by Jeanne Allan
If she wasn’t so anxious to show him her fantastic discovery, she’d fire him on the spot. And that would bring the number of times she’d fired him to how many? Really effective all those other firings had been, hadn’t they? Her jeans fit too snugly. She could feel Jake’s eyeballs burning a hole in them. She whipped around. “Quit staring at my bohind.”
Jake chuckled. “Honey, you are purely a pleasure to know.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Means what it means.”
“Thank you very much for that illuminating explanation.”
“You’re really on the prod, aren’t you? I apologized once for jumping you. I don’t intend to do it again.”
“Don’t use that self-righteous tone of voice to me. If you will recall, Mr. Stoner, I’m the one sinned against. You attacked me.”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on a sleeping man.”
“Excuse me. Next time I’ll hire a brass band.” She stomped up the wide steps to the museum. Inside the building, she pointed to a donation jar. “Put some money in there.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
He didn’t have to grin at the woman caretaker like that. As if he knew Gwen was being irrational and unreasonable, and he was humoring her. Grabbing Jake’s arm, Gwen pulled him toward the other end of the large room. “I didn’t tell you to come in here so you could make eyes at every single female who crosses your path.”
He came to a dead stop, slid his hands in his back pockets and gazed coolly at her. “Pull in your horns, honey.”
No matter how soft the tone of voice, it wasn’t a request.
Gwen puffed up indignantly. “Don’t you tell me to pull in my horns. You work for me, mister. I’m the boss.”
His eyes narrowed.
Gwen swallowed. When he looked at her like that, he reminded her of the picture. “Never mind that now. Look.” Turning, she pointed to the scrap of newsprint on the top of a low cabinet. A pane of glass covered the paper, protecting it. “Why didn’t you tell me about your famous ancestor?” Brushing Jake to one side, Gwen leaned over the newspaper and read the headline out loud. “‘Outlaw Killed In Bank Holdup.’ I thought at first he must be your great-great-grandfather, but apparently he had no children. How was he related to you?”
Jake stared down at the 1886 newspaper. “He’s no ancestor of mine.”
“He must be. You have his name. Jakob Stoner. And he looks exactly like you. Oddly enough, he was the same age you are. I can’t believe you never heard of him.”
“There was nothing to hear.”
“Don’t be so dense.” Gwen practically danced in exasperation. “This man, this outlaw, has to be an ancestor of yours. You could be clones of each other.” Gwen scanned the article again. “According to this, Jacob Stoner was supposed to marry a Marian Olson, but they broke up when he became an outlaw.” She glanced up at Jake. “Do you suppose she rejected him, and he became an outlaw because of a broken heart?”
“How would I know?” he asked in a flat voice.
His attitude annoyed her. “Don’t be such a wet blanket. Jakob Stoner must be your great-great-uncle or something. “It’s romantic having a part of the Wild West in your background.”
“That’s romantic? Being related to some scourge of the West?”
“He was hardly that. In fact, he’d been a leading citizen. He’d worked for Charles Goodnight, you know, of the Goodnight-Loving Trail?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“He was a trail boss for Goodnight. How funny. An ancestor who was in the same kind of business as you.”
“I’m not sure ‘funny’ is the right word,” he said dryly.
“Working with cattle must run in your family. What did your father do?”
“He was a builder.”
“Oh,” Gwen said, disappointed. She quickly rallied. “How about your grandfather?”
“Builder. All builders. As far back as I know, which covers before they came over from Germany. The name used to be Steiner until the first Steiner to land in America changed it. Steiner means stonecutter.” He grinned at her. “Aren’t you going to say cutting stones is romantic?”
Intent on proving her point, she ignored the gibe. “What did your brother do?”
He hesitated. “He was involved with banking.”
