Jane Bonander (4 page)

He also had a wanderlust that wouldn’t be quenched. Flicker Feather had understood his hunger for travel and his desire to fight for the underdog. He’d been doing the latter ever since he was old enough to understand what the white man was doing to the Indian.

And most of all, no one would understand the peace he’d found living with the tribe. And the love.

Jackson could still hear his father’s voice, raised in anger, when he’d told him he had no intention of spending the rest of his life on the ranch. But now, under these circumstances, he was certain that his father would take pity on him and forgive him for not wanting to be a rancher. After all, now he was a widower with a baby to care for. Surely his father could identify with that.

Nathan Wolfe emerged from the barn and strode toward the shed, the front of his shirt and his jeans smeared with muck. His acknowledgment was less than Jackson had hoped for.

“Unless you’ve come to help, stand clear, son. I’m up to my elbows in cow innards. Damned calf is breech.”

Jackson’s stomach dipped. “Can I talk to you?”

His father marched toward the shed. “Sure, if you’re willing to lend a hand.”

Jackson shot a glance toward the barn, knowing his father hadn’t been in there alone. “Can’t you spare me even a minute?”

Nathan rummaged around in the shed, picked up the supplies he needed, then returned to the barn, stopping briefly at the door. Jackson trailed after him like a child.

“Jackson, I’m sure what you have to say is important, but right now nothing is more important than getting that calf out alive. If I lose it, the mother could die, too. And we can’t afford to lose another one.” He glanced away, unwilling, to Jackson’s mind, to look him in the eye. “You’d understand if you gave a damn about the ranch.”

His father’s remark stung, and Jackson’s stomach pitched downward. Obviously, to his father, a damned calf was more important than his son’s pain. Clenching his jaw in hurt and anger, Jackson turned and marched toward his mount just as his mother stepped onto the porch.

She looked surprised, hurt. “You’re leaving already? You just got here.”

The lump in Jackson’s throat expanded. “He’s too busy to talk to me.”

She hurried down the steps and touched his arm. “You know how he feels about foals and calves, Jackson.”

Yeah, Jackson thought, self-pity burning in his gut, he values them above human life.

“Come for supper tonight,” she pleaded. “You can talk to him then. We’ve all missed you, dear. Corey’s been dying to show you his bug-and-butterfly collection, and Mandy asks about you every day. Katie, too. She wanders from room to room, calling your name.”

There was a hopeful note in her voice, but he ignored it as he swung into the saddle. “Ma, I’m leaving.”

She gave him an indulgent smile. “I can see that, dear. But come for supper tonight, all right?”

She didn’t understand, and Jackson was too cowardly to explain. He wasn’t simply leaving the ranch, he was leaving the country. If he’d had the guts, he’d have left the world. He was grieving over Flicker Feather’s death, and nothing would appease him. His mother would only be hurt by his decision…

Twelve years. Almost thirteen. After so much time, Jackson knew that although his youthful dignity had been injured by a father who had merely been trying to keep his ranch together, his main reason for leaving was his need to escape his pain and guilt over Flicker Feather’s death. Now Jackson firmly believed that if he’d returned that night and explained what had happened, things would have been different. His mother would have taken Dawn Twilight in a heartbeat and raised her. His father would have loved her as he loved Corey, who was not of his blood. But so much time had passed. And they had both been so damned prideful. Jackson couldn’t change things. Now he simply wanted to pick up where he’d left off, before he and his father were estranged.

Jackson examined the ache in his chest. It was homesickness. He hadn’t seen any of his family for years, but that hadn’t meant he didn’t know how they were. Physically, at least. He knew he’d hurt his stepmother. That still bothered him. She was the only mother he remembered, and she’d been a good one. Hell, she’d been great.

Every year he was gone, he’d dropped his family a note at Christmas. His stepmother had answered him, but it was often six months to a year before he’d get to an American embassy to retrieve his mail. The letters he did receive were filled with news of his brother and sisters, their friends and neighbors. News that contained a forced cheerfulness and careful editing, always skimming over any news about his father, probably because she was afraid that once she started, she wouldn’t know when or how to stop.

