the same.”

  Doc nodded in her direction. “Thank you, Mrs. Dunston.”

  Catalina thought for a moment that Mrs. Dunston was going to blush.

  Millicent Brown never would have stepped aside, but for the quiet order of the preacher, who had appeared at the open door. Catalina kept her hand on Doc Booker’s arm as they walked into the church, and she could feel the hate, the burning eyes that were certainly fastened on her back. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, but she never faltered, never let her fear show. She kept step with Doc Booker, her head held high, her spine ramrod straight.

  As they proceeded down the aisle, the preacher smiled at her, a small, sad smile for one whose soul had certainly been lost. She could hear the congregation behind her, entering the church. She didn’t turn to glance over her shoulder, though she was tempted to see if the only person who had openly sided with Doc — that soft-voiced Mrs. Dunston — was right behind them.

  “Did I hear that the … ummm … the gentleman died?” the preacher asked as Doc saw Catalina seated on the front pew.

  It was Doc who answered. He was, he’d admitted, a terrible liar, so the story he told held as much truth as possible.

  “Yes,” Doc said gravely. “He held on longer than I’d thought he would. Kid Creede passed on yesterday, and I buried him out at the ranch.”

  The preacher nodded solemnly.

  “Miss Lane will need our help,” Doc continued. “This past week has made her see the light. She’s a new woman, and she’s leaving behind the life she once led. There are some,” he said meaningfully, “who will not want her to lead the life of a good, Christian woman.”

  Catalina bravely glanced behind her. The second pew was filled, and the one behind that as well, and on the opposite side of the aisle churchgoers settled themselves, straightening fancy bonnets and smoothing skirts, tugging at string ties and straining against tight collars. Mrs. Dunston sat in the front pew across the aisle, very pointedly not looking their way. She studied her own hands with apparent great interest.

  But no one spoke. They were all listening raptly. And they all, evidently, knew that Doc was speaking about Alberta. The woman who thought of Catalina as her property, to be bought and sold.

  Evidently, the church’s war with Alberta was stronger than their condemnation of her. If she was to be an ally in that battle, then she was forgiven … at least by some. She could see that in their softening faces. Even Millicent Brown seemed less hostile. A little.

  Catalina heard nothing of the service. She stood when Doc stood, and bowed her head when he did, and muttered amen a beat behind those around her. Her mind was on Jackson. At the moment he was unprotected … as if her presence would save him if Harold Goodman put in an appearance at the ranch. He’d stayed away all week; certainly he wouldn’t go there now. But Catalina couldn’t shake her fears.

  Later she would most likely have to face Alberta. The madam certainly knew by now that Catalina was in town. Catalina could only hope that Doc was right … that the woman would relent when faced with the entire congregation of the Baxter Baptist Church.

  Catalina kept her head down as Doc led her from the crowded church after the sermon. She nodded silently to the consoling preacher, who shook Doc’s hand and then hers as they left the building. Catalina searched the crowd for the intriguing Mrs. Dunston, but the woman was nowhere to be found. She kept her eyes on the ground as Doc Booker led her down the street toward the sheriff’s office. Doc insisted that this was necessary, that it would end things once and for all, but Catalina wasn’t so sure.

  The sheriff was skeptical, but Catalina said nothing, allowing Doc to do all the talking. He told the sheriff of Kid Creede’s lingering death, and that on his deathbed the Kid had left all he owned to Catalina Lane.

  He did it unwillingly, but the sheriff collected Jackson’s horse from the livery, and his saddle as well. He suggested that Catalina collect their things from Alberta’s, but she adamantly refused. She wouldn’t walk into that place again.

  The sheriff gave in, faced with her obvious fear, and sent a deputy to fetch her personal belongings, and Jackson’s, from Alberta’s.

  Easy, Catalina thought as she left the sheriff’s office clutching a bundle that contained Jackson’s change of clothes, his duster, and her wedding dress and moccasins. Much too easy.

