Desperado's Gold

by Linda Jones

  “The woman almost had me convinced you weren’t coming. Kid,” Koop said with a tight smile.

  Jackson spared a glance at Catalina, but he returned his eyes quickly to his opponent. She was too white, her eyes too wide, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do but kill Koop, and probably Harold Goodman as well. What then? Even if he could escape, the sheriff would be on his tail. Alone, he could get away, but he couldn’t leave Catalina behind.

  Koop stood in the middle of the street, his hands twitching, hovering over his pistols. The man thought he was fast, but he had a catch in his draw that would slow him up just enough. It was the reason Koop would never be one of the great ones. It was the reason Jackson knew he could outdraw the gunman who had taken Catalina.

  Without turning his head or taking his eyes from Koop, Jackson knew the boardwalk was filling up. Whispers reached him, muted footsteps, a swinging door. He heard a footstep on a balcony above Koop’s head. No one said a word … as they settled in, he couldn’t even hear them breathe.

  They had come to watch someone die. Bloodthirsty bastards, all of them.

  Catalina bit her lip to keep from screaming. It would only distract Jackson, and he needed to keep his attention on Koop. But inside she was screaming; her heart was about to burst, her lungs about to explode with the scream she held back.

  Her heart had stopped when she’d been pushed onto the boardwalk and she’d seen Jackson atop his horse, just as she’d seen him that first day. Cold. Stoic. He’d dismounted without so much as a glance in her direction, without a word to her.

  Standing on the street, he was Kid Creede once again, with that hat so low over his eyes that she couldn’t see them, and that duster billowing about his legs. There were silver spurs on his boots that danced and sang with each slow step he took, and with a smooth motion he pushed the duster back so the two Colts he wore were visible.

  She wanted to wrestle against the grip Alberta and that goon Milo had on her, but she didn’t dare. It wouldn’t do to make any move that might call attention to her and away from Koop. He was the real threat to Jackson … and to her.

  Koop was ruthless, and he was looking to make his reputation … to make himself a legend. Otherwise, he would have shot Jackson down at Doc’s ranch. It would have been simple enough, once Jackson had dropped Doc’s ancient rifle.

  There wasn’t a sound, except for the beating of her heart, which she was certain Jackson could hear, it was so loud. Everyone … everything waited. The wind was still, a cloud covered the sun, and even Alberta held her breath.

  It happened quickly. Koop drew first, and in spite of her resolve, the scream Catalina had been withholding burst free.

  Koop didn’t get off a single shot. Jackson drew, so fast his hand was nothing but a blur, and as his Colt fired Koop crumpled to the ground.

  He turned to her then, ignoring the murmurs of the staring crowd. Alberta and her bartender released Catalina and backed away. Jackson hadn’t reholstered his weapon, and it hung at his side. No one who had just seen the gunfight would doubt that whoever Jackson wanted dead would soon be dead.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a low, smooth voice, free of emotion.

  Catalina nodded her head. “Yes,” she whispered. She could see his eyes now, cold as ice. Withdrawn and … alone. “Hurry. We’ve got to get away from here.”

  He bolstered his Colt and dropped down to untie the rope Koop had wrapped around her legs, his movements unhurried. It was already too late. The sheriff was approaching with quick steps down the boardwalk. Catalina wanted to shout at the lawman. Surely he had known what was happening. He’d ignored it, until the threat was over.

  “It was self-defense,” she said, looking down at Jackson’s hat. He didn’t seem at all concerned at the sheriff’s approach. Didn’t stand until the ropes fell at Catalina’s feet.

  When he did stand it was with a slow deliberation, like a snake uncoiling. He didn’t even look at her, but glared over her shoulder to Alberta.

  “Untie her hands,” he ordered in a low voice, and Alberta jumped to do as she was told.

  Jackson turned to the sheriff, and the man’s step slowed. He was afraid of Jackson … of Kid Creede … Catalina could see that in his eyes.

  “I’ll be happy to turn myself in and hand over my weapons.”

  “No,” Catalina yelled, but he continued as if she wasn’t even there.