“Thinking about the old man, are you?”

He jerked his head toward Vern’s voice. “How is he, anyway?”

“Fine, last I heard. I haven’t seen him since that pretty ma of yours invited me out for his fiftieth birthday bash.” He paused. “Them sisters of yours are real beauties, Jackson.”

Jackson felt the twist of pain again. He wouldn’t know his brother or his sisters if they came up and bit him on the ass. He swore under his breath. He must be getting old, for the urge to reacquaint himself with his siblings was so strong he could almost taste it. Over the last few years he’d begun to miss everything about his family. He would have it all again, once he had reclaimed his daughter. Together they would be welcomed into the fold.

“What happened between you two, anyway?”

Jackson took a chair next to the desk, and Mumser jumped into his lap, circled three times, then settled down for a nap.

“It’s been so long, I hardly remember,” he lied.

“Then it should be a pleasure to let them know you’re back,” Vern countered.

Before Jackson could respond, the door swung open, and a gangly young man with a red face and unruly hair rushed in.

Vern nodded a greeting. “Morning, Axel. Meet the new sheriff.”

The red-faced young man stepped forward and extended his hand. “Axel Worth, your deputy.”

Jackson shook the bony fingers and answered, “Glad to know I’ve got some able help around here.”

The door flew open again, this time slamming against the wall, and two men entered. The older man was short and thickly muscled with a drooping black mustache. His eyes were wild with fury. The younger man was taller, as thickly muscled as the other, and sported thick black hair that hung down almost to his shoulders.

The older man strode to the desk, spread his bulky arms, and planted his hands on the desk. “That son of a bitch burned down my camp last night, killing half my sheep.”

Vern winced as he repositioned his knee. “Jackson, this is Danel Mateo and his son, Dominic. Tell him your troubles from now on,” he ordered, turning toward the men. “My damned knee aches so bad, it fuzzes up my head.”

Cursing, the younger man stepped forward. “This has gone on long enough, Sheriff. If we don’t get some satisfaction, we’re going to take matters into our own hands.”

Vern sighed and settled deeper into his chair. “Well
,
Jackson, you might as well get your feet wet. Someone’s been forcing the sheepmen off their land, burning buildings and barbecuing their woolly-backs alive.” He heaved a sigh and took another gulp from his bottle. “Damn. I’m getting too old for this. Sure glad you’re on board, son.”

Jackson grabbed his hat and dumped a snoozing Mumser into Vern’s lap. “Let’s have a look at your problem, gentlemen.”

Jackson dismounted, requesting the other men to stay back. “How many horses have trampled this site, Danel?”

“None. I was so angry when I saw what they’d done, I didn’t get this far.”

Jackson squatted and studied the ground; the deputy hunkered down beside him.

“What do you make of it, Sheriff?”

Jackson studied the prints. “Looks like three separate mounts, Axel.”

Axel Worth gawked at the ground. “How can you tell?”

For some strange reason, Jackson was reluctant to share everything he knew. “I see three separate sets of shoes. And at least one of the mounts was a mare.”

Axel continued to study the ground, his blotchy forehead creased with intensity. “How can you tell that?”

Jackson picked up a dry stick and pointed it at a damp circle in the dirt. “This is urine. See how—”

“Horse piss? How in hell do you know it’s horse piss?”

Jackson gave the deputy a weary glance. “Do you want to get down there and smell it?” When Axel sullenly shook his head, Jackson continued. “The stream is away from the back shoe marks. If it were a gelding or a stallion, the urine would be between the front and back prints. Does that answer your question?”

Axel shrugged. “I guess.”

What Jackson didn’t offer was that while two sets appeared to have been made by cow ponies, the third set was distinctively that of a high-stepper—an unusual mount for a cowboy.

