Claudia Dain

by A Kiss To Die For

  "You seen it before?" the marshal asked, reading Jack's face too clearly.

  "A few times, mostly with the Comanche. Never pretty."

  The marshal brought his horse into the light and hobbled him, showing Jack the level of his trust. Jack pushed back the hat from his face, allowing the marshal to see him clearly, returning the trust he had been given.

  "Comanche? You with the Rangers down there?"

  Jack took a long swallow, ignoring the coffee grounds that he felt on his tongue and between his teeth. "Yeah, used to be."

  "Good outfit."

  "Hard service."

  "That why you quit?"

  Jack raised his blue eyes to the marshal's brown ones and allowed himself a smile. "You think I quit? Maybe they threw me out."

  The marshal looked back, eye to eye, and smiled slowly.

  "No, they didn't throw you out."

  "You're right they didn't. But they might have. Too many rules for me."

  Foster chuckled and got out his own cup, filling it with coffee. "That I can believe. You don't strike me as a man who sticks to the trail."

  "You're making a lot of quick decisions about me," Jack said, drinking again and watching the marshal on the other side of the fire.

  "Some, I'll admit."

  "Any you won't admit?"

  The marshal didn't answer, not with his mouth, but his eyes were sharp and he was keeping Jack in his line of fire.

  "Tell me about those killings down at Red River Station."

  Volumes were spoken of trust and suspicion in that one command. The U.S. Marshal was no fool.

  "Three women in all," he began, his voice even and low, "and all went the same way. Strangled."

  "You know that's how it's been up here."

  "Yeah, Lane told me as much." Jack looked up into the sky, black now and filled with stars beyond measure, so distant and so bright. So familiar and so cold. "Three women, one of them south toward Fort Worth, one just west of the Station, and the last just north of Caldwell."

  "I know those towns," Foster murmured.

  "Yeah, anyone who ever rode herd on cows knows those towns."

  The marshal studied Jack in the flickering light of the fire, so small a light against the myriad stars. Jack let him look his fill.

  "There's been one down off the Arkansas River, not far from Wichita. Three days ago."

  "Does Lane know?"

  "Not yet."

  "Same way?"

  "The same," the marshal growled.

  The silence lengthened. The fire popped, sending sparks skyward. A shooting star flared across the sky, a strong, smooth arc that dwarfed the light of the stars held motionless by an invisible hand. Jack made a wish for luck; the way the marshal was looking at him, he'd need it.

  "When did you hit Abilene?" Marshal Foster asked.

  "Yesterday," Jack answered.

  Foster nodded, accepting it.

  "About those towns..." the marshal began.

  "Yeah, all on the trail."

  "You rode the trail?"

  "In my day," Jack said. "Not many didn't."

  "True, the Chisholm Trail saw a lot of cows a few years back."

  "And a lot of riders."

  "So he's following the Chisholm Trail—"

  "At least until Wichita," Jack interrupted. "Now he's on the Abilene Trail."

  "That how you see it?"

  Jack threw away what was left of his coffee and scoured the cup with sand. "More coffee?"

  "No. Thanks." The marshal watched him intently.

  "I don't see it any way at all," Jack said, sitting on his bedroll. "I've been following a trail up from Texas and the killings are staying tight to the trail I followed as a hand."

  "Abilene's the end of the trail," Foster said, considering Jack again across the fire. Jack was in Abilene.

  "Yeah," Jack murmured, lying down on his blanket, facing the stars.

  "You going to be in Abilene awhile?"

  Jack heard the suspicion in the man's voice and couldn't fault him. He saw again the bodies of the women, broken and bloated, their beauty and youth taken with the tightening of a cord. He buried the image and made sure his rope was securely in place around his own bed, a barrier to snakes that might come crawling in for comfort during the night.

  He thought again of the dark-haired girl who had smelled of wildflowers in his arms. He remembered the sheer magnetism of watching her breathe. She lived in Abilene.

  Putting his hat over his face, blocking out the stars, Jack answered the marshal's question.

  "Yeah. I'll be there."

