This time, it was he who had difficulty looking away as he studied a woman who might accept him as he was. He wrenched his glance away and settled his hat, giving an extra tug on the brim. What nonsense. Even if she did not find him repulsive, he had no time for romance.
Besides, she was probably adept at hiding her true feelings. Look at her reaction to the death of her employer’s husband, even though it obviously affected her deeply. No, her only feeling for Ward was pity.
He sighed deeply. The death of Babbitt and Fletcher had placed him back at square one and getting back on track was his top priority.
Chapter Six
Ward had not spoken when loading her brother into the back of the wagon, in the same place the body had laid and spoke little as the wagon creaked along, seemingly lost in thought. Grace wished he would snap the lines over the horses’ backs. Mother was surely having a conniption fit, as late as it was.
The clouds had completely dispersed, and the stars shone brightly overhead. The moon, in all of its fullness, gave her enough light to surreptitiously study Ward’s profile. He’d tugged his hat low over those beguiling eyes of his, although there was no need since they were forever imprinted upon her mind. It was a good thing he’d be gone once they reached town, and she’d never see him again. She did not want a repeat of her reaction to this man, and the heat burned in her cheeks as to what he must think of her.
Even now, sitting beside him, she felt a pull, as if some invisible force danced between them. She bit her lip.
He’d seemed to challenge her when he’d finally removed his hat, daring her to accept the deep scarring. She suppressed a smile. There were a handful of war veterans around town—not with damage from an ax, as his appeared—but with skull injuries from bullets grazing their heads, and she’d grown used to seeing them.
If she’d been squeamish, she would never have accepted the job at the infirmary. No doctor worth her salt would be bothered by such minor things. She did not know why she still thought in such terms. She’d given up her dream of becoming a doctor and would accept her lot in life as a nurse and be thankful.
She must have sighed for Ward turned to glance at her. “Is anything wrong?”
She told a small fib. “I am concerned about mother. She’ll be worried sick.” Grace folded her hands in her lap and linked her fingers together to keep from fidgeting.
“I’m sure the sheriff sent word as to what happened.” His eyes still studied her, as if she were an interesting specimen.
It intrigued her. Even the deep timbre of his voice had an effect, sending a pleasant sensation along the back of her neck. The cool breeze heightened the feeling, making her thankful he could only see her by the light of the moon.
The smell of spring was in the air, and the sounds of nightlife around them, along with the vastness of the starry sky, made everything seem a vivid dream, a place immune to sadness. She birthed a song, unaware of where the tune arose, or for that matter, from whence flowed the words. Strange, to sing out loud, in front of this stranger, when Mr. Taron had died in the back of this very wagon where her brother laid drunk.
She ignored those thoughts and even her self-consciousness. The song lifted her spirits, and, amazingly, she felt calm and at ease while she sang.
When she finished, he was watching her with a smile playing on his lips, but he did not praise her or even acknowledge what had happened. And she was glad. Being with him would soon be over, and she would never see him again. She shook her head to rid herself of the sorrow that followed so quickly on the heels of the song.
Yet he continued scrutinizing her, and heat rose to her cheeks. He finally glanced away. “Have you worked for Mrs. Babbitt long?” he asked.
“Over a year now.”
She decided to keep her answers short. She could not afford to fall under this man’s spell—she had obligations no one would understand. He was a stranger, simply passing through town. Besides, this man had been in a bar with her brother and had no dignity, no honor, if his actions mirrored her brother’s.
Besides, he held a hint of danger, with his gun belt strapped low, his gun at the ready. Why she would be drawn to this man was beyond her understanding. She knew nothing of him and had probably been foolish to accept the ride into town. She threw a quick glance to the back of the wagon. Gus would be of no help if trouble arose.
“Is this a common occurrence with your brother?” he asked as he also gave a quick look over his shoulder.
She spoke flatly, devoid of all emotion. “Augustus Jefferson Jansen, Junior makes a regular habit of visiting saloons.” Despite her intentions, her voice broke, and she turned her head away so he could not read her face.
“I’m sorry for such a personal question. I shouldn’t have asked.”
She peeked at his profile and waved a weary hand. “No need to apologize. Everyone in town knows my brother is a frequent visitor to the saloon. We cannot hide the fact and have learned to accept it.”
Why she said we, she did not know. Her mother did not accept it—no, more that she refused to believe it. She treated Gus as an invalid, as if his drunken state was something he’d caught, like a bad cold, that could be cured with a bowl of chicken soup.
She turned in her seat to study Ward’s profile again. “Can you explain what happened in the saloon? Did my brother—?” She broke off and shot a quick glance over her shoulder to be certain her brother still slept.
He must have gathered her intent. “You have no need to fear. Your brother was not responsible in any way.”
At this, she let her breath out in a swoosh. “Did you know the men who entered the saloon?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen them before. They came in with their guns drawn and shot out the lights before I could get a good look.”
“You said the patrons were all killed. What of the barkeep, Mr. Mock?”
“I’m sorry if he was a friend of yours. He, too, is dead.”