He rose and returned to Danel Mateo and his son. “How many sheep do you think were slaughtered, Danel?”

“I’m guessing about one hundred and twenty-five. Can’t say for sure.” Danel shook his head. “Christ, I hope you can do something. If this happens again, I’ll be wiped out.”

Promising to speed up the process, Jackson returned to town, telling Axel to keep Vern informed. Before returning to the jail, he stopped at the bank. The room seemed smaller, somehow, yet nothing appeared to have changed. It even smelled the same: old dust and stale air.

A thin, bespectacled man with long wisps of hair that were swept across a balding pate in a futile attempt at camouflage glanced up from a stack of papers. “May I help you?”

Briefly touching his inside jacket pocket, Jackson said, “I’d like to check on an account, please.”

“The name on the account?”

“Wolfe, Jackson and/or Dawn Twilight.”

Nodding, the man rose and disappeared behind a partition. He reappeared shortly, his expression bemused. “I’m afraid I don’t find such an account, sir.”

A spasm rolled through Jackson’s gut. He retrieved the leather pouch from his jacket pocket, opened it, and took out the papers. “These are receipts. They prove that I’ve been sending money to this bank for the past twelve years.” Actually, they proved that the bank had received the money up until five years before.

The balding man took the receipts and studied them carefully. “Yes. Art McCann. I recognize his signature. He was John Frost’s bookkeeper.”

“And where is Mr. McCann now?”

The colorless man stroked his smooth chin. “Hmm. I think he retired shortly after the elder Mr. Frost died.”

Jackson picked up his papers and stuffed them into the pouch. “I hear John’s son is running the bank now. Is he around?”

“No, sir. He won’t be back until next week.”

Stifling a sigh, Jackson asked, “Do you know how I can get in touch with Mr. McCann?”

“I believe he went to live with his son. He has a ranch about four miles south of here, along the river. You can’t miss it; there’s a row of eucalyptus trees lined up all the way from the road to the house.”

Jackson brought his mount to a halt at the beginning of the long, winding driveway. The eucalyptus trees gave off a pungent medicinal odor, not entirely unpleasant. He took the road to the house, where he found an elderly man on the porch, sitting at a table, carving something out of a hunk of wood.

“Afternoon,” Jackson called.

The old gent stopped working. “Afternoon, yourself. Can I help you?”

“If you’re Art McCann, you can.”

“That’s me.” The old man rose. He was lean and wiry, his eyes were sharp. “What can I do for you?”

Jackson dismounted and joined the man on the porch. He drew out the pouch. “I believe you signed some receipts for me. From the bank.” He handed them to McCann, who pulled out a pair of spectacles and perused the papers.

“Yes, sir, I remember these.” His gaze returned to Jackson. “You Wolfe?”

“I am. I’ve just been to the bank. Ethan Frost is out of town, but the current bookkeeper couldn’t find a record of our transactions.”

Art McCann snuffled a laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

The familiar spasm returned to Jackson’s gut. “Meaning?”

“Mr. Wolfe,” McCann began, motioning Jackson to a seat, “I retired shortly after John died. He was a good man. I tried to stay on and make for an easier transition when Ethan took over, but …”

He sighed and hiked up the jeans that hung low on his bony hips before resuming his seat. “Well, Ethan wasn’t exactly my idea of a good replacement. I’m not telling you anything most people don’t already know, but when Ethan was growing up, poor John was getting him out of one scrape after another, paying his debts, smoothing things over with the law. He had a terrible problem with money and women, that boy did. Let’s just say that when poor John died, I took it as my way out. I didn’t want to work for the kid.”

“So, as far as you know, the account was active and accurate until you left.”

“Sure was,” McCann answered. “If I were you, I’d go straight to young Frost.”

Jackson thanked him and stood up. As he took the road to town, he had an uncomfortable feeling that his first meeting with the new banker was not going to go very well.

L
ibby heard Dawn’s laughter as she approached the parlor. Peeking inside, she found her daughter sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of their new boarder, whose long legs were stretched out on the ottoman.