  “If you’ll grant me one last request.”

  Her hands were free, and Catalina let her arms fall to her sides. She wanted to wrap them around Jackson, but he faced the sheriff stiffly, hard as a rock, and she didn’t dare step forward even to lay a hand on his arm.

  The sheriff had stopped several feet away from Jackson, eyes flitting from his holsters to his eyes. He didn’t have to wonder who would win if he were to make the mistake of drawing on Jackson. But he didn’t answer right away.

  “We can do this hard or we can do it easy,” Jackson said silkily. “Your choice.”

  “What kind of request?” the sheriff asked wearily.

  “I want to be married,” Jackson said, no emotion in that low voice, “and then I want you to let my wife leave Baxter, with your word that she won’t be followed.”

  “No,” Catalina whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

  He must have heard her … he was only a couple of feet away … but he said nothing, didn’t even turn his head to acknowledge her.

  “Turn over your weapons first,” the sheriff said.

  Catalina moved forward, a single step, and she saw the half smile creep across Jackson’s face. There was no humor in that smile, and it chilled her to the bone.

  “I’m not stupid, Sheriff,” Jackson answered.

  The sheriff shuffled his feet, dragging his boot heels across the boardwalk. “All right. Reverend Preston can perform the ceremony in my office.”

  “In the church,” Jackson amended. “And then Catalina leaves town on my horse, and you give your word that no one will go after her.”

  “A woman alone … ” the sheriff began. “It’s not safe.”

  “I want your word,” Jackson all but whispered.

  The sheriff thought it over, but not for long. “All right. You have it. No one will follow her.”

  Catalina reached out and placed her hand on Jackson’s arm. He did turn his head to her then, and looked down at her face with those cold eyes.

  “I meant what I said,” she whispered. “I won’t leave you here.”

  She could see no emotion in his eyes, no regret, no indecision. He didn’t lay his hand over hers or smile, or give her a conspiratorial wink. He had nothing up his sleeve, no plan to get them out of this one. Jackson intended to hand himself over to the sheriff and turn her away.

  “You have no choice,” he answered in a whisper even lower than her own.

  And it was the certainty in that voice, the determination in those pale blue eyes, that finally convinced her. He was sending her home.

  They walked to the church, Jackson’s step stiff and sure as Catalina gripped the sleeve of his duster. She told him how Koop had killed Harold Goodman, and the news that Doc had survived the attempt on his life.

  He showed no reaction to either of those bits of news, no satisfaction or relief. She could tell that he had distanced himself again, shut himself off from emotion, buried his soul deep.

  The sheriff allowed no one but himself and Reverend Preston in the small church, shutting the heavy doors on the crowd that had followed them from Alberta’s.

  “How’s Doc?” Catalina asked the preacher, as soon as the doors were closed.

  The solemn preacher nodded his head slowly. “Gravely injured, but still strong. I believe he’ll make it.” He glanced over her shoulder to the sheriff. “The man that was killed … ” He paused, “The gunman who apparently kidnapped Miss, Lane… . You are aware, are you not, Sheriff Ross, that the man ambushed Doc Booker with the intention of killing him?”

  Catalina twisted her
head slowly. Sheriff Ross? Wilson’s great-grandfather, perhaps. Great-great? She tried to do the math in her head as she looked for a resemblance. Perhaps. Sheriff Ross was as cowardly as Wilson. More.

  Sheriff Ross made it clear that he didn’t care what Koop had done. Taking Jackson would make his reputation, just as Koop had been looking to do. Neither of them were half the man Jackson was. They were empty shells, not men at all.

  Her head swam, and Catalina closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she felt Jackson’s warm fingers on her face.

  “Don’t cry, Catalina,” he whispered, his soft words for her alone.

  Twenty

  *

  It was a somber ceremony, with none of the joy and promise for the future Catalina had expected to feel on her wedding day. Sheriff Ross stood behind them, in the middle of the aisle, their only witness. Reverend Preston, Doc’s friend, performed the ceremony without a smile, without a spark of hope in his voice.