  Chapter 5

  Jack and the marshal had parted company that morning. They had no more information to give each other regarding the murders; the marshal was going to stay in the area surrounding the Abilene Trail north of Wichita. Jack was going back to Abilene.

  He rode into town just about noon; he could almost hear the town groan in disgust. The Demorest Restaurant window was full of faces, all looking at him. Powell at the livery clamped down on his pipe and shook his head, probably figuring he was a stupid cuss for heading back into Abilene when he'd made it safely out. Well, Jack had never made any claim to being smart.

  Lane wasn't in his office, so Jack made his way on down to his hotel. The desk clerk didn't look any happier to see him than anyone else in town had. One thing he was learning about this new Abilene; it was consistent. The old Abilene, the cattle town he remembered, had been a whole lot more fun. This Abilene was as dead as the trail that led to it. As dead as the women who now lined it as grisly signposts pointing north.

  It was with that image in his head that he faced the clerk.

  "Get me a bath."

  The man sniffed and then said, "The bathhouse is under repair and not open for business. We do not provide private bathing arrangements until after eight p.m."

  That was a load of bull and Jack knew it. "I want a bath and a cake of soap and a towel in my room in fifteen minutes. I also want you to see to it that my clothes are washed and back in my room by eight p.m. Understood?"

  Fortunately for the clerk, he was quick to agree. Jack was in a mood to blow a fly off the wall for buzzing.

  "Good," he snarled and then went up the stairs two at a time, skipping that memorable sixth step.

  A gang of three boys was waiting in the hall in front of his room. Upon seeing him, they began whispering and pointing, leaning toward the tallest of them to share instant insights. Jack looked more closely. The tallest kid looked like a Walton. He, obviously, was the exhibit.

  "Hey, kid, how's your ma?"

  The tallest kid straightened and hissed to his friends, "I told you I knew him!"

  Jack kept a straight face and opened his room door. The kids were about to tumble in behind him, so he turned and blocked the doorway, looking down at the three of them. They blanched just a bit and gazed down at the floor.

  "You worried about Joe? He's fine and fit, not a bruise on him," Jack offered.

  "No, we..." the kid stammered, "I just wanted to see if you was really back in town. Some folks was talking—"

  "Kid, folks always talk. You show sense to check it out for yourself."

  "I do?" He puffed a bit. "Thanks, Mr. Skull."

  "The name's Scullard, Jack Scullard. Which Walton are you?"

  "Tom, Mr. Skul—Scullard."

  "Well, Tom, I'm about to take a bath, so you run on and tell your ma that Joe is doing well with the man she sold him to."

  "Sh... sure, I sure will," he stammered. He was clearly the spokesman for the group.

  The bathwater was delivered just as the boys were shuffling off down the hall. They stared at that water as if it were blood. Didn't they think he took a bath? Glancing at himself briefly in the small mirror that hung above the pitcher, he found he couldn't blame them if they didn't. He hadn't cleaned up in two weeks. He looked it.

  Stripping down and leaving his dirty clothes out in the hall for someone to pick up, Jack had one foot in t
he water when there was a knock on the door. He knew enough about boys to know that they wouldn't have the guts to come back that quick. Wrapping himself in the towel and palming his revolver, he answered the door.

  "You won't need the gun. I won't fight you for the water."

  Jack grunted and hefted his gun, as if considering, then put it down on the washstand near the tub and faced Sheriff Lane. The steam was rising with angry energy, taking the heat with it.

  "You talk. I'll wash," he said, dropping the towel and getting in. He was a big man; water sloshed over the rim. At least the clerk hadn't stinted on the water.

  "Find anything?"

  "Nothing except that there's been another murder down near Wichita," he said, rubbing the soap over his arms and chest.

  Sheriff Lane eyed the gun sitting next to him, measuring its distance to Jack's soapy hand.

  "I met up with Marshal Foster," Jack continued, trying to ignore Lane's reaction and the logic of it. "Happened three, four days ago. Talking it over, it seems that the killer is sticking to the old trail."

  Jack rubbed his face and the tops of his shoulders, the tips of his hair wicking up the soapy water. "That trail ends in Abilene."

  "So you're here."

  "I'm here."

  "And the marshal?"

