A Fire in the Blood (28 page)

      
Sensing his perusal, perhaps aware that he was troubled, Lissa awakened, her lashes fluttered open, and their gazes met. "Magic silver eyes," she said softly as her hand traced the raspy whiskers on his jawline. "What are you thinking, Jess?" She held her breath.

      
"That it's time to say good-bye."

      
"No!" She sat up and the sheet slid down to her waist. "We're married. You can't just leave me."

      
"We've said it all, Lissa," he replied as he slid from the bed and padded naked across the floor, gathering up his strewn clothing.

      
"Will it be so easy—just riding away, leaving me surrounded by people who'll scorn me and our child?" She held the sheet protectively clenched over her breasts.

      
"You know damn well it won't," he snarled savagely. "Get out of Wyoming. Go back East where you'll have the chance to begin again."

      
"As a divorced woman?" Her tone was scornful and pained.

      
He paused with his shirt half tucked into his jeans and stared at her. "You came here last night. This is my room, lady. You sealed your chance for an annulment. Or maybe you'd prefer if I hurried up and got careless—"

      
"Stop it!" She put her hands over her ears to block out his hateful words.

      
"Get dressed. I'll have breakfast sent up to you," he said, reaching for the door.

      
As soon as he was gone, she flung back the covers and rushed for the basin in the dry sink. "Forget breakfast!" she yelled at the closed door just before becoming very sick.

      
Jess sat in the quiet saloon, nursing a cup of ink-black coffee and staring morosely into a plate of greasy fried potatoes he had been unable to finish. A few customers sauntered in to partake of the wretched food, others for a morning jolt of forty-rod whiskey.

      
Word of his marriage to Lissa Jacobson the preceding evening had already spread like wildfire. Most of the bleary patrons studied him covertly, some with thin-lipped disapproval, others with incredulous curiosity. Old Marcus's fancy Eastern- raised daughter hitching up with a breed killer, imagine that. No one had the nerve to approach the dangerous-looking stranger and ask him about the outlandish tale.

      
No one, that is, until Camella Alvarez spotted him striding from the saloon and quickly crossed the street on an intercept course.

      
"Morning, Jess." Her expression was troubled.

      
He studied her rumpled red dress and the loose, tangled black curls spilling over her shoulders. "You don't usually rise so early, Cammie."

      
She smiled sadly. "Florie Tyburn almost broke a leg hurrying back to the theater to wake me up with the news. It's true, isn't it?"

      
He looked up and down the street, which was filling with people on their morning rounds. "This is no place to talk." He had planned to look her up before he left town today. Taking her arm, he steered her into an alley between the saloon and a mercantile. "It's true."

      
She studied him with shrewd brown eyes. "I can't believe a man like Jacobson would let her marry you, unless . . ."

      
"Yeah, unless," he echoed bitterly. "No one's ever in a hurry to claim a breed's bastard."

      
"Are you taking her to the Double R?" Somehow it did not seem likely, knowing Jess as she did.

      
"Hell, no. That life would kill a girl like Lissa."

      
"Do you think her life here will be any better now?" she countered.

      
"She has kin back East," he said defensively, then shut his mouth, angry that he had spoken at all.

      
"What does Lissa want to do?" Camella had a pretty good hunch. His expression confirmed it.

      
Scowling, he said, "She thinks all we need is love to survive. A fancy, spoiled lady like her—what does she know about being a small rancher's wife in a place like West Texas?"

      
"Maybe you don't give her enough credit. She could learn. Lots of women do. We're an adaptable lot, rich or poor."

      
He shook his head. "Look, Cammie . . . I'm putting her on a train, sending her back to her pa. I figure she can stay there."

      
"Maybe he won't let her. He could just throw her out. It wouldn't be the first time," she interjected.

      
"No matter what, she's his only child. He'll take her back. But he won't want her to keep the baby." He stumbled over the words. My child. "If the old man makes trouble, or if... if Lissa wants to go East without it . . ."

      
"I'll help her, Jess," she volunteered before he could ask.
      
"But she won't give it up,
querido
. After all, this baby will be all of you she has left."

      
In his heart of hearts, Jess did not believe she would do so either, but he had to provide for all exigencies. "I have some money here—and I can wire you more if you need it for her." He took a roll of bills from his vest pocket and handed it to her.

"Keep it, Jess. You'll need it for now. I know where to wire Jonah if Lissa needs your help." She placed the money back in his vest pocket and rose to kiss him.

      
"You're a good friend, Cammie. Thank you."

      
She stood in the alleyway with the high plains sun beating down on her back hotly, watching him walk away.
Vaya con Dios, querido.

* * * *

      
When he returned to the hotel, Lissa was dressed and sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed. Her face was pale, but she was dry-eyed and calm. As soon as he entered the room, she shot up, then stood very still with her head high and her back straight, like a queen awaiting execution.

"The train comes in around eleven. We'd better get going," he said quietly. His eyes swept to the tray on the bedside table. "You didn't eat your breakfast."

      
"I wasn't hungry," she replied woodenly, walking to the door.

      
He let her pass, then closed it.
Don't think about that bed. . .

      
They walked downstairs and through the lobby, silently ignoring the stares of the gathered crowd, both curious and hostile. A low murmuring followed them, but no one spoke up or dared to confront the hard-eyed gunman. Lissa held his arm tightly, looking straight ahead.
Please, God, let me get through this.

      
When they approached the train platform, Jess could feel her trembling. "Just a few minutes more, Lissa."

      
She did not reply. They stood in the shadow of the new Union Pacific building beside the platform, waiting as the train pulled up to the station. A hiss of steam escaped as the engine ground to a stop in front of them.

      
It was time to say good-bye.

* * * *

      
After the train had vanished, Jess turned from his lonely sentinel's post on the rise and kneed Blaze into a steady canter. He tried to keep his mind blank, not think about Lissa and the baby or what she would do about dissolving the marriage. It did not work.

      
Deep in rumination, he barely heard the pounding of hooves until the rider had closed with him. Jess whirled in the saddle, rifle drawn from his scabbard. Then he recognized Tate Shannon and reined in.

      
"A good way to get yourself killed," he said as he replaced the rifle. "What brought you riding hell-bent, Tate?"

      
The big black man doffed his hat and ran one shirt sleeve across his forehead before replacing his headgear. "Hot today, but not near so hot as it'll be for you if Pardee catches up and blasts you into the next life."

      
Jess nodded in weary resignation. "Jacobson hired him to kill me."

      
"Offered him 'n them men who rode with him your cash money for cleaning out the rustlers if they'd finish you and bring Miz Lissa back."

      
The question remained unasked, but Shannon's liquid brown eyes studied Jess.

      
"Lissa's on the train. She'll arrive at the Squaw Creek stop-off tonight. I sent word to the old man to collect her."

      
A look of incredulity filled Shannon's face. "You took her to Cheyenne and spent the night, then left her?"

      
"I married her, Tate. On Jacobson's orders. He didn't want the baby to have the Jacobson name."

      
Shannon cursed, then studied his friend. "From the look on your face, Jess, you don't give a damn if you live or die, but I figure on livin' 'n I damn near rode a good horse to death reachin' you 'fore Pardee."

      
"How far is he behind you?"

      
"Soon as I overheard him 'n the old man palaverin', I took my own horse outta the cawy and headed out real quiet. He won't be long. If I found out you rode south this easy, he will too."

      
Jess scanned the rolling grasslands and the mountains in the distance. "If we swing east and then cut back up north, we might lose them."

      
Tate shrugged, then studied Jess. "You want him doggin' yer back forever? For five thousand, he'll track you clean to Canady."

      
"You got a better idea?"

      
Tate flashed a white grin at Jess. "Ole Ringo was havin' a real busy time of it gettin' his boys to ride along. Seems they ain't real partial to comin' up against you. I figger there won't be more than three of 'em. If we hole up in them rocks over that ridge, we can take em."

      
Jess considered a minute, then nodded to Shannon. "I owe you, Tate."

      
"You damn betcha, you do. Jacobson never paid me fer backin' you against the rustlers," he said with a chuckle as they rode for cover. They had almost made it when the crack of a rifle echoed across the plains. Ringo Pardee and four men came over the rise at a full gallop, shooting.

      
"Shit, I figgered he'd only get three men to come with him, tops," Shannon said as he jumped from his horse and returned fire, knocking one of the riders from his mount.

      
"Never underestimate the power of greed, ole son. Makes brave men out of fools," Jess replied, taking careful aim and firing, then quickly repeating the process until only Pardee and one of his men were left. They circled their horses back out of range.

      
Robbins and Shannon remounted and gave chase, but the black man's buckskin was played out from the hard ride and quickly fell behind. Jess took out Pardee as the gunman turned to fire his Winchester 73. The lone survivor, Sug Johnson, rode low against the neck of his horse, lashing it with his reins. With Pardee and the others dead, Jess figured Sug would not resume the bounty hunt. He reined in Blaze and rode back to where Tate was cooling his winded mount.

      
Tate swung up on his buckskin and fell in beside Jess. "I reckon Pardee's dead?"

      
Jess nodded. "Sug Johnson got away, but he won't come after me."

      
"You figger on goin' back to Texas?"

      
Jess shrugged. "Doesn't much matter. I hear they have a dandy range war going on down in New Mexico Territory." He looked at Tate but said nothing.

      
The black man threw back his head and laughed. "Hell, Jess, I got me no place else to go. I opine ole man Jacobson'll up 'n fire me soon as Sug Johnson reports to him. Let's ride to New Mexico. I ain't seen it in a month of Sundays."

Chapter Seventeen

Spring, 1882

      
"You must change your will now,
hein
?" Germaine plumped up a pillow behind Marcus's back and watched him lean into it with a grimace as he resettled himself in his big bed.

      
"No," he replied flatly.

      
"You will be the laughingstock of the territory, letting that half-breed boy inherit J Bar when you have—"

      
"I said, let it alone." Marcus's words were sharp and bitten off, causing him to sag in breathless pain as soon as they were spoken. His face was haggard and creased with loose skin that had turned the color of old snow.

      
Germaine Channault looked down at him, her small, dark eyes glittering with frustration. She said nothing more, only looked at the tray sitting on the bedside table, its contents virtually untouched.

      
"Take it away. I'm not hungry," he whispered, forestalling any urging to eat that she might have considered.

      
"Eat anyway," the small, plump man standing in the doorway said cheerfully. "How the hell do you expect to get better if you keep losing weight?"

      
"Hell, Doc, you and I both know I'm dying. My heart's given out, same as my pa's did."

      
"No reason to hurry it along by starving yourself," Headly replied gruffly. His pink, hairless scalp gleamed with perspiration when he doffed his bowler hat and laid it carelessly on the table. He approached the bed with a weather-beaten satchel of cracked brown leather.

      
"I don't need any more of your pills or your platitudes, Doc—just someone to put a stop to the damn rustling."

      
"I heard you were having trouble again this spring. Thought they were all finished off last summer," Headly said as he took Marcus's veiny hand in his plump fingers and expertly read the pulse. Weak and irregular.