  Jackson stood stiffly beside her, his eyes straight ahead, his hand covering her trembling fingers, resting on his arm. He had removed his hat and deposited it on a pew, but he wore his gunbelt and his duster. His face was covered with black stubble, and he looked as forbidding and deadly as Kid Creede was expected to look.

  It wasn’t supposed to end like this. They were supposed to have a lifetime together, a new start. She was going to teach Jackson how to be a good father to their baby, how to make friends, how to trust.

  Instead of the satin-and-lace wedding gown she had been wearing on the day Jackson found her in the desert, Catalina was wearing a faded blue calico that had belonged to Doc’s late wife. Her fingers twitched, and the pressure of Jackson’s hand increased, just enough to let her know that he was aware of her.

  Catalina listened to the words that finally made her Jackson’s wife. It was what she’d wanted … but not like this. The price was too high.

  He could have gotten away, as soon as he’d shot Koop. He could have run to his horse and taken off … but she had never expected Jackson to do that. For her, he had tried to leave that part of his life behind. He hadn’t wanted to kill Koop. He had broken his promise and come to Baxter to save her.

  And now he was sending her away.

  He took both her hands in his and she looked up into his impassive face as the preacher pronounced them man and wife. He hadn’t been this cold when she’d first met him. Not hard like this. Did he, somewhere deep inside, blame her for his downfall? She knew she would always blame herself. All she’d wanted was to save him, to keep him alive. She had failed miserably.

  Jackson kissed her, a brief, passionless kiss to seal the pact.

  “All right,” Sheriff Ross said testily. “Let’s go.” Jackson turned his head slowly to the lawman. “Give us five minutes. Alone.”

  “I don’t … ” the sheriff began.

  “Five minutes,” Jackson said again.

  The sheriff hesitated, but he left with the preacher, and Catalina was at last alone with her husband.

  “I’ll come back for you,” she promised Jackson in a whispery voice that shook just slightly. “I’ll break you out of jail.”

  “You can’t come back.”

  They stood silently at the altar, there where they’d been legally wed. All her plans — for a fresh start in Texas, for a chance to show Jackson how wonderful life could be — wiped away in a single morning.

  Jackson took her hand and led her to the front pew. Catalina sat, and he stood before her, twining his fingers through hers, studying the hand he held.

  “I swear, I’ll get you away from this place … ” she began.

  “They won’t be putting me in jail, Catalina.” Jackson didn’t raise his voice, and there was no emotion in that statement. Only harsh assurance. “They’ll either shoot me or hang me before the day is out, and I don’t want you here when that happens.”

  Catalina felt physically ill. Her stomach churned, her vision blurred, and she clasped Jackson’s hand tightly. “That’s why you insisted on the ceremony.”

  Jackson nodded.

  “I can’t … I won’t … ”

  Jackson sat beside her, and with his free hand he reached into the inside pocket of his duster to grasp the two pieces of wulfenite. “You’ll need this,” he said softly, holding out the piece of the stone that was still attached to Qaletaqa’s braided leather. She refused to take it, so he placed it around her neck. “You know what to do.”

  The other piece he placed around his own neck, closing his fingers around the stone until she could no longer see the golden crystal. “I’ll keep this, if you don’t mind. It’s as good as any wedding ring. Better, I reckon.”

  He leaned forward then and kissed her, tender and hungry and touched with the finality of a forced good-bye. His lips lingered, pulling away and then drawn to hers again, soft and warm as he showed her a tenderness she knew no one else had ever seen from him.

  “I’m going to stay here with you,” Catalina insisted. “You can’t force me to go back.”

  She saw it then, the softening of those cold eyes, the melting of the ice there. “Do it for me, Catalina. You won’t be safe here, without me to protect you.”

  “But … ”

  Jackson laid a finger over her lips, stilling her protests. “Listen to me. I know we didn’t have much time, but it’s a miracle we had even that. I’d never known love until I found you. I didn’t believe in love or miracles or magic until you showed me they existed.”

