by Jill Gregory
“Can I meet Jinx one day?” the girl asked, suddenly breaking free, her eyes shining with excitement.
Melora wondered how to answer. “I’d like that,” she said, picking her words carefully. “But we’ll have to see. Right now, though”—she went on briskly, recalling herself to her task—“I need you to tell me how to get to Cherryville. Do you know exactly?”
“Course I know.”
“Then tell me, if you please, and if you keep my secret, just maybe I’ll bring you back a surprise.”
“Let me go with you, Melora; then I can show you the trail.”
Melora shook her head. “Not this time. Cal might not like it. Stay here and work in your spelling primer, so when I test you tonight, you’ll get all the words correct. And then I will give you a surprise.”
Jesse came upon her as she was mounting from a fence post.
“Hey, Melora. Where do you think you’re going?” He ran over and grabbed Sunflower’s bridle.
“Riding.”
“Anyplace particular?” He squinted up at her and spoke casually. “Cal’s down in the north pasture if you’re looking for him.”
“I’m not.”
“Look, Melora, I’ve got to speak my piece.” She waited as Jesse raked his hand through his hair in a gesture so like Cal’s a pang struck her heart. “I reckon we made a mistake, locking you two in the barn yesterday. Things didn’t turn out the way we expected.”
Nor the way I expected. The tightness in her chest hurt, making Melora snap out, “Forget about it, Jesse. Your brother and I don’t get along. That’s all. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him. Can you blame me? He did kidnap me after all, taking me away from my home and my sister.”
“I know all that, and you know why he did it,” Jesse retorted. “But the thing is, Cal does like you. Actually he more than likes you. He’s sweet on you, Melora.” He went on desperately, blushing with the words. “More sweet on you than he’s ever been on anyone. Cal’s shy with girls, always has been. He’s different with you, though.”
I’ll say, Melora thought with bitterness. He wasn’t shy about kidnapping me or about kissing me anytime he damn well felt like it. Or about dragging me down in the hay last night, undressing me, driving me wild—until he changed his damned mind.
“Look, maybe you don’t know your brother as well as you think.” She went on smoothly, her chin up. “He seems like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows how to get what he wants, and he knows... more about women than you’d guess,” she said, suddenly overcome by an intense hatred of any woman Cal Holden had ever known, particularly the ones who’d taught him to kiss like that or to move his body the way he did, to set a woman on fire...
“Cal isn’t innocent, and he isn’t stupid. He’s known what he’s been doing all along. Particularly where I’m concerned.” She went on furiously. “To him I’m a pawn; that’s all. Someone useful. Someone involved in his life because I have to be. But he doesn’t like me... or—or care about me, not in the way you mean—”
“The hell he doesn’t!” Jesse burst out.
He sounded so sure that Melora paused, staring at him through wide, wondering eyes. Could Jesse be right?
No. She’d lived through what had happened last night. Cal couldn’t have said all that about everything being a mistake, about regretting it, if he loved her.
“I’m not going to discuss your brother with you one moment longer,” she said coldly, drawing her dignity around her like a heavy wool cloak in the dead of winter. “I’m going for a ride.”
“Cal might not like it...” Jesse said uncertainly, biting his lip, but Melora grabbed up Sunflower’s reins with an oath and kicked the mare to a gallop.
“To hell with him,” she yelled over her shoulder, and then she was racing, racing like the wind across the scrabby grass, toward the lofty forest of spruces ahead.
The air had turned chill overnight, making her glad she’d taken Cal’s wool jacket, which he’d left on a peg by the kitchen door. Though the sky was a hot, vivid blue, there was a nip in the air that hinted of autumn and of the harsh Dakota winter to come.
Autumn. It was almost autumn, and she had to get Jinx to a doctor back East before the bad weather set in. She had to get the Weeping Willow into the black. She had to straighten out the mess of her life.
And she had to sweep Cal Holden out of her thoughts and her dreams and her heart.