  "He'll be in touch from time to time, but he wants to stay farther out. So far, none of the murders seem to have actually taken place in a town of any size, just in the vicinity."

  Charles considered Jack as he washed the dirt of days from himself. He wasn't a man to leave the best part of the hunt to someone else.

  "You think he'll strike here, don't you? You think the next gal will be in Abilene?"

  Jack reached for his razor and scraped at his throat. "I think Abilene is the end of the trail."

  "And?"

  "And he's sticking to the trail."

  The sheriff chewed on that while Jack finished shaving. The water was murky brown by the time he was clean.

  "But these murders happen with months in between. If there was one just four days ago, there shouldn't be another in at least a month or more."

  "I'll have a lot of time to kill, that's true, but I'm not leaving Abilene, at least not for long," Jack said, closing the subject.

  "You'll need money."

  "I've got enough."

  Jack stood and toweled off, leaving faint brown smears on the white cloth. He went to his bags and pulled out a pair of fawn-colored pants and a dark blue shirt and began dressing.

  "What are you going to do after you finish dressing? Sit around the hotel lobby for a month?"

  Jack kept buttoning up his shirt, but his blue eyes met the sheriff's. "You got something in mind?"

  "There's talk of a horse thief running around down near Hutchinson; thought maybe you could use some quick and easy money."

  Jack strapped on his gun belt of plain and unworked leather; it bore the stain of sweat that only years of hard use could leave. "No money is easy and it's hardly ever quick."

  "Not even for a bounty hunter?" the sheriff asked.

  "Not even." Jack smiled in return. "Still, I'll head down there and check it out. Now's the best time. I reckon Abilene will be quiet for a while yet."

  "Especially with you gone." Lane chuckled.

  "You can get out anytime."

  The sheriff left, still chuckling.

  There was nothing to keep Jack in the room after he'd put on his scuffed brown boots, so after straightening up his bed and repacking his gear, he grabbed a handful of his dirty clothes and dumped them outside the door to land with the rest.

  The sleeve of a sweaty shirt fell across the Samaritan's toes.

  She didn't even jump, she just stared at him.

  He stared right back.

  Her eyes were the light blue of a winter sky, her hair so dark a brown as to be almost black, her skin was pale as heavy cream. She had faint freckles across her nose.

  "You are back," she said, her voice as soft as a sigh.

  She had been looking for him? That was bad. He didn't need her hanging around, messing with his pulse the way she did. She was too pretty, too town-proper, too off-limits for his kind. If he didn't get away from her soon, he'd back her up against the wall and show her just how different he was from her Saturday night beau.

  "Excuse me, ma'am." He edged past her. It went well; the hall was wide.

  "Oh, please," she said, keeping pace with him. He didn't look at her, he just kept his eyes on the end of the hall and the freedom the staircase would offer. "I came to apologize."

  "For what?" He didn't look at her. He kept moving, but his feet had slowed.

  "For... for interfering with the man on the train. I'm certain you were only doing what was needed. I seem to have gotten in your way."

  That stopped him cold.

  "You're apologizing for standing there and having a man fall at your feet? Whad'ja do, run over and try to catch him?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then why are you apologizing?" If he didn't get his feet moving again he'd be apologizing to her for pressing her up against the wall and kissing her blind.

  "Well, I..."

  She had the most incredible eyes he'd ever seen, soft blue with black lashes that spiked and curled. If he kissed her, would her lashes brush against his cheek?

  "Excuse me again, ma'am, but I've got to go," he mumbled and all but tumbled down the stairs in his hurry to get away from her.

  She tumbled down after him, like a dog on a leash.

  "But I... I was going to ask you about the man on the train. Is he very dangerous?"

  He looked back at her from the doorway to the hotel, his shadow casting long smudges over the dust tracks on the floor. She was poised on the last stair, one hand holding the rail as if to steady herself, or like a dog chained in the yard when the master is walking away, straining to follow.

  Was Jessup dangerous? Not compared to him. If he didn't get some hard distance between them, she'd find that out damn quick.

  "He had a price, I brought him in, I got paid. Nothing more to know than that."

  He tipped his hat and took two steps onto the boardwalk.

  She said it soft, but he heard it.