Libby briefly closed her eyes and sighed. Jackson Wolfe had been her boarder for only a week, yet he’d completely mesmerized her daughter. As usual, Dawn’s expression was rapt as she gazed up at him. His dog was asleep in her lap.

“And they really keep their babies in a pouch on their stomachs, just like the pictures show?”

He nodded. “They most certainly do.” He glanced up, catching Libby’s perusal. His expression was guarded, as she knew her own would be.

Dawn turned. “Oh, Mama! Mr. Wolfe’s been all over the world. He’s even been to Australia and has seen a kangaroo up close, and they really do keep their babies in a pouch, just like Chloe Ann said they did.” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

Libby didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, she was grateful the man had taken a liking to her daughter, because the good Lord knew she needed the presence of a normal male in her life. Bert and Burl weren’t any kind of role models. She supposed she should consider Ethan Frost, since he’d been calling on her for nearly a year, but for some reason, Dawn and Ethan had never gotten on well together. Probably because his sons had been among those who constantly chased Dawn home. It angered her that Ethan didn’t have better control over his boys, but he seemed to think it was merely what boys did to girls. For as charming as Ethan could be, he could also be a prize boob. Oddly enough, this was the first time she’d given Ethan a thought since Jackson Wolfe rode onto her property.

On the other hand, she was leery about Jackson Wolfe’s motives, if, indeed, he had any. She had no basis for her reluctance and sensed it was a problem within her, and it would be unfair to take it out on him or Dawn.

Libby stepped into the room. “I’m sure he has many stories you’d love to hear, dear, but it’s time for bed.”

“All right, Mama, but did you know he can ride a horse so good that he can jump over a river? And his horse is so smart, it can swim.”

“Very impressive, Dawn, but—”

“Mama is afraid of horses, Mr. Wolfe.”

Libby flushed. “I’m not afraid of them, dear. I just refuse to ride them.” Which was a lie, considering that every time she thought of Sean, all she saw was his horse lying on top of him, crushing the life out of him.

Her boarder’s gaze appeared interested. “Afraid to ride them?”

Before Libby could explain, Dawn did. “When she was a little girl, she saw a horse trample one of her friends. Then, when she moved here, she saw it happen again to another man. She’s afraid of horses. She won’t ride them.”

Of course, the other man had been Sean, but Libby hadn’t felt it was necessary to burden Dawn with her past.

“I guess we all have our fears,” Jackson offered.

Somehow it didn’t make Libby feel better to know that he was aware of her weaknesses. “It’s bedtime, Dawn.”

Dawn screwed up her face but didn’t argue further. “All right,” she said on a sigh as she rose, lifting the dog into her arms. She skipped toward the door, then stopped. “Will you tell me more stories, Mr. Wolfe?”

He smiled, and Libby noted that it reached his eyes. That was something no one could fake.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Dawn started out the door.

“Dawn?”

She stopped but didn’t turn. “Yes, Mama?”

Libby bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Why, to bed, like you told me to.” She kept her back to her mother.

“With Mr. Wolfe’s dog?”

Dawn turned, emitting an enormous sigh. “But, Mama, I—”

“The dog doesn’t sleep with you, dear.”

Air sputtered out through Dawn’s lips. “Oh, all right.” She lifted the dog close to her face and kissed his nose. Libby shuddered and grimaced, unable to understand why anyone would want to kiss a dog.

“Sorry, Mumser.” Dawn returned the dog to its master and left the room, tossing her mother a crushed look as she passed her.

Libby stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, suddenly feeling awkward. “It’s kind of you to entertain Dawn. I’m afraid she can be a nuisance at times. She’s at that age, you know.”

He said nothing for a moment, merely returning her gaze with a pensive one of his own. “She’s not a nuisance. I enjoy her; she’s a good audience.”

Libby’s resolve was melting fast. How could she possibly resist a man who spoke with such warmth about her daughter?