All the way to Cherryville she kept turning over in her mind what Jesse had said. She came to the conclusion he didn’t know what he was talking about. By the time she dismounted in front of the telegraph office and tethered Sunflower to a hitching post, she was so immersed in her thoughts that she never saw the tall raven-haired man in the black Stetson emerge from the saloon.
He saw her, though.
Rafe Campbell stopped dead, his jaw dropping.
What the hell? he growled under his breath.
It was Melora; it could only be Melora. Though she was wearing a flannel shirt, a jacket, and trousers, he would recognize that lithe, slender body anywhere, the shimmer of gold hair tied back with a ribbon, the smooth, swinging, confident walk that could turn a man’s blood to liquid fire.
He controlled the impulse to run to her, grab her, whisk her off, and ask questions later. He hadn’t come this far by giving in to emotion when reason was called for. There were too many unknown elements here. Had Holden let her go? he wondered, his mind assessing the possibilities with rapid calculation. Or had she gotten away?
And how much did she know?
Reflex made him duck back behind the false front eatery alongside the saloon while through slitted eyes he watched her enter the telegraph office. Then he thought awhile.
And waited.
Chapter 18
“I’m here to see Marshal Brock.”
Cal stood hat in hand on the front porch of Marshal Brock’s spotless white house and peered once again into the prim, lined face of the gray-headed woman who opened the front door.
He’d spent the morning doing farm chores and repairing harnesses, but before long the urge to come to town and check on developments had been overwhelming. While everyone at home was having the midday meal, he’d gone to the barn, saddled Rascal, and headed to Deadwood in search of Marshal Everett T. Brock and in search of Rafe Campbell.
He wasn’t having much luck finding either one.
“So it’s you again. Well, the marshal’s not here,” the woman said in a high, snappish voice that grated on his nerves. She looked sweet as marzipan in her starched gingham dress and apron, with her little cloud of hair wound tightly into a bun, but her small marble blue eyes were as arctic as the snowcaps atop the Rockies.
He spoke with cool deliberation. “When do you expect him back, ma’am?”
“Told you last time. Don’t know. He comes and goes when he pleases. I have work to do.”
Cal replaced his hat. “Sorry to bother you.” Yet he hesitated a moment, uncertain whether or not to leave his name with Marshal Brock’s housekeeper. He knew the phrase “Once a lawman, always a lawman.” What if the famed marshal, retired or not, started looking into this stranger who kept coming by his door, started checking out wanted posters, names of escaped outlaws? The Holden name might come up, and then, Cal mused, I might find myself being tracked down and arrested by the very lawman I need to help clear my name.
“Just tell him I’ll be back,” he said smoothly, and turned away. He sauntered down the steps, away from her glaring eyes and the neat white clapboard house without glancing back even when she slammed the door. With long strides he headed up the street toward the center of town, keeping an eye out for Rafe Campbell.
Where the hell was Brock? He needed to get things started. By today or tomorrow he expected to hear from Campbell—a note left for him at the hotel, as he’d instructed. Then he could make his move.
But not without Brock.
As Cal stalked down the busy horse and wagon-filled street, g
lancing this way and that with deceptive casualness, his mood was as restless as the wind that sent tumbleweed skittering down Deadwood’s streets and alleys.
It had been sheer hell today trying to concentrate on what needed doing at the farm. To tell the truth, it had been hell trying to concentrate on much of anything; Melora kept getting in the way.
Popping into his mind when he was chopping wood or planting or repairing a harness. Torturing him with the memory of how sweetly her body moved beneath his hands, how her eyelashes curled like honey-colored lace along her cheeks when she closed her eyes, how she stuck her hands on her hips when she was mad about this or that.
Melora Deane. He had to stop thinking about Melora Deane.
It was time, time at last to bring his entire plan to fruition. To persuade Marshal Brock that he was an innocent man who’d been framed, to get the lawman to agree to conceal himself when Cal confronted Rafe Campbell head-on.
Then all I’ll have to do is get Campbell to confess to everything: the rustling, Grimstock’s murder, all of it, while Brock is in earshot.
And then it will be up to the law.
Part of him chafed at this plan. Campbell had hurt too many people. Cal would have. preferred just to shoot it out with him and be done. The snake didn’t deserve to live, didn’t deserve even the dignity of a trial.