Gwen saw the hesitation and knew instant remorse at callously reminding Jake of his deceased brother. After a short, awkward silence, she returned to the article. “This Jakob Stoner was apparently a real up-and-comer. After he quit driving cattle, he was a lawman. Deputy, sheriff, federal marshal in places like Creede and Deadwood and Abiline. He was even a Texas ranger for a while. The article said he came from Texas. Like you.”
“I never said I came from Texas.”
“No, you didn’t say, but I assumed.” She glanced sideways at Jake. “Where did you come from?”
“Lots of places,” he said curtly, studying the newspaper, a frown on his face.
Discovering an outlaw on his family tree obviously displeased him. Perhaps her theory would cheer him up. “I think the woman drove him to a life of crime.”
“Only a weak man would be influenced that way by a woman.”
“Losing someone you deeply love could change a person. It could,” she insisted as Jake raised a skeptical brow. “Couldn’t a woman drive you to desperation?”
“Want to try it and find out?” he drawled.
“No.” Gwen looked down at the newspaper article again. For a moment there, the look in Jake’s eye, or maybe residual shivers from riding the Ferris wheel... She almost said yes, she’d like to drive him to desperation. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, she stared at the words until they quit blurring. “It’s strange someone in your family never told you about him. He wasn’t all that bad.”
“The man was shot while robbing a bank.”
“Maybe there were extenuating circumstances.”
“We’re back to the woman, I take it.”
“The reporter certainly seemed to think she was a raving beauty. He said, just a second, where was it? Oh, here it is, and I quote, ‘As Miss Olson, with her own cherry red lips’—who else’s lips would she use?—‘described how the desperado had turned his back on her, the tears of sorrow glistening in the soft blue eyes of one of the loveliest and noblest blossoms of western womanhood melted this hardened reporter’s heart.’ I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Then let’s go.”
“No, wait, there’s more. He describes her as having ‘rose petal pink cheeks,’ ‘alabaster skin’ and, my personal favorite, ‘a halo of shining chestnut curls, as silky as the finest embroidery floss.”’ Gwen rolled her eyes. “He’s not describing her, he’s making love to her. He goes on, blah, blah, blah... ‘The very picture of a broken heart, the delicate young lady burst into a despairing flood of tears at the notion of her beau deserting her for the owl-hoot trail.’ Barf.” Gwen looked at Jake. “Do you know what an owl-hoot trail is?”
“Means he became an outlaw.”
“Probably to get away from her.” Gwen sniffed in disgust. “Talk about self-centered. If she was supposed to be so crazy about him, why isn’t she grieving?” She tapped the article. “Ms. Noble Blossom isn’t upset he’s dead. She’s mad he walked out on her.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” Jake said in amusement. “A second ago you claimed he’d become a bank robber because she kicked him out.”
“In those days when a man asked you to marry him, you had to play games. He asked her to marry him and she turned him down. The dummy, oops, excuse me, I forgot he was your whatever uncle, whether you think so or not. Anyway this Jakob Stoner obviously didn’t play the game and come back and ask her again. Maybe there wasn’t any foreign legion or whatever for him to run off to, so he joined up with the Hole in the Wall Gang or some gang like that.”
Jake gave her a sharp look. “What do you know about the Hole in the Wall Gang?”
“I go to the movies. Ever
ybody knows about Butch Cassidy and what’s his name. Anyway, Jakob runs off, and she’s seriously annoyed he didn’t ask her again to marry him.”
“Supposing you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, why did he become an outlaw? Why not return to his ranch and forget her?”
“That’s easy. Revenge. He didn’t just become an outlaw. He robbed banks. Get it? Marian Olson’s dad was a banker.”
“According to the paper, that’s not the bank he robbed.”
“Of course not. Jakob still loved her. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”
Jake stared at her in fascination. “That is the damnedest bunch of claptrap I—”
“Look at the facts,” Gwen said impatiently. “He’d started from nothing and was building himself a future. The people the reporter interviewed had nothing but praise for Jakob. Some had even tried to get him into politics. He’d carved his ranch out of the hills, used his own sweat and muscle to put up buildings. Jakob Stoner intended to be someone. And Marian Olson intended to be Mrs. Jakob Stoner.”