“Oh.” She blinked back tears. Mr. Mock had been a kind man, often helping her remove her brother from his establishment as unobtrusively as possible. Had she ever properly thanked him? It was too late now. Life was short and uncertain, and she’d taken much for granted.
He spoke again. “If it was any consolation, it appears he died quickly.”
“Thank you. It is. So, these men were professionals and knew how to kill efficiently?” Heat rose to her cheeks for asking such an unwomanly question.
His voice held no censure for her words. “Yes, I’d say they appeared to be professional gunslingers who knew exactly what they were doing.”
“And what of you, Ward?”
“Me?”
The moonlight bathed his face, showing his surprise at her words. She stiffened, and her muscles tensed. “I was wondering of your profession.”
He chuckled softly. “You are wondering if I’m a gunslinger?”
She didn’t respond. All indications were that he was one. He wore a gun belt with pearl-handled pistols. His imposing stature, even the scarred head, pointed to a life of violence. And the way he carried himself, not arrogantly, but with assurance, as if no situation were beyond his control.
He shot her another look, filled with curiosity, over what she wasn’t sure. He grinned. “No, I am not a gunslinger. I’ve been searching for a man, an outlaw, for some time. He was killed in the shootout.”
Could it have been Mr. Taron he was searching for? And she noted he had not answered her question. “What was the man’s name?”
“I don’t believe you would be acquainted with him. He went by the name of Fletcher although he was with someone you did know.”
“Yes?” Her heartbeat quickened. Did he mean her brother?
“Your employer, Mr. Babbitt. He and Fletcher met in the bar, as if they knew each other. As a matter of fact, it seemed Fletcher was reporting to Babbitt.”
“What? You think Mr. Taron was involved with this outlaw?”
He didn’t answer but snapped the line
s over the backs of the horses.
“That can’t be true!” she cried, so loudly her brother stirred in the back.
He shrugged. “I’m only telling you what I saw with my own eyes.”
“Your eyes were mistaken.” She fell silent for a moment, mulling over his words before she turned to him again. “What did this man, Fletcher, purportedly do?”
He raised his hat from his head. “I’m sure you noticed his handiwork.”
“He did that to you? It appears an old wound. When did it happen?”
“Over sixteen years ago, when I was around four or five—I can’t remember my exact age or the circumstances.”
“No wonder with such a serious head injury.”
He shrugged as if it was of little consequence. “He also killed my parents, I’ve been told.”
“How is it you survived?”
“A tribe of Choctaws found me, doctored me the best they knew how, saved my life.” He fell silent and looked away.
“If you were so young and have little memory of the incident, how can you be sure it was this man who did this to your family, this Mr. Fletcher?”
“I have my reasons for believing so. And I have told you more of my business, Miss Jansen, then I intended. I hope I can trust you to keep this conversation between us?”
“Of course. During my employment with Dr. Robbie, I’ve learned to be discreet.” She bit her lip and looked down at her hands. “And from dealing with my own family, I’ve learned to be careful what I reveal. I will never betray your secrets.”
She gave him a sideways glance without raising her head. He was watching her, his face filled with warmth and admiration—at least, it seemed so by the light of the moon.
He leaned closer to her, so close he could have kissed her if he so wished, for she had raised her head to look into those eyes. A slow smile crept across his face, and his voice was low and intimate. “Thank you.”
He straightened and gently snapped the lines. The earth quieted and a silence descended, as soothing as a blissful sigh.
Chapter Seven
Ward followed Miss Jansen’s directions and arrived at her family’s home. The place was brightly lit, and as he pulled to a stop, two people emerged from the house to meet them—one he recognized immediately as the sheriff and the other was a woman whom he assumed to be the mother.
The woman went immediately to the back of the wagon before the brake was fully set. The sheriff, to Ward’s surprise, barely glanced at him but went around to help Miss Jansen descend. The sheriff held her hand a moment more than necessary, and it was Miss Jansen who pulled her hand from his grasp.
Ward frowned. Obviously the two were involved, how deeply was anyone’s guess. He shrugged and jumped down. He’d never see her again, and what she did with the sheriff was none of his business.
Both the sheriff and Miss Jansen joined her mother and helped arouse Gus. Miss Jansen led Gus toward the house, with the woman fussing over him, asking if he was hurt.
Ward stood at the wagon and waited until the sheriff finally looked in his direction. “Sheriff, what do you want me to do with the wagon?”
The sheriff seemed to have difficulty answering the simple question since his attention was focused once more on Miss Jansen. Only when the door closed did he fully focus on Ward. “What? The wagon? I’ll take it from here.”
Ward nodded and waited for the sheriff to question him. When the sheriff did not speak but continued surveying the house, he spoke again. “Babbitt died on the way.”
The sheriff’s only reaction was to lift a brow. “Oh?”
Ward leaned against the wagon and crossed his arms and decided to take the lead. “Did you get things squared at the saloon?”
The sheriff’s forehead furrowed, and his eyes refocused on Ward, as if seeing him for the first time. “Yep. Twelve men dead, all citizens of the town—no strangers.”
Ward shook his head slowly. “Whoever did the shooting got clean away, I reckon, and killed all the witnesses except for me and Gus. I got a couple of shots off as did Babbitt before he was shot. I’m not sure if we even winged one of them.”