  "Good-bye."

  "Anne," the hotel proprietor snapped, "I never thought to see you linger when the train from Ellsworth is due in. You know they always see a lot of passengers."

  "Oh, yes, I'd forgotten. Thank you for reminding me. But, do you know if Mr. Skull will be leaving soon?"

  "I have not asked him his travel plans," he said curtly. "Anne, your train."

  "Oh, of course, excuse me."

  Her quick step could be heard on the walk as she made for the train station. Mr. Webster allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

  * * *

  Jack just about had the saloon to himself. There was an old man asleep in a shadowed corner, but since he didn't talk much, the saloonkeeper had to rely on his other customer for conversation. The man was a talkative sort and quiet seemed to weigh on him like a stone. Jack wasn't a free talker, but he understood the man's need to talk. He'd had a trail partner once who'd been much the same and it was from him he'd learned the peace of long listening. It wasn't a habit he was going to break for a bartender in Abilene. Though maybe he should think himself lucky that anyone in Abilene would talk to him at all.

  "Heard about the train, of course," the man was saying.

  Jack nodded and sipped his beer.

  "Guess he had it coming?"

  "Matter of opinion, I guess," Jack said.

  "Well, now, that's the truth. Been some who's said that no man deserves to be roughed-up, no matter the crime. The law's the law and that's the end of it. Then again, some say that you might have been provoked and that he had it coming."

  "Yeah?" Jack said with a tight smile. "And who said that?"

  "Well." The bartender flushed. "It's just a manner of speaking. There could be any number of reasons for that feller to
land on his tail in the dust. Any number."

  "Umm-hmm." Jack kept drinking.

  "So, heard you're up from Texas."

  Jack finished his beer.

  "I've never been down there, but my sister married a man who settled about ten miles east of San Antonio. Heard it's pretty country, pretty country. Been meaning to go and see for myself, but never seem to get the chance. You like Texas?"

  "Well enough." Jack slapped his glass down and the bartender refilled it.

  "Your people in Texas?"

  Jack took a long, smooth swallow and set his glass down gently. The wood was dark and scarred, but heavily waxed. There was a burn mark just three inches from his water ring.

  People? He didn't have any people.

  "No," he said softly.

  The sharp click of women's shoes could be heard outside and they both turned to it. The little Samaritan was scooting past, all in a hurry, the ruffle on her hustle bouncing.

  "Who is she?" he asked the bartender, turning when the man didn't speak up immediately.

  For the first time, the bartender had nothing to say.

  More than anything he could have said, the man's silence roused Jack's curiosity.

  "She got someone to look after, is that where she's going?"

  "Where she goes ain't none of my business," the bartender said, moving off down the bar to check his stock of bottles.

  He hadn't said it was none of Jack's business, but it was in the air between them all the same. Damn, but he was getting tired of stepping so light in this town.

  "Simple question," Jack smiled, walking toward the window to catch another glimpse of her. "Hard to answer?"

  "I don't make it a point to discuss ladies in my saloon," the man grumbled, rubbing his hand over his thick mustache.

  "Fair enough." Jack smiled in momentary surrender. He was watching her, swaying that bustle off down the street, until she turned out of sight.

  Whoever she was, he was sure to find out.

  * * *

  "Hello, Anne, it sure is good to see you again and so nice to have such a warm welcome back home. You seen Rob around? He was supposed to pick me up in the buggy since I've got all these trunks, but I suppose he got busy and forgot all about me. Again. I swear, if I didn't have my sister to visit in Ellsworth, I don't know if a body would know if I lived or died. Oh, there he is now, covered in dust, wouldn't you know, and now he'll get me all dusty on the way home and me in my new velvet jacket. Did you notice my new jacket? A gift from my sister. You know she has more clothes than she has time to wear, so when I remarked on how bottle green was just the perfect color for me and made her look sallow, well, she up and let me have it. Wasn't that kind? Listen, I'll wear it to church on Sunday and then you can really look at it and tell me what you think. I swear, I think it makes me look so stylish, and a lady on the train said it makes me look five years younger. Of course, I had to tell her how old I am, but she assured me that she would never have guessed."