Jed (The Rock Creek Six Book 4)

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Jed

  The Rock Creek Six

  Book 4

  by

  Linda Winstead Jones

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2001, 2011 by Linda Winstead Jones.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Thank You.

  The Rock Creek Six Series

  (in series order)

  now available in eBook and Print format

  Reese

  Sullivan

  Rico

  Jed

  Nate

  Cash

  Table of Contents

  The Rock Creek Six

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Excerpt: Nate by Lori Handeland

  List of Titles

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  December, 1874

  The stagecoach hit a rut in the road, and for a few terrible seconds it seemed to Hannah that the primitive conveyance, which was filled to capacity with six suffering passengers, flew through the air. It landed with a thud, and she gripped the seat tight to avoid being thrown into someone’s lap. She gripped the head of her cane more tightly, too, though that wasn’t likely to be of any assistance if she found herself airborne.

  Bertie was seated quietly beside her. It gave Hannah some comfort to know that if she did have the misfortune to land in someone’s lap, it would most likely be that of her maid and companion, and not one of the unsavory men who were seated on the opposite bench.

  “I plan to write a strong letter of protest to the stage company once we arrive in Rock Creek,” she said through gritted teeth, as she made a futile attempt to remove some of the dust from the silver-gray camel hair skirt of her traveling dress. The matching silk sash was most likely ruined, as was the gray felt hat she’d discarded days ago, after the first surprising jolt of the stagecoach. “This journey has been the most unbearable experience of my life. The food at the last stop was inedible, the coffee was cold and thick, the dust and heat are insufferable, and I believe our driver is approximately one hundred and two years old. A few of these bumps in the road could be made easier, I am certain, if we had been assigned a driver with a more skilled touch.”

  Bertie, bless her meek soul, muttered a weak “Yes, ma’am.” Everyone else ignored her.

  Well, everyone but the disgustingly filthy man who sat directly opposite her. Bearded, longhaired, and covered with a layer of Texas dirt, he lifted his head and peered beneath the rim of his foul, misshapen wide-brimmed hat to glare at her with narrowed, glittering, hard, very blue eyes. How rude!

  Bertie was the perfect traveling companion, in Hannah’s estimation. She was neat—as her own dark blue traveling dress attested to—quiet, well-mannered, and humble. With her fair hair and deep brown eyes she might have been called attractive by some, but as her eyes were always downcast and her fair hair was always severely contained, that attractiveness was not a distraction.

  She glanced at the young girl who sat at Bertie’s left side, out of curiosity and also as an excuse to take her eyes off the bearlike man who continued to stare so audaciously. She was a pretty, dark-haired girl by the name of Irene Benedict, and she didn’t appear to be more than sixteen years old. It was abominable that she was traveling unescorted! It was distressing, as well, that she was inappropriately dressed for traveling. While her pale pink dress was young and feminine and lovely, it was best suited to a casual party or an evening at home, not traveling in mixed company. It was certainly not suitable for December, no matter how balmy the weather.

  Seated directly across from Irene was an elderly lady, a Mrs. Reynolds, who’d joined their party at the last stop. She was going to visit her son in Rock Creek, she’d said, to see the latest addition to the family, her first granddaughter. Her son, who owned one of the ranches near Rock Creek, had four sons, but this was his first daughter. She very proudly showed them the small pastel quilt she’d fashioned for the child.

  Next to Mrs. Reynolds, wedged between the older woman and the rude, scruffy bear of a man, sat a portly gentleman who sipped frequently from a flask he stored in the inside pocket of his checkered coat. He’d introduced himself as Mr. Virgil Wyndham and then added “gambler” with a wink in her direction, as if she might find that occupation delightful. All things considered, Hannah considered herself fortunate to have her seat between the window and Bertie.

  When she glanced again at the man before her, his eyes were closed. Hours ago, when introductions had been made, he’d mumbled Jed Rourke, with no further explanation offered. Perhaps he had no occupation; he looked rather like a mountain man, in his worn denim trousers, threadbare cotton shirt, and leather vest. He’d been wearing a long buckskin coat and carrying a rifle when he’d joined them, but those items were now stored beneath the seat, along with his saddlebag—all he carried with him. No baggage, no trunk. Yes, he appeared to be a wandering wild man. Surely no gentlemen with a suitable profession would allow his beard and hair to grow in such an untamed manner, or possess such a well-worn hat.

  Mr. Rourke, whatever he might be, had been trying to sleep for the past two hours but was apparently having no luck. Those steely eyes never stayed closed for long.

  Between the bumps and the dust and the heat, how could anyone sleep?

  Rose better have a damned good reason for summoning me to this godforsaken place, she thought, not for the first time since her interminable journey from Alabama had begun.

  Her irritation at the current situation came and went, but in truth Hannah knew her sister had to have an excellent reason for sending the summoning telegram. After all, it had been twelve years since her sister had run off with that good-for-nothing shopkeeper, and in all that time there had been no requests for help. There were letters, of course, and since their father’s death three years earlier there had been several invitations for Hannah to visit and see the children, but this... This was very different from a friendly invitation.


  Come at once. I need you. Could the telegram have been more cryptic?

  Perhaps Rose was ill and needed assistance. The very idea gave Hannah an unpleasant chill. Maybe Baxter’s general store was failing and they needed money. Hannah frowned as she stared out the window. That was probably the reason for the telegram. Everyone came to Hannah Winters for a loan when they found themselves in a bind. Some gentlemen were even so witless as to ask her to marry them in order that they might have ready access to her late father’s fortune, the substantial sum that was now hers. Foolish men.

  “Hang on, folks!” The driver yelled his warning just a moment too late.

  Hannah grasped the seat and the gold head of her ebony cane as the coach ran carelessly over yet another rut. Yes, it was probably money Rose needed. Perhaps she thought it would be easy for Hannah to refuse by telegram but difficult to refuse the same request face-to-face.

  Rose doesn’t know me anymore, Hannah thought with a hardening of her heart as she watched the most desolate, ugly landscape she’d ever seen fly past. Beyond the window was rock and dirt and dust, the barrenness broken, here and there, by a few stunted and scraggly bushes that were more brown than green.

  “Why on earth does anyone choose to live here?” she muttered.

  Everyone ignored her except, again, the oaf across the way. He didn’t open his eyes, though. “There’s beauty most everywhere,” he muttered. “Only sometimes you have to look real hard for it.”

  She was glad his eyes were closed, so he wouldn’t see her blush. Hannah Winters didn’t need any man to tell her, in a subtle or not-so-subtle way, that she wasn’t pretty. She’d known it all her life, and she had accepted the fact years ago. Her hair was too red, her nose was slightly crooked, her chin was pointed, and her eyes were a very ordinary gray. Growing up side by side with Rose, who had their mother’s blond hair, vibrant greenish blue eyes, and angelic face, Hannah had been forced to face the sad fact of her plainness from a very early age. She wasn’t beautiful, even if the kindest eyes looked “real hard.”

  “Oh, I know what you mean,” Mrs. Reynolds said, her voice lively. “When I first came here I thought the very same thing, that this was the ugliest place on earth. But once you’ve seen the sunrise or the sunset you just know this land has been blessed.”

  Still without opening his eyes, Jed Rourke smiled. It was difficult to be certain, with that drooping mustache and scruffy beard, but yes... he definitely smiled.

  Maybe he hadn’t been talking about her, after all.

  Hannah looked out the window again, trying, really trying, to see beauty in the rocky landscape. She failed miserably; already she missed the green of Alabama.

  Movement caught her eye, and she dismissed her displeasure at the desolate nature of the landscape and her unexpected bout of homesickness. There was nothing between the last station, a miserable town called Ranburne, and Rock Creek but this sadly neglected roadway, so what might she have seen out there?

  Suddenly a single rider, with a black bandanna covering the lower half of his face, shot from behind a boulder, followed by another masked rider on a dappled horse. Each of them brandished a weapon.

  “Bandits,” she whispered, a moment before she was startled by the explosion of a gunshot from the other side of the stagecoach. Bertie and Irene whimpered, Mrs. Reynolds emitted what might have been a weak, short scream, and the portly drunk slunk low in his seat and cowered. The large, hairy man, Mr. Rourke, was immediately alert.

  “How many?” he asked as the stage began to slow.

  “Two on this side, at least one on the other,” Hannah said. Mr. Rourke didn’t have a good view, seated as he was with his back to the driver, so she felt it her duty to keep him informed. “Masked and armed,” she added.

  He spread his legs and reached between them and beneath his seat to pull out his saddlebag. His hands moved quickly and efficiently, opening the leather bag, withdrawing a six-shooter, and checking to make sure it was fully loaded before the stagecoach came to a complete stop. He barely had time to conceal the weapon at his spine before the door flew open and the passengers were instructed, with the silent motion of a gun, to disembark.

  Hannah was first to step from the coach, refusing to take the offered hand of the bandit who waved a gun in her direction. She hesitated long enough for Mr. Rourke, who was squirming and trying to inconspicuously adjust the six-shooter he’d hurriedly jammed at his back, to make sure his weapon was safely hidden beneath his leather vest. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him nod once, and only then did she step down, leaning on her cane for support as her feet hit the hard road.

  “Heathens,” she muttered loud enough for the bandits to hear. There were four of them, all armed, all masked. One dragged the stagecoach driver, a miserable, sickly looking old man, to the ground, while the others impatiently herded the passengers off the conveyance.