“I didn’t read that in the article.”
“It sticks out all over in what she says and doesn’t say. She’s plain annoyed. Not only did he run off, when he dies, he dies a hero. A hero who rejected her.”
“I think you need to rein in that imagination of yours.”
“Don’t be as dumb as that reporter,” Gwen said tartly. “Marian’s despairing flood of tears’ was nothing more than her throwing a good old-fashioned temper tantrum.”
“I meant Jakob Stoner didn’t die a hero.”
“Did you read this article at all?”
“I read it. Without all the fancy embellishments you’re giving it. The man was shot robbing a bank.”
“No, he wasn’t. He’d already robbed the bank. He could have gotten safely away, but he turned back to save a little boy who ran out into the street. Guns were blasting and horses going crazy, and Jakob leaped off his horse, grabbed the child and carried him to safety. Some storekeeper shot Jakob in the back as he returned to his horse. Jakob didn’t even have his gun out. He was as good as murdered.”
“He was robbing the bank. Better to be shot in the back than be the honored guest at a necktie party.”
“Necktie party. You mean they would have hanged him?”
“In those days people didn’t take kindly to having their life savings forcibly removed from the bank.”
“I don’t care what you say. I agree with the minister. Maybe Jakob Stoner did take a wrong fork in the road, but at heart, he was a good man. The minister ought to know. It was his son Jakob saved.”
“All he needed was the love of a good woman,” Jake said sarcastically.
“Go ahead and make fun of me, but if that Marian had had one lick of sense, she’d have grabbed Jakob the first time he went down on his knee. Not only must he have been one of the best-looking, sexiest cowboys in Colorado, he was clearly destined to be rich and powerful. Ms. Noble Blossom blew it.”
“You think he was good-looking and sexy?” Jake asked in a casual voice.
Gwen opened her mouth, than clamped it shut. Words echoed in her head. Words she’d said earlier. Words pointing out how much Jake looked exactly like the man who must have been his ancestor.
Lightning flashed over the distant mesa. The scent of approaching rain drifted through the open window on the night air. Mack padded into Gwen’s bedroom, his toenails clicking on the wooden floor, silent when he crossed the small area rugs. “Can’t you sleep, either?”
The large dog paused to look at Gwen, his eyes reflecting the light she left on in the hallway for Crissie.
Sitting up, Gwen punched her pillow. “At least your problem isn’t a big mouth.”
Mack moved over to the open window, and rose up, his huge paws resting on the sill. He stared out into the night.
“What do you think, fella? Is it going to rain? Does the coming storm bother you?” She remembered hearing a coyote serenading the moon earlier. “Or did you hear a pretty little lady coyote singing love songs? What makes you think she’s singing them to you?”
The dog dropped down from the sill and moved over to the side of Gwen’s bed.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Did I insult you by suggesting she sang to a coyote lover instead of you? You’re as conceited as that arrogant you-know-who out in the bunkhouse. And I don’t mean Tom. Tom would have ignored my little gaffe, but no, not Jake. He wasn’t even embarrassed at being called good-looking and sexy. Not that I was calling him that.”
The large dog whined.
“I was not. I simply made an observation about a historical figure. It was no different than commenting on George Washington’s wooden false teeth or Abraham Lincoln’s height. Jake didn’t have to pounce on my words the way your coyote friend pounces on unwary rabbits.”
Mack returned to his perch on the windowsill.
Gwen continued to air her grievance. “He swaggered out of the museum like he was the world’s greatest gift to women. Just because he somewhat resembles a long-lost relative he’d never even heard of.”
Mack trotted back over to Gwen and woofed softly.
“Mack, I let you out before I came to bed. You can’t have to go out again.”
The dog woofed again, impatiently this time.