“I want to thank you for helping her with her sums.” She smiled. “They’ve been her nemesis. She’s wonderful with words. I mean, she’s quite a poet and she loves to draw and sing. She dances rather than walks most of the time, and I constantly find her doodling when she’s supposed to be studying. I’ve often been tempted to purchase a piano, because I know she’d love to take lessons, but—” She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I’m sorry. I’m blathering, aren’t I?”

He said nothing, just continued to stare at her with those bright blue eyes. He probably thought she was a bore.

“Well,” she finally said. “I’ll, ah … if you want, there’s an old bottle of brandy in the sideboard.” She pointed toward the cupboard in the corner. “Help yourself.”

She scurried to her room but discovered she was too itchy to sleep. She undressed and slipped into her dressing gown, then removed the pins from her hair. With methodical strokes she brushed it, letting her mind wander, for although Sean had been gone for six years, it had been something he’d done for her, and she still didn’t like to do it herself. Though they hadn’t had the perfect marriage by any stretch of the imagination, they’d had their moments.

And those moments had ended the day Sean’s mount stepped into a gopher hole, crushing his ribs as it fell on top of him.

A wistfulness spread through her, and she tossed the brush on the vanity and simply sat there, staring into the mirror.
Sean.
He’d been a good man. Kind. Generous. In more ways than one, he’d given her a freedom she would never have otherwise known. He’d given her far more than she’d ever given him.

A sadness at her inability to make him happy settled around her heart. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried; she’d simply been too young to know how. How could a fourteen-year-old girl who had been taught nothing possibly know how to please a man? And, she thought, anger surfacing, why should a fourteen-year-old girl have to? It wasn’t until she was older that she realized Sean had a problem with intimacy. Grown men often laughed about it, but to Sean it was no joke. Try as he might, he could never become aroused enough to make love to her.

In two very short years, Dawn would be the same age Libby was when she’d married. Emotions tumbled through Libby like acorns on the grass; snagging at pieces of her heart. No one knew the fear that Libby had experienced when she’d been shoved at Sean, as if she were no more important than the piece of paper the deal had been written on. No one ever would. She’d learned to keep her shameful secrets to herself.

With a shaky sigh, she rose from the vanity table and swung away from the bed, knowing she wasn’t ready to sleep. She stepped into her slippers and left her room, noting the night sounds in her house. Deep, heavy snoring erupted from the Bellamy brothers’ room, and she wondered with a bemused smile how either could sleep through such a racket.

She tiptoed to Dawn’s room, opened the door a crack, and looked inside. Her daughter was curled into a ball, one arm under her pillow and the other around the cat’s neck. Cyclops looked at Libby, the light from the hallway glinting off her yellow eye.

Although no one realized it, Libby did not care if the cat slept on the bed, nor would she care if Mr. Wolfe’s dog slept with him, which she assumed it did. She was not the ogre she appeared to be, but someone had to make grown-up rules and try to enforce them, even if, in the dark of night, the pets found their way to the beds and the rules were ignored.

A brisk breeze billowed out the curtains, and Libby entered the room to make sure Dawn had enough blankets. Cyclops watched her, then extricated herself from Dawn’s clutches and disappeared under the covers. She was merely a lump at the bottom of the bed near Dawn’s feet when Libby left the room.

She managed the stairs in the dark, knowing them by heart, sidestepping the squeaky spot on the fourth step from the top. A light flickered in the parlor. The fireplace, no doubt. She stepped inside, gasping in surprise when she discovered Jackson Wolfe in the easy chair holding a glass of brandy. The firelight drenched half his face; the other half was darkly shadowed. It was so odd to see a man sitting there as Sean had. But the resemblance stopped there. Sean had been spare, almost gaunt. Jackson Wolfe was muscular and vital. He certainly wasn’t the first man to sit in that chair since Sean had died, but he was by far the most compelling.

“I’m sorry. I thought everyone was in bed.” She clutched at the front of her dressing gown, keenly aware of how little she wore under it.