But he had Lou and Cassie and Will and Jesse to think about. He had to get the Holden name cleared once and for all—and Joe’s name, too. He needed Brock to be his witness, to help him wipe the slate clean so that everyone would know—in Arizona, all over—that the Holden brothers had done nothing wrong. That Rafe Campbell was the one who deserved to hang for his crimes.
But Brock seemed never to be at home. And Campbell hadn’t yet shown his face in Deadwood, though he should have been here by now.
Cal had a bad feeling in his gut as he hurried across the street toward the hotel, and it got worse when Quinn O’Malley suddenly stepped out in front of him as he passed the smithy and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Need to say something to you, Holden.”
“Something wrong?” He met the farmer’s appraising gaze with a neutral glance that hid his trepidation. Bad news was coming; he could feel it.
“Don’t know much about you, Holden, but you seem like a decent fellow. Got yourself a nice wife, a baby on the way, and your young brothers and sisters are a real nice bunch of kids.”
“Where’s this headed, O’Malley?” Cal was tense, noting the worry that knitted the Irishman’s bushy brows.
“Heard something in Hamilton’s Mercantile just a bit ago. Bounty hunter’s looking for you. Goes by the handle of Coyote Jack. Ever hear of him?”
“I’ve heard of him.” It was an understatement. Everyone in the Wyoming and Dakota territories had heard of him. Cal’s jaw tightened. Coyote Jack had a fearsome reputation as one of the most ruthless bounty hunters this side of the Rockies. He’d as soon kill his man as bring him back alive. He captured more men and earned more reward money in six months’ time than most lawmen and bounty hunters did over their entire careers.
So Campbell’s hired none other than Coyote Jack to find me—and to kill me too, he thought, not without a flicker of satisfaction. But then his mind jumped ahead: No, he won’t kill me. Not until I tell him where to find Melora.
“Appreciate your dropping me a hint about this, O’Malley. Did you hear anyone mention the farm?”
“Not that I could tell. But I asked the storekeeper about it when Coyote Jack left, and he said the bounty hunter had been asking questions yesterday too. You in some kind of trouble, Holden?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Cal told him evenly. He locked eyes with the burly farmer, who seemed to be taking his measure yet again. “I’ve got myself some enemies, but I reckon I’ll be rid of them right soon. Thanks for the tip.”
“One more thing.” O’Malley glanced around and waited as several passersby scurried around them on the boardwalk. “Last I saw, that bounty hunter was headed for Cherryville. Anyone there going to know you or be able to give that hombre a fix on your farm?”
“Don’t think so, but I’m not taking any chances. Reckon I’m going to have to hunt up this Coyote Jack in Cherryville and teach him to mind his own business,” Cal drawled, a hard light radiating from the center of his eyes. His mouth was a thin, dangerous slit, startling O’Malley with the transformation from the quiet, polite young man who had come to the barbecue with his pretty wife last night to this formidable-looking stranger whose carved features were harder than granite.
“Thanks again, O’Malley. I’m beholden to you.”
The farmer shook his head. “Don’t mention it. Just take care of yourself and that family of yours.”
“Count on it.” Cal clasped his hand and then swung back toward the post where Rascal was tethered.
Quinn O’Malley stared after him for a moment, watching until Cal had vaulted into the saddle and roared out of town. The look of pure rawhide-tough grit on young Cal Holden’s face almost made him feel sorry for Coyote Jack and for whoever had set the bounty hunter on his trail.
But he shook his head as the ribbon of rising dust blurred the horse and rider. He’d once seen Coyote Jack shoot three outlaws before any of them could get off a shot. Cal Holden would have to be damned good—or he’d wind up just as dead as those Bailey brothers.
And they’d been mighty dead indeed.
Chapter 19
Jinx Deane perched desolately in her chair and stared out the window of the Gold Bar Hotel in mute, miserable frustration. She couldn’t see much of the town of Cherryville from here; the large back room Wyatt Holden had stuck her in overlooked only a narrow, garbage-strewn alley, though beyond she could just make out a square of the distant Black Hills, its forested peaks looming dark green against the vivid blue sky. She wished she could have looked out over the town, been able to see people going in and out of shops, children and dogs and chickens in the street, riders and wagons and stagecoaches coming and going.
But all she could see was rotting garbage littering the dusty alley, where now and then crows swooped down to grab leftover scraps dumped behind the hotel’s dining room.
The gloomy view only added to her sense of unease.
There’s no reason to be scared, Jinx told herself. Stop being such a baby.
But she was scared, even though logic told her this was silly. She was with Wyatt, her sister’s fiancé. He’d already explained that he believed Mel was someplace close by, that he didn’t think she was in danger, that she would be with them very soon.
“My men will be combing the area every day until we find her,” he had said that afternoon when he’d come to the Weeping Willow and spoken to her privately while Aggie was away, driving into Rawhide for supplies.
“How do you know where she is?” she’d asked, hope bounding up inside her like a released spring.
“I know. You must trust me on this, Jinx. You do trust me, don’t you, honey?”
“Ye-es.”
Wyatt Holden had smiled then, a smile of gentle warmth. He’d knelt so he was at eye level with her as she sat in her invalid chair with Speckles in her arms and Dot and Blackie mewing on her lap, and he’d talked to her as if she were a grown-up, making her feel very important and very intelligent.
“I only want what’s best for you and for Melora, Jinx. As far as I’m concerned, when your sister promised to marry me, that was the day that we became family. You, me, Melora—we’re all family, Jinx. And Aggie too,” he added. “I don’t think either of us could have gotten through this trouble without Aggie, do you?”
“No. Do you think... can Aggie come with us while we go look for Mel?”
“I’d sure like that, but it’s not the best plan, honey. Someone needs to stay here and run the ranch while we’re gone. Your foreman’s a good man, but Aggie knows this place nearly as well as your pop and Melora; the hands need her to cook for them, and keep the books, and make decisions. With
Melora gone, and next you and me, someone has to keep things in order here. I don’t know who else I’d trust with it but Aggie.”
“Me too.” Jinx stroked Speckles’s fur, staring down into the green marble eyes that lifted so trustingly toward hers. “All right.” She took a deep breath. “It’s the sensible thing to do.”
“And your pop taught both of you girls to be sensible,” Wyatt had said approvingly, patting her arm. For some reason the touch of his fingers always sent a shiver through her, though she tried not to show it.
“But can we tell Aggie that you think you know who took Mel and that you’ve got a good idea whereabouts she is?”
“Better not get her hopes up. Besides, she’ll be bound to ask a lot of questions about how I found out and what I’m planning to do, and that’ll take time to explain—time we don’t have.” He’d sighed. “The important thing now is to get to the Black Hills and find Melora—and that you be there when I get her back. She’ll want to be reunited with you right away, honey, and just the sight of you will cheer her up. That’s what we want, isn’t it? To get Melora back safely and make her happy. Then we can all get on with our lives.”
Jinx didn’t really understand why they couldn’t tell Aggie the good news about having a lead where Melora was, but she agreed to the story he’d proposed.
They would tell Aggie that Dr. Emerson of Philadelphia was traveling in the Dakota Territory and Wyatt had arranged for Jinx to meet with him, that he was an expert on limb paralysis, and would be able to give them some valuable information on Jinx’s condition.
Jinx wasn’t used to lying. Pop had always taught her that it was wrong to lie, even for a good reason. But Pop was gone, and so was Melora, and now she had to rely on Wyatt Holden.
But more and more, as she sat alone in the Cherryville hotel room these past few days since they’d arrived, she’d begun to feel worried. Her room was pretty, with its amber and white flowered quilt, its blue painted walls, and its solid mahogany furniture. There was a large fireplace with a carved mantel, and a tall crystal vase of flowers set upon it, and there were pretty gilt-framed seascapes displayed upon the walls. But she didn’t want to be here in a strange town, alone, waiting for Melora. She wanted to be with her sister back home at the Weeping Willow.