“How many were there?”
“Hard to say—it all happened so quickly. Four or five at least. If they were all strangers, there have to be witnesses in town. Someone must have seen them enter the saloon.” Ward endeavored to keep the impatience from his voice at the incompetence of the man. Anyone within the vicinity of the saloon should have been questioned by now, but the sheriff was staring blankly at him.
He finally nodded. “I’ll deputize some men tomorrow and get them to canvas the town, see what information we can find.”
Ward stepped away. “Best be getting back to the hotel. I’ll be by your office tomorrow to discuss more details.”
But before he could leave, he heard a ‘yoo hoo’ coming from the front porch.
He glanced at the house. Mrs. Jansen waved a handkerchief, as if to catch his attention. “Ward,” she called. “May I speak with you?”
Ward threw a look to the sheriff who shrugged. They both walked toward the woman. She motioned them onto the porch and beamed at Ward.
“My son tells me you saved his life. I wanted to convey my thanks for your quick action.”
He touched the brim of his hat. “No problem, ma’am.”
The sheriff gave a nod toward him. “This is Marshal Howard Henderson, Mrs. Jansen.”
Before Ward could respond to the sheriff, Mrs. Jansen asked another question. “How long will you be in town?”
“I’m not sure—perhaps a week or two.”
“I insist you stay with us so we may properly show our appreciation.” Her smile was as broad as her face.
“I can’t impose on your family. My room at the hotel will do.”
She tapped his arm playfully. “Nonsense! They don’t have home cooking at the hotel, now do they?”
If he stayed with the Jansens, he could implement his plan to use Miss Jansen to gather information without arousing anyone’s suspicions. He had to find out more about Fletcher and Babbitt’s relationship, and the man’s wife would surely know. A few innocent questions to Miss Jansen might be the key to finding out.
He smoothed the planes of his face. “You are correct—the hotel food is barely edible. I gladly accept your invitation.”
The sheriff’s eyes widened and narrowed to a glare at Ward before he addressed Mrs. Jansen. “But do you have an extra room for Marshal Henderson?”
“He can have Grace’s room, and she can bunk with me. I have it all arranged.”
Ward shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’ll just throw a pallet on the floor, in a corner somewhere.”
“Grace won’t mind a bit. She’ll enjoy spending more time with her mother.” Mrs. Jansen hit him again on the arm, more of a push. “Now, you go get your things, and all will be ready when you return.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave another coquettish look in his direction before bidding the sheriff goodnight and going in.
He didn’t bother with the steps but jumped off the porch without speaking to the sheriff.
The sheriff caught up with him, panting a little. “Why did you do that?” he demanded.
Ward continued striding in the direction of the hotel. “Do what?”
The sheriff caught him by the shoulder, and Ward stopped and turned to face him. The sheriff’s eyes were pained, and Ward had compassion on him. Obviously, the man was sweet on Miss Jansen. Ward removed his hat to reveal to the sheriff that he had nothing to fear in that respect. The sheriff took an involuntary step back.
He looked anywhere but at Ward. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “There’s no need to stay with the Jansens. I can put you up at the jail if the hotel doesn’t suit you.”
Ward laughed. “I’m afraid the jail would suit me less. Listen, Sheriff, I am still investigating this case and Miss Jansen might help gather information about Babbitt, find out why he was meeting with Fletcher,
the man I was tracking.”
The sheriff rubbed his chin. “I can’t believe anything was up. Perhaps it was just an accidental meeting in the bar, two strangers having a drink.”
“No. It was more.”
The sheriff nodded and sighed heavily. “In that case, I’ll help you find out.”
Ward replaced his hat. “Thanks. With your help, I can get to the bottom of this.”
“Tell me what I need to do.”
Ward considered the man in front of him and hesitated before making up his mind not to tell him the full story. “If you are willing to work together, perhaps we can co-ordinate our efforts. I don’t want to step on any toes.”
The sheriff reacted the way Ward figured. His face flooded with relief as he fingered his badge. “Rest assured, you won’t be stepping on any toes. You’re in charge, Marshal.”
Ward slapped him on his shoulder and grinned. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“I may have a lead for you already...”
“Oh?”
“There are three men out at the Babbitt Ranch who might know something. Meet me there tomorrow and you can question them.
“That sounds promising. And now, I’d better get going. I wouldn’t want to keep Mrs. Jansen waiting.” He strode away.
“Goodnight,” the sheriff called after him.
Ward gave a nod in acknowledgement but did not break stride until he reached his hotel room. As he packed his things, Miss Jansen’s face wavered in front of him. The woman intrigued him, and she did not seem to be repulsed by him at all. On the contrary, she seemed as pulled to him as he was to her... unless his imagination played tricks on him.
He’d have to guard his heart.
Chapter Eight
Grace awoke the next morning later than usual. No wonder after being out so late. And sleeping on the same bed with her mother had not be conducive to a good night’s sleep—her mother snored abominably and was still doing so now as Grace quietly arose.
Grace, Unimagined Page 4