  The four bandits were all dressed in typical Western fashion, in denim trousers, badly scuffed boots, and dirty shirts, along with the requisite wide-brimmed hats and heavy gunbelts. They were masked with bandannas, black on one face, red on two, and a bright yellow on a very tall, very thin outlaw.

  She glanced at Mr. Rourke, waiting for him to make his move. Perhaps he was a quick-draw artist and could take all four men before they even knew what was happening. For a long moment she held her breath and waited anxiously. Her heart even skipped a beat in anticipation.

  But Jed Rourke stood meekly with the rest of the passengers, while two of the bandits began to paw through their belongings, taking whatever struck their fancy. They were looking for cash, but seemed delighted with the jewelry they found. Hannah pursed her lips and bit her tongue. Most of the pieces they gloated over were hers, taken from the tapestry bag she’d stored beneath her seat. They tossed Rourke’s buckskin coat onto the ground, barely giving it a second glance, but they seemed pleased with the rifle they pulled from beneath that coat. Rourke grumbled a curse as they admired it.

  Mrs. Reynolds was visibly shaken, and Irene sniffled once or twice. Bertie, meek as she was, had the good grace not to humiliate herself by sniveling like the drunk who stood beside her. Mr. Rourke, quickly if grudgingly abandoning his rifle to the bandits, yawned and shifted restlessly on his big, booted feet as he readjusted the dust-covered hat on his head.

  Perhaps he was right to keep calm in this situation. It didn’t look as if the bandits planned to harm anyone. As long as that was the case, it would be foolish for Mr. Rourke to initiate gunplay.

  Hannah sighed in disgust and resignation. It infuriated her to know that perfectly able men chose thievery as a profession, but she knew that everything the bandits were so gleefully taking could be replaced.

  Satisfied with what they’d found, the masked men loaded their saddlebags with stolen goods. One impatient thief guarded the passengers. Even with his bandanna and a wide-brimmed hat worn low, Hannah could tell he was fairly young. And mean. He seemed to delight in making the detained passengers stand in a straight line, and in harassing the more distraught victims of this holdup. Walking before them like an inspector, waving that weapon in a dangerous fashion, he looked them all up and down.

  The elderly driver was rubbing his head as if it pained him. He hadn’t said a word—they’d been instructed to maintain silence while the thieves went about their work—but Hannah suspected one of the brigands had hit the poor old man over the head. The young watchman laughed at the old man in a way that was hideously disrespectful. The driver ignored the taunt.

  Standing before Hannah, the outlaw gave her a quick once-over. He was either trying to intimidate her or he was searching for pockets that might contain a valuable they’d missed. In any case, he was an insolent bandit. Her traveling dress was plain, but it was constructed of the very best materials and would tell anyone who knew anything about fashion that it was quite expensive. She didn’t expect this oaf would recognize the fact.

  “Coward,” she said when his eyes rose to meet hers. Pale eyes a
bove a red bandanna flashed at her.

  Mr. Rourke, who stood beside her, groaned, but the bandit didn’t seem to take offense. He merely smiled and moved on. Since Jed Rourke was a powerfully built man and stood a good head taller than the young bandit, he wasn’t subjected to an impertinent examination. The outlaw moved on to Bertie.

  “You ought not to be so scared,” he said. “Why, as long as you behave yourselves we ain’t gonna hurt nobody. Just think of the story you can tell your friends when this is all over with.” He moved on to the drunk, curling his lip in disgust.

  He called Mrs. Reynolds “Granny.”

  In a voice that wavered ever so slightly, she bravely answered him. “If you have a grandmother, Junior, she would surely be ashamed to see you now.”

  Hannah couldn’t help but smile.

  And then he reached Irene, at the end of the line. The poor girl bowed her head and sobbed.

  “Now, now,” Junior said in a voice that was a mixture of glee and solace. “Don’t cry, sugar.” He reached out and touched her face, wiping away the tears. “Ain’t nothing to cry about, I promise you. Oh,” he mumbled when she tried to gently move her face out of his reach, “you’re a pretty one.”

  Hannah took a step forward, but a hand snaked out and very firmly grabbed her arm, then yanked her back into line. She glared up at Jed Rourke and with a swift jerk freed her arm from his grasp.

  Junior cupped Irene’s chin and forced her to look into his face. She sobbed loudly, once, which only delighted the coward who tormented her. “I think I’ll take you home with me, sugar.”

  “Take your hands off her,” Mrs. Reynolds insisted indignantly.

  The grin disappeared. “Shut up, Granny.”

  This time Hannah moved quickly, stepping past Rourke while his eyes were on the bandit and Irene. She raised her cane and smacked the lascivious brigand across the back of his thin legs. He howled loudly and nearly dropped to his knees. He caught himself, though, and spun around with his weapon raised, and Hannah found herself staring down the barrel of a loaded pistol.