Jake Walker's Wife (19 page)

Micah shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, son. Somebody's done you a powerful wrong, and I'm sorry about that, truly I am. But it's eating
at you like a cancer." He dropped another slap on Jake's back. "Let it go, boy, before it kills you!"

No one had ever dared tell him what to do...and gotten away with it. But then, no one had ever told him what to do
in friendship
. Jake didn't know what to make of it, let alone how to respond to it. Clumsily, he moved the hammer from his right hand to his left and back again. "We're burnin' daylight," he said. "I'd best get back to work."

Micah sighed. "All right, then. But if there's anything I can do, just say the word. If it's money that'll dig you out of the trouble you're in, I've got plenty of it." Then, adjusting the top button of his white, collarless shirt, he coughed. "But if it's just a friendly ear, well
, you were a friend when I needed one."

Staring at the toes of his dusty boots,
Jake remembered the day, not long after he'd arrived at Foggy Bottom, when he'd gone into the barn for a shovel. He stumbled across Micah, huddled in a back stall, bawling like a baby, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his side. The older man's obvious grief stunned him, and oddly, shamed him, too. Because to survive the life he'd been forced to live these past ten years, Jake had had to teach himself to live simply, and with few rules: "Hide your money in your boots." "Travel by the river roads, and only after dark." "Keep your canteen full. Always pack plenty of bullets."

Micah's unrelenting sobs made him wish for a rule that went something like "Never ask a man what's wrong." Because when
Jake asked what was wrong, Micah poured out his heart. Later, when the man blamed his temporary insanity on a sizeable consumption of whiskey, Jake pretended to believe it. But both men knew that missing his Mary—not alcohol—had inspired the gut-wrenching, rib-wracking sobs that echoed between empty stalls. Jake pretended to believe Micah's rendition of the story because he understood exactly how the man felt.

"
—and I don't soon forget a kindness."

Micah’s voice broke into his thoughts. "L
ook here now," Jake began, "it was nothing. Anybody would have done—“

O
ne look at the determined expression on Micah's wizened face told Jake he could talk 'til sundown and not change the man's thinking, and since he’d never been a wasteful sort, particularly where words were concerned, he clamped his jaw shut. Besides, it had been said a time or two that he had a stubborn streak of his own. It surfaced now as Jake gripped the hammer tight and struck the nail he'd been pounding into the wagon's sideboard when Micah interrupted his song. But when he raised the hammer in preparation for yet another blow, Micah grabbed the tool mid-swing.

"Don't be a fool,
Jake...look at me when I talk to you!"

Like an obedient child, he did as he was told.

"You're young and healthy, so I guess it's natural for you to think you have all the time in the world. But let me tell you a thing or two about time," Micah said, wagging an arthritic finger under his nose. "It’s precious."His voice grew soft as he gazed at some unknown spot, far off in the distance. "She was a good woman, my Mary. Gave me three young'uns, made us a fine home. Getting out of bed each morning was pure pleasure, because I knew she'd be there, smiling that sweet smile of hers, telling me to hustle my ornery butt down into the kitchen before my eggs and ham got cold."

Shaking his head wearily, Micah
pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lord, but I miss her," he admitted, voice gruff with a held-back sob. "Hold fast to what's important, because you never know when
your
time will be up." He turned to go. "I'll tell you this: If I'd-a known I would lose her so soon, I'd-a done a lot of things differently."

Jake
watched him move slowly toward the house. When Mary lived, Micah probably walked straight and tall. Now, it seemed to be a great effort, and he shuffled along as though he bore the weight of a thousand lifetimes upon his once-powerful shoulders. He wondered if he’d adopt that stance once he put Freeland, Maryland far behind him….

Frowning,
Jake focused on his chore. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the kindness that had inspired Micah’s lecture. Jake recognized the well-meant advice and understood—and agreed with—every word. Sadly, it was useless information. He looked toward the horizon, searching for the invisible thing that had so captured Micah's attention earlier. The U.S. Marshalls, or worse, bounty hunters, could be out there right, like mountain lions, waiting to pounce. "Time is precious," Micah had said. "Hold fast to what's important...."

Jake
knew
exactly
how precious time was! He'd lived life, for the past ten years, minute to minute, never knowing when he'd have to saddle up and head out. Salaried lawmen were a determined lot, but bounty hunters were another matter entirely. Something about the promise of silver, pressed into their palms, made them doggedly persistent. Didn’t matter a whit to them if he was guilty or innocent. To the bounty hunters, Walker Atwood was just another meal ticket.

He
knew how precious his time at Foggy Bottom was, too. He’d give just about anything to close that chapter of his life, settle down here and marry his Bess and raise a passel of kids. Time? He could name the exact moment when he knew she loved him….

That day in
the parlor, just after he'd kissed her, he'd looked into her big, dark eyes and  saw pure, sweet love staring straight back at him. He knew, right then, that if he confessed the whole ugly truth, she'd have waved away the news as if it were no more significant than a pesky mosquito.

Jake
sensed he'd been the first in many years—in her lifetime, most likely—who’d seen how heavily the burden of being caretaker, confidant, confessor, and counselor had weighed on her heart. Sensed, too, that if faced with the truth about his past, she’d spend whatever time God chose to give them by pampering and spoiling him, and that he’d treasure every blessed second of it until the dreadful day came when she’d be forced to gather him close as the led him onto the hanging platform, straighten his tie and collar, and promise to love heartily 'til she breathed her last.

He knew
it as sure as he knew his name was Walker Atwood. He knew it from watching her give love and care without ever expecting anything in return, and from listening as she bolstered the sagging spirits of the men in her life, giving them the strength to carry on, even when things seemed unbearably grim.

Her pa
had been right: Time
was
precious.

And that’s why
he could never tell her the truth about his past, and certainly not that he loved her. Because he wouldn't allow her to waste a moment of
her
precious time on the likes of him.

"I'm busy," he whispered into the teller's ear.

The banker's young assistant adjusted the black armbands cinching up his white shirt sleeves. "But Mister Cramer, she's been waiting nearly thirty minutes already. She says she had a nine o'clock appointment with you and—“

Cramer proved his impatience by exhaling a loud sigh. "I'll get to her when I'm good and ready," he said through
clenched teeth. "What sort of woman traipses around the country doing a man's bidding, anyway? If she doesn't know her place in proper society now, she'll know it by the time I'm finished with her!" He punctuated his statement by lifting his head slightly, then bringing it down with a snap.

"Yessir, Mister Cramer." The young man glanced in Bess's direction and shot her a weak
, apologetic smile.

Bess did not return it. She'd heard every word, loud and clear. Wh
o did Cramer think he was, dictating who should make this deal on Micah's behalf! But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing that he'd riled her. Instead, Bess would
show
him.

The teller stood before her, licking his lips while
wringing his hands. "I'm sorry, Miss Beckley, but Mister Cramer says he can’t see you just yet."

His distress at being forced to deliver such rude news might have touched her
. Wasn’t his fault, after all, that his boss had slighted her. Standing, Bess placed a white-gloved hand on his forearm. "Don't you worry another minute about it," she told him, smiling.

And then she burst through the swinging wooden gate that separated bank officials from patrons.

"Wait," the teller said, one finger aloft as he hurried after her. "You can't go in there, Miss Beckley."

She turned
and, one hand on the gate, met his terrified eyes. "I believe I've already done it," she announced, grinning.

Bess then turned her attention to the banker
, and then sat in one of two red leather chairs in front of his desk.

Cramer looked up from his paperwork. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded, glaring at his terrified employee.

"I tried to stop her, sir," the teller said. "But—“

Bess, smiling sweetly, looked up at the young man. "I'd very much appreciate a glass of water
, if you’d be so kind."

He blinked. Cleared his throat. Flushed. "Well, I.... But.... Um...." He looked to his boss for guidance. "Mister Cramer?"

"Oh, go and get the little lady some water, Anderson," the man spat. "And be quick about it. I haven't got all day." He gave Bess his full, undivided attention to ask in a falsely syrupy voice, "What is the nature of your business, missy?"

Her polite smile still in place, Bess leaned forward slightly. "My father wired you that I'd be here. Micah Beckley.
I’m sure you've heard of him."

Cramer leaned back in his creaking wooden chair and folded his hands across his black brocade vest. "Yes....yes, of course I've heard of him. He's one of our depositors."

"One of your
biggest
depositors, you mean!"

The banker's eyes narrowed, but he did not respond.

Tilting her head to one side, she sighed. "As you probably know, my father has spent the past several years trying to build up a respectable number of dairy cows. What you may not know is that he’s also working to develop a herd of cattle that will enable him to compete with Virginia ranchers. His research told him the very best bulls are born and bred right here by the Amish. That's why he's been doing business with Mister Shelby."

The banker rolled his eyes and sighed with exasperation. "Your family history is of no concern to me, Miss Beckley. Now,
if you’ll excuse me, I'm a busy man who has a lot to do and—“

"
—and I'm sure you can see it makes good sense," she continued, ignoring his interruption, "for my father to keep enough cash on hand, right here at your bank, in the town where the business takes place, to make the transactions as efficient as possible for my father and Mister Shelby alike."

One brow quirked as he realized what was at stake here. Cramer
sat forward and folded his hands on his desktop. "I'm not accustomed to doing business with womenfolk. I'll have you know that right up front."

Anderson showed up with her water just then, and as she accepted the glass, Bess said to Cramer, "And I'm not accustomed to doing business with arrogant, overbearing old fools
—“

"Now, see here, Miss Beckley,
I see no reason for you to insul—“

Smiling, she
looked up at the teller, drying his water-dampened hands on the seat of his trousers. "Thank you for the water, Mr. Anderson," she said.

"You're quite welcome, Miss Beckley." He grinned and shuffled from one foot to the other before departing.

Cramer's narrowed eyes flashed with anger and the top of his bald head glowed bright red as the teller retreated, chuckling under his breath.

"N
ow then,” Bess said, “I don’t suppose I need to remind you that my father has a considerable sum on deposit in your little bank, do I?" She paused, then added, "Which is precisely why I insist upon doing business with you directly. You are, after all, the man in charge...aren't you?"

She didn’t give him time to respond. Instead, she plowed ahead.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't the whole idea of banking to earn more money for the institution by making use of cash on deposit?"

Frowning, he coughed and cleared his throat. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, Bess put the water glass on the edge of his desk and
gave him a withering glare. "Surely you don’t think my father's dollars will work less efficiently on your bank's behalf simply because they’ve come into contact with..." she daintily wiggled her fingers "...'womenfolk's' hands."

He put his agitation aside in exchange for outright anger. "I don't need a lesson in banking from the likes of you, young lady!"

"Perhaps not," she snapped, "but you most certainly
could
use a lesson in customer relations!"

For the second time in as many minutes, she refused to give him time
to respond. Bess got to her feet and calmly flattened both hands on his desktop. "Mr. Cramer, do you respect my father?"