Topper’s wagon wasn’t there. Port had told him she was in the process of stocking up the place. Instead, maybe she had skipped out with the loot, and Jessa honestly didn’t know anything of it.
He was harebrained for thinking that way. She was making him soft between the ears. Inwardly, he chuckled. Jessa wasn’t naive or innocent of butting heads with the law. Maybe she hadn’t ever broken the law, but according to what Mississippi had overheard the other morning in the barn, it seemed she had nearly been run out of Piketown for something.
Clint wheeled his horse, then reined in next to Mississippi. It was too late for hiding his thoughts. Mississippi had paused, and Clint, though maybe not the others, had read his mind. He was looking back down the trail past Mississippi and beyond, toward that sassy, sweet honeysuckle of a gal. Mississippi’s eyes narrowed, his hand, by its own volition, gripping the butt of his pistol. Jessa wasn’t a tenderfoot or a refined lady, needy to no one, and he liked that pussycat grit. She could hold her own, but Clint was born with fangs and a taste for blood.
He spurred his horse and trotted past Mississippi. A minute later, Rascal and Jay wheeled their mounts and followed. The moccasin print seemed to have grown more pronounced on the ground. Clint had probably noticed her wearing those at the trade post, so he now had reason to suspect her. But those trappers, the ones who paid with the gold eagle, had also been wearing moccasins. Since this was hill country, it wouldn’t be unusual to come across mountain folk who took to wearing soft soles that didn’t make much noise when traipsing around the forest. A boot sole was hard, and one crack of stick under a man’s heel would send game fleeing. So the fact that Jessa wore moccasins didn’t necessarily make her guilty of taking the money.
Even if she did, no one would lay a hand on her, Mississippi’s woman. She’d declared it to the sheriff, so he figured it was so and he didn’t mind. If there was ever a woman to wear the name of Mississippi Lightning, it was that beer-drinking, fresh air mountain girl. But with him always on the run, how could he lay claim to her, provide for her, take her as his own? It would be a lonely life for her, but wasn’t that what she was used to? She stirred thoughts of marriage. Maybe somehow, by grace, this would all work out for them.
Mississippi turned his horse, following slightly behind Rascal and Jay, who were tailing Clint in front. The four of them—and he couldn’t forget Porter—had been like brothers over the past few years. Not that they always got along, because they didn’t. On any given day, one was provoking the other. Him and Rascal mostly. Mississippi would smack horns with the first one that tried to hurt her.
When Jessa’s shack was in sight, they left their horses hidden in a nestling of ponderosa. On foot and stepping light, since she was snappy to pull the trigger, they slowly closed in. In that short time, it was a possibility that someone else could have shown up. Maybe Sheriff Pike had figured out that Mississippi was a wanted man and come hunting or put together his involvement in the recent robbery of that bank in Burnt Cabins. Doc could have blabbered.
Lack of caution could get him killed, but he wanted to talk to Jessa alone just a minute before the others burst in and got to her. If Rascal got to her first, there’d be hell to pay. Mississippi didn’t want him anywhere near her. His hands could be too awful frisky.
Mississippi crept around the back of the house, along the side to the right of the door, stopping four or five feet from it. A gurgling noise carried out the window. What was that? Someone choking? Then out floated Jessa’s soft and encouraging voice. She was trying to get someone to drink. Butch? She must have been nursing him. It was a relief to know he was alive.
The others would be in place by now. With her distracted, she’d be caught off guard. There would be no holding off Clint this time. Mississippi had hoped to find a rear door and slip in. Clint’s plan was to wait for her to come out, hopefully unarmed, then grab her. It was how he would get her to talk that had Mississippi’s gut squeezed tight. Could he kill Clint? They’d fought together in the war. Only, Clint had always seemed to enjoy the killing.
Mississippi had been fifteen then, inexperienced outside his pa’s farm, and Clint, twenty-three, had lived all over and talked of knowing a bit of everything. He had seemed like the toughest and most invincible man alive. Mississippi wanted to survive, so he adopted some of Clint’s ways. After the war, he had wanted to lay down all arms other than to hunt. The sight of blood, the least little bit of it, sickened him. He hopped on a riverboat, floated his way south, and thought he’d never see Clint again. Their reunion came with quite a bang, bringing with it a need for Mississippi to always have his gun close.