“You’re as bossy as he is.” Gwen threw back her lightweight covers. “All right. I’ll let you out, but hurry up about it.” Not bothering to throw on a robe or look for her slippers, she trailed Mack down the stairs. In the darkened front entryway, she sensed the silent dog at her side as she unlocked the door. “I expect you to do your business and then come right back in here. You hear me?”
Mack shot out the door the second Gwen opened it. The yard lights illuminated the dog’s bristling ruff and laid-back ears as he leaped from the porch and streaked into the night.
“Mack, just get back here,” Gwen hissed, reluctant to yell and wake up the household. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what an idiot she was for turning Mack loose shortly after she’d heard a coyote. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. He’d be okay.
She rooted around on the floor of the coat closet. One of these days she’d have to decide what to do with Bert’s clothes. Finally unearthing an old pair of his boots and a misshapen sweater, Gwen threw them on and headed off in the direction Mack had gone. Not that she was worried about him. No coyote would mess with a dog of Mack’s size. When she got far enough from the house, she’d yell. He’d come when she called him. Mack wasn’t so dumb he didn’t know who’d saved him from the big dog pound in the sky. She hoped.
Lightning forked to the south. The storm was moving closer. It would serve Mack right if she left him out here to get soaking wet. Pulling the sweater tighter around her, Gwen tramped across the yard, her feet slipping halfway out of the large, old boots with each step. Under her breath she called Mack every cursed name she could think of.
A man’s faint shout reached her ears. The voice came from the horse pasture. What in the world would Jake or Tom be doing out there at this hour of the night? Mack barked and the horses snorted. The answer suddenly came to Gwen as she heard the thudding of horses’ hooves. Jake and Tom were gathering the horses to put them in the barn. She’d read horses were terrified of fire. Lightning must affect them the same way. The men might need help. Stepping out of the circle of illumination shed by the ranch lights, Gwen paused a moment to get her night vision. Then she followed the road along the line of fence toward Mack’s barking.
Halfway to the horse pasture, the skies opened up, pouring icy water on Gwen’s head. The rain did little to dampen Mack’s barking. If anything, the dog sounded more frantic. Suddenly a car’s engine sprang to life, the unexpected sound shocking Gwen. She stopped, peering through the driving rain. Car headlights shot out of the darkness, pinning her in their beams. She shielded her eyes with her hand, blinded by the glare. “Jake? Is that you?”
The sound of spinning tires answered her. Whoever it
was, was in a hurry. Gwen squinted into the light. The vehicle revved its engine louder, broke loose from its muddy snare, backed around to face the other direction and tore off down the road. Gwen had a vague impression of a long, dark shape before red taillights disappeared over a rise.
The horses milled noisily about in the pasture, but Mack no longer barked. “Mack! Mack, come here!” Listening intently, Gwen heard only the rain and the horses. “Mack, where are you?” She headed toward the area where the vehicle had been parked. “Mack?” He must have chased the car. Gwen cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled the dog’s name as loud as she could. Mack didn’t answer. She couldn’t abandon him out here in the rain. He could be hurt.
Walking cautiously down the side of the road, Gwen called Mack’s name. With each new flash of lightning, she stopped and looked around. No wet, bedraggled dog appeared. Gwen shivered. Only her feet were dry. If she hadn’t walked so far from the house, she’d go back and wake Jake. She could imagine his reaction if she showed up at the bunkhouse door looking like the drowned rat she now resembled. At least she was spared that.
A piercing whistle came from behind her. Gwen’s heart stopped, then pounded in triple time. She spun around and stepped off the road into the side ditch. Her body fell like a game of Crack the Whip. Her head being the tail end of the whip. She landed facedown, half in and half out of the barrow pit, stunned, her nose digging a little trench in the muddy bank. A loud splashing noise rushing toward her barely registered. She turned her face out of the mud, but refused to open her eyes.
“Are you all right?”
She knew that voice. She didn’t lift her head. “Did you whistle?”
“For Mack. I heard you calling him. Here he comes now. Are you going to spend the night there?”