  Jackson pulled her head against his shoulder and held her so tight she could barely breathe. But it wasn’t tight enough. Catalina knew then that his emotionless face and words, the iciness that set him apart, was only a shield. That he was holding on to his sanity as desperately as she was.

  “And we have to think about the baby.” His voice almost broke. “A baby, Catalina.” There was wonder in his voice, the voice of a man who had never before known wonder. “I’ve known my time was coming. I certainly never expected to see the twentieth century. This baby … this child … will grow up in the twenty-first. It’s the only thing you can do for me now. The only gift I’ll ever ask you for. To take care of this baby. That can’t be done here, Catalina.”

  “So to show how much I love you, I have to leave?” Catalina pressed her face against his shoulder. Her lips against the dusty fabric, her every breath a sharp reminder that she would never be next to him again, never again taste his lips. Never lie next to him, breathless and happy, their hearts beating in a synchronized rhythm. “I can’t.”

  Jackson took her shoulders and pushed her gently away. “For me. Remember what you said? Two halves of the same soul. Maybe … if the soul survives … I’ll be in 1996, waiting for you. Another body, but the same soul, I promise you, Catalina, if it’s possible, I’ll be there. And I’ll find you.”

  “I don’t want another man; I want you.” She didn’t want to cry. Since she’d watched him ride into town she’d fought the tears — had allowed only that single tear Jackson had brushed away. She didn’t sob, but the tears welled up in her eyes. “I can’t believe I came all this way just to find you, and now I have to give you up.”

  Jackson kissed her, a slow melting of their lips that could only break her heart, and he held his hand over her belly. His fingers stroked her gently, strong brown fingers brushing against faded blue calico. “Maybe, if there has to be a reason, this is it. The baby. A part of us, Catalina.”

  A part of us, she thought bitterly. It didn’t ease the pain.

  “Look for me,” Jackson whispered. “When you get back to 1996, look for me.”

  The door opened slowly and bright light spilled onto the church aisle, across Jackson’s face and hers. The sun warmed her cheek, but it did nothing to chase away the chill. The sheriff appeared in the doorway, silently demanding his prisoner. There were a handful of armed men behind him, ready to take on the infamous Kid Creede if they had to.

  The shield closed back over Jackson’s eyes and they wer
e cold once again. “Take my horse,” he whispered. “And leave. Now. You know where to go.”

  Catalina closed her fingers around the wulfenite that dangled from her neck. Yes, damn it all, she knew where to go.

  Jackson distanced himself from her, mentally and physically. She knew he was attempting to keep her from harm, but she wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

  But she walked down the street, alone, while Jackson stood on the church steps facing a hostile crowd.

  She turned away from him and didn’t look back. Not as she walked away from the church, unable to be oblivious to the stares that followed her, not as she walked down the middle of the street, passing the bloodstained site where Koop had died. Someone had already taken the gunman’s body away.

  Jackson’s horse was still tethered in front of Alberta’s. The madam and her employees weren’t a part of the crowd at the church. They watched her over the top of the batwing doors, as silent and as hostile as the sheriff and his men. Milo frowned. Winnie looked more annoyed than anything else. Alberta was seething — angry because she was losing her new girl? Angry because Catalina was getting away from Baxter, while Alberta never would?

  There was a touch of pity in Juanita’s dark eyes. Pity and what could have been envy, though it was hard to tell.

  Catalina stepped into the stirrup and swung a leg over Jackson’s bay, seating herself in the saddle. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was all for the child she carried. Maybe. At the moment that thought didn’t diminish the ache in her heart. She was simply angry, and strangely empty.

  She had to look back. She couldn’t leave without one more look, one more image to burn into her brain. It would have to last her a lifetime.

  Jackson was walking down the street, coming straight toward her. His step was slow and even, his back stiff, his head high. The sheriff and the rest of his men stayed well back, forming a wall behind Jackson. They were afraid of him, still. Afraid of Kid Creede with his cold eyes and his lightning draw. Afraid of the fearlessness within him.

  He came straight to her. His face gave away nothing, no regret, no indecision.