Somehow he had to warn Jessa, but it was too late. Rusty hinges groaned as the cabin door opened. Mississippi stepped onto the porch, about to call her to him. She carried a small wooden yoke across her shoulders. Tied to a short length of rope, one on each end, swung empty buckets. She faced away from him and was heading toward the sound of trickling water. Rascal sprang from the corner of the house. With a mighty jerk of her shoulders, she whipped them buckets around, clobbering Rascal once, then twice. He threw up his arms, protecting his face, and stumbled back.
Clint rushed her from near the barn. Only, she was quicker and split at a run between Clint and Jay, who had lunged from behind the chicken coop. Both missed a swipe at her. At the lean-to, with the corral at her back, she grabbed up a pitchfork and grinned hatefully, daring them to come at her.
She jabbed at Clint and the others, making them dance around her as they cursed her up and down while trying not to get stabbed. Mississippi stood in the shadow under the porch roof and rolled a smoke. She didn’t seem to need his help, sticking Jay through his boot. He hollered. It would be prudent not to appear partial to the young lady. If he stepped in with gusto on her behalf, Clint might then recognize Jessa as Mississippi’s weakness and use her as such if the need ever arose.
She had inched along the front of the corral and was now backing, with careful steps, toward the house while poking her pointy fork at Clint, Jay, and Rascal. She hadn’t seen Mississippi there. He tucked his smoke inside his shirt pocket.
Jessa stepped backward onto the porch. Behind that door was her rifle. There would be no shooting off hats this time. She wasn’t playing with that pitchfork, and Clint would cut her down if given the chance. Maybe not kill her at first because he’d want to get some info out of her. Then he’d finish her off. In one silent, swift move, Mississippi swept in behind her, squeezing her around the shoulder, and she dropped the fork.
She kicked and hollered as he carried her, pinned to him, toward the water. She didn’t see it, but this was the best way to keep them both safe. He had to appear to be working with Clint, and he was to a point. Jessa, to those around them, needed to seem like nothing more than a way of finding that money. At the water’s edge, he tossed her in a deep pool. Maybe that feisty temper of hers would cool. She bobbed up, coughing out liquid, glaring at him.
Behind them, Clint’s laughter boomed. Rascal appeared at Mississippi’s side, his lustful gaze eating up the irresistible sight of her soaked from head to toe. Her raggedy shirt, thin and pale, was made transparent in the water. Some of what pronounced her as a woman and different from them was now put on display. Small-busted, but every inch of her was desirable. Rascal’s tongue jetted out, touching his lower lip in a wanting fashion. Judging by that hungry look, he aimed to have a taste.
“Git out of here,” Mississippi snarled, ready to hold Rascal’s head under until his feet stopped kicking.
Rascal didn’t move, his boots rooting into the mud and his eyes narrowed. “What’s she to you?”
It was the one question Mississippi didn’t want to answer. He’d been wondering about her too often, especially since Porter had predicted his demise if he pursued her. He wasn’t exactly sure what she was to him, but he loved her. That he knew.
“I told ya before. She ain’t a whore.”
They hatefully eyeballed one another. Someday—and
the reason would probably be nothing much—a temper would flame, and one would kill the other or both would end up dead. Maybe today, maybe now was that time. They circled one another, Mississippi’s hands fisted, Rascal’s balled at his sides. Porter wasn’t around to save that little shit this time. If Mississippi could help it, he wouldn’t use his gun unless Rascal skinned leather first. He jabbed at Mississippi’s nose and missed. Before he could recover from striking air, Mississippi landed a hard blow above Rascal’s belt buckle, doubling him over. Then Mississippi struck with an elbow, stabbing down between Rascal’s shoulders, and laid him out flat on the rocky dirt. He sprang up with a handful of grit, a mixture of fine rocks, dirt, and sand from the water’s edge, tossing it in Mississippi’s eyes. Mississippi stumbled back while raking at his watery eyes. Rascal lunged, throwing a shoulder into Mississippi’s middle, grappling around his waist, running him backward a few bumbling steps until his spine smashed into a tree.
On impact, Mississippi’s breath flew out, along with a pain-filled groan. He swung, his knuckles burning Rascal’s ear, pelting him with quick blows upside his ugly face, making him none the prettier. Rascal dropped on his knees, no doubt his head spinning in circles.
Mississippi was just about to mash his boot heel into Rascal’s teeth when he got walloped on the back of his skull by a blunt something. Blackness overtook him as he timbered and ate dirt. The last thing he’d seen was Jessa with a fair-size stick held in both hands. Why had she hit him? Maybe for the same reason he’d tossed her in the water.
He woke, doused by a bucket of cold water, jolting him straight up, coughing and spitting. Rascal was hunkered at the water’s edge, sponging at a small cut on his cheek with his handkerchief, all the while mumbling hotly under his breath. Clint, looking pickle-faced, stood near Jessa, who held the empty bucket. He apparently was unamused by the entire situation. They had money to find, lots of dollar bills that added up to a lifetime of work. Squabbling between themselves over some woman wouldn’t get them closer to what Clint wanted—a fat wad of cash in his pocket. She wasn’t just some poor, dirty-faced girl to Mississippi, but he couldn’t say that.
Clint liked control, and she was a wild card thrown into the mix. Porter was gone, out of the gang. Rascal, other than being a big mouth and mean, wasn’t much, slow on the draw. Definitely, Porter had gotten the lion’s share of the brains in that family. Rascal couldn’t think his way out of a one-door room. He was by nature a follower, too dumb to be a leader. Maybe Clint was just now figuring that all out, how much Porter had kept Rascal in check. And Jay, as always, stood on the sidelines without showing any concern for one party or the other. He was leaning comfortably against a tree while lighting a smoke cupped in his hands and appeared content to wait for the fuss to settle. Then they could simply get back to work.
At the moment, Mississippi knew exactly what Clint was thinking, and it worried him. This was the second time Mississippi and Rascal had fought over this woman. She huffed, water dripping from her hair, and her glare flipped between him and Rascal. Clint wasn’t stupid. He would find a way to use her to his advantage, to keep Mississippi reined in. He was without caring. He’d likely do anything, and he was capable of lots of things, most of them not good. It would be a cold day in hell before he lost the use of Mississippi’s lightning-fast gun hands. Not having Porter was bad, but Clint would never give up Mississippi. Not that he was planning on leaving. Besides, Clint would kill him first, or at least he’d try. He grabbed Mississippi by the arm, hauling him onto his feet. Mississippi wavered a minute, rubbing the goose egg on the back of his thumping head.
The creaky rattle of a buckboard rolling into the yard turned everyone’s attention. Topper yanked on the reins. Her eyes widened, and her face paled. Twenty feet behind the wagon, trotting on a dapple gray, was the sheriff, and following him, four badged men. One of them being Sam Curry, the sheriff of Burnt Cabins. Their sudden appearance sent Mississippi into temporary shock. Jay was nowhere to be seen. Clint stood stiffly rooted to the ground, a dumbstruck look corrupting his face. For a minute, no one moved, including the posse who had all halted at the unexpected surprise of so easily finding what they were hunting.
“You bitch!” Rascal shouted past all of them. At the same time, he must have pulled his pistol and squeezed the trigger. A shot cracked. Topper screamed, flipping backward off the wagon seat, and she hit the ground, holding her shoulder. She wouldn’t have known they were there. How could she? Rascal had read the signs all wrong. She was too like-minded to turn them in, even Rascal, whom she didn’t like but flatly tolerated without much hint of approval one way or the other. Porter frequented the place, and above all, she was a faithful woman. She would not have chanced Port getting caught, knowing he’d be killed. She, too, wanted her piece of that cash.
Guns lit up everywhere. Mississippi turned and grabbed Jessa by the wrist, dragging her into the trees. Men scattered, diving for any cover. Bullets cut into the stones that made up part of the lean-to. Bean hee-hawed. Clint was hunkered there, returning fire.
“Bean!” Jessa sprang up.
Mississippi yanked her down, tussling across the dirt, bumping into trees and brush. She was slapping away at him, but he wasn’t letting go. She’d get killed running through a crossfire after that damned old mule. Smoke hung thick over the yard. Either side could mistake her for an enemy. He held her wrists pinned above her head against the ground, his body forcing the rest of her down. She squirmed but couldn’t shake him off.
“Stop your fightin’, woman!” Then he said something truly stupid and knew right then that he was a smitten fool. She probably knew it too. Anyone who saw what he was about to do would know he was the true jackass, not Bean. “You stay here. I’ll get your damn mule.”
She lay still. He kissed her, then jumped up, gun in hand, hoping he didn’t die for a lousy, good-for-nothing mule. At least he’d gotten one last kiss. Ducked low, he ran for the lean-to. Bullets obliterated the branches all around him. He fell in next to Clint, his heart pounding. He would have to stand to open the gate, and if he didn’t get shot to ribbons then, he certainly would while leading out the panicked animal.
Lead balls zinged every which way. A rifle boomed close by. “Cover me.”
“What?” Clint missed a grab at Mississippi’s arm as he catapulted up over the fence and into the corral.
Clint’s revolver blasted. Mississippi was running for Bean. A haze of gunfire whirled around him, deafening him. His eyes focused on that stinking mule. A badge popped up from behind a corral post, the deputy’s pistol aimed at his chest. Boom! The man jerked in the middle, then fell over with a hole in him the size of a bucket. Had to be Jay and that buffalo gun.
In a brief pause, the posse all seemed to turn and open fire in Jay’s direction. Mississippi threw a leg over Bean. Stalling at the gate just long enough, he grabbed the reins of their horses. Lead burned his thigh, and he almost dropped the ropes. He dug spurs into Bean’s belly. The mule leaped forward like a scared rabbit, then bucked and reared, panicking the horses. Barely hanging on, Mississippi got them into the trees. With no more than a scratch, he jumped onto his horse. The others were throwing a leg over their mounts.
CHAPTER 6
Jessa stood quiet next to Bean while trying to calm her breathing, but her chest banged. She patted Bean’s neck as she watched Mississippi disappear into the forest, followed close by Clint and the others and, on their heels, the posse—all except one. Sheriff Pike reined in next to her, shaking his head.
“What?” she snapped. Her eyes filled with tears. She hoped more than anything that Mississippi would get away from Sheriff Curry and his deputies.
“You lied.”
“How so?” She hadn’t laid eyes on the sheriff in over a week since that evening she and Mississippi had run into him on the boardwalk.
“He’s a gambler all right. Being a wanted man, he’s gambled against a rope. I’ll bet my money he’s strung up before nightfall. You got no sense,
girl.” He touched spurs to his horse.
“I suppose I got that from my mother,” she called after him.
He halted his horse, turned in the saddle, and regarded her sadly. Jessa hated that look. She’d seen it too often, that look that told her he was seeing her mother when he looked at her. Her ma had been a young fool as far as Jessa was concerned. She had married at nineteen to a man ten years her senior. She had followed him, his dream, out to the middle of nowhere, and she’d died too young. Jessa was nine when she stood over her mother’s grave, crying, begging for her to open her eyes, to come back to her. She needed her, loved her. Her father had been too busy carving out a living, helping to build a town, and after her mother’s death, he buried himself in his work and forgot Jessa when she needed him most.
“Your mother was a fine woman.”
“Then I guess I’m too much like my father.”
There was a long silence between them. “You best go tend to Topper.” He turned and rode away.
To hell with him. Maybe once, he’d been something to her. Not anymore. His occasional visits were to relieve his conscience, not for her sake.
She led Bean into the corral, then went to the house to check on Topper. When she opened the door, a pan flew past her head. She barely ducked out of the way.
“What in the hell’s he doing here? You tryin’ to get us killed. Did Clint see him? They must think we have the money.” Topper thrust a needle and thread at Jessa. The hole in her shoulder had stopped bleeding.
Jessa smiled. “I do have it.”
All that shooting had left her a mite jittery. Moving that money out of there, somewhere to start over, might be just too much for her to handle alone. Jessa had, throughout her life and to her father’s disdain, modeled herself after her mother’s sister—a much stronger woman than her mother, who was reserved and believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen. Jessa didn’t entirely disagree with that, but when she had a notion to speak her mind, by golly, she’d do it. Topper had been shot. What if Clint came back to hurt her, thinking she had the cash. Jessa couldn’t live with herself if she were the reason something bad happened to Aunt Topper.
Mississippi Page 9