  Alberta was waiting for them, standing in the street with Milo at her side.

  “Cat,” she said sharply, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, “you took your time, but I knew you’d be back.”

  “I’m not back,” Catalina said, facing Alberta bravely. “I’m never coming back.”

  Alberta raised her eyebrows in an amused expression of mock disbelief. “You work for me … ”

  “No more,” Catalina interrupted.

  Several church members joined Catalina and Doc on the boardwalk, and Alberta seemed just to notice. Her eyes scanned the crowd and her smug smile faded.

  “You can’t just leave.”

  “I can, and I will.”

  Juanita came running down the street, an unusually long skirt held aloft in both hands. “Is it true?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes on Catalina’s face. “Is the Kid dead?”

  Catalina nodded. Juanita’s face fell, and she dropped her skirt so that it touched the dirt. “Tarnation,” she muttered. “I’ll never get to San Francisco.”

  There were no tears, not even feigned sadness. Catalina wanted to scratch the hussy’s eyes out, but in a way she was relieved. She didn’t want any other woman in love with Jackson … not even if that woman believed him dead. He was hers, and hers alone.

  “We buried him yesterday.” Another of Doc’s half-truths, spoken by Catalina. They’d buried his torn and bloody clothes and marked the grave with a crude wooden marker. Kid Creede was truly dead, but she had Jackson. She would always have Jackson.

  “You’re not going to allow her to stay at your ranch, are you, Doc?” An unidentified voice from the church crowd rang out.

  “Of course not,” Doc said righteously. “That wouldn’t be proper. She’ll be staying with me temporarily, until my nephew arrives from Virginia. He’ll take her to live with my sister, Mary Katherine.”

  “Your nephew?” the same voice asked, and Catalina identified it. A small man standing in the back, all but hiding behind Millicent Brown. She’d seen him before … in Alberta’s.

  Doc nodded. “Yes. My nephew, Jackson Cady.”

  “So,” Catalina breathed, looking away from Doc and out over the endless landscape, “what’s with Mrs. Dunston?”

  Doc harumphed, something he was very good at. “What do you mean, what’s with her? She’s Reverend Preston’s sister, and she’s just recently come to live with him.”

  “She’s got a major crush on you, you
know.” Catalina turned her head to the old man just in time to see him blush.

  “Ridiculous notion,” he snapped. “She’s much too young for me, and she’s been a widow for only eight months.”

  “Counting, are we?”

  “No,” he snapped at her again. “We’re not.”

  “You needn’t be cranky,” Catalina pulled at the collar of her mourning dress again. “I’m just trying to make conversation. It’s quite a long trip, and I’ve been worried about Jackson.”

  When the house came into view Catalina had to grip the wagon seat to keep herself from leaping to the ground. The horsedrawn conveyance moved much too slowly, particularly at a time like this.

  Catalina jumped from the buckboard before it had come to a complete stop, and she ran toward the house. It was late afternoon … Jackson had been alone in the house all day. She’d seen him close to death for so long, it was impossible to remain calm. A part of her knew she would find him waiting, resting safely in the bed where he belonged, but until she saw him she wouldn’t relax.

  She threw the door open and turned toward the bed where Jackson was supposed to be. But the wide bed in that corner of the main room was rumpled and empty.

  He couldn’t be gone. Catalina ran to the closed door at the back of the room and threw it open. Victoria Booker’s small room was as quiet and deserted as the rest of the house. She hurried through the main room, trying to push down the panic that welled up inside her. All this time … while she’d been telling herself that her worries were for nothing … something had been happening.

  Catalina had never been given to real panic before, but she’d certainly experienced her share of that undesirable emotion in this past week.

  She circled the house, checking the outhouse first. There was a chamber pot under the bed, but Jackson had as much distaste for that object as she did. He’d be a fool to try to walk to the privy alone, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. But even that space was empty.

  Jackson wasn’t strong enough to have gotten very far on foot. “I never should have left him here alone,” she muttered as she rounded the house.