His gaze raked her; she should have been insulted, yet she wasn’t. She found the look deliciously flattering. She wasn’t unattractive, she knew that, but Jackson Wolfe was the first man whose interest she appreciated.

Lifting his glass toward her, he said, “I applaud a woman who doesn’t truss herself up like a turkey at bedtime.”

Heat flared in her face and she felt her nipples tighten. “Just how many glasses of brandy have you consumed, Mr. Wolfe?”

One side of his sensual mouth lifted. “What makes you think this isn’t my first?”

She shivered beneath her lightweight dressing gown and eyed the fire, aching to be closer to the warmth. But that meant being closer to him, and she sensed that wasn’t a good idea. “Because your demeanor is totally out of character with the gentleman you appeared to be earlier this evening.”

He took another swig, his gaze never leaving her. “Yeah, you’re right. I have one hell of a rotten demeanor when I drink.” He smirked, his eyes glittering as he studied her. “I’m likely to say a bushel of things I’ll regret, but you’re a damned fine looking woman, and I don’t usually find white women attractive.”

With hesitant steps, she moved closer. “Is that supposed to be a gentlemanly compliment?”

“Didn’t it sound like one?”

His gaze moved over her so slowly she almost felt it. “A sober man is a gentleman. A man who imbibes seldom is.”

He winced. “ ‘Imbibes.’ Damned fancy five-dollar word for something as simple as taking a drink, don’t you think?”

She stepped closer still, beginning to feel the warmth of the fire. This arousal, this…excitement was new to her. It was so seldom that she allowed herself to let go, to explore dangerous sensations. “What word would you use, Mr. Wolfe?”

He expelled a healthy sigh and pulled a thoughtful expression. “Let me see. How about ‘bibulate’?”

She repressed a smile. “ ‘Bibulate’? That’s good, but ‘guzzle’ and ‘swill’ seem more appropriate.”

Frowning, he shook his head. “Too crass. How about…” His gaze found her mouth, and Libby held her breath. Her tongue came out to wet her lips.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.” His voice was husky and deep. Like warm whiskey. She shivered, repeating the gesture, nervous to the bone.

One side of his mouth lifted into a half smile. “You did it again.”

She shook her head. “No. I… I was taking it back.” Lord, what kind of foolishness was this?

A warm, raucous chuckle escaped. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Her face was on fire. “It means I was taking it back.”

“Oh, no,” he argued. “It’s an invitation to a kiss. It’s part of an obscure Australian ritual.”

If nothing else, he was an intriguing drunk. In spite of her discomfort, she had to smile. “Since I’m ignorant of Australian rituals, obscure or otherwise, rest assured that what I did was
not
an invitation.” Her body hummed beneath her gown, and the pulse at her throat hammered against her skin. His gaze continued to tease. Taunt.

“How ’bout ‘suck’?”

She shook herself. “What?”

“Suck.” His gaze moved from her mouth to her chest.

She swallowed, feeling an odd pulling sensation on her nipples. “Suck?”

He lifted his glass. “You know, ‘bibulating’?”

An exquisite yet foreign feeling scudded through her stomach. She folded her arms across her chest and pressed them against her waist. “I don’t believe that word makes any sense in this context, Mr. Wolfe.” Why was she bothering with him at all? Sober, he was gentle and solemn. Drunk, he was disgusting, just like every other liquored-up boob she’d ever known. Yet she was fascinated.

He waved the glass in her direction. Some of the liquor sloshed over the brim, spilling onto the floor. “I disagree. So does Mr. Webster. Wanna look it up?”

She watched the liquid seep toward the rug, then lunged, using the hem of her dressing gown to stop the stream. Finding herself on her hands and knees in front of him, she slowly lifted her head. He was staring at her chest. She glanced down to find her gown gaping open. He had an unrestricted view of her bosom.

Their eyes met. Libby’s heart continued to pound, and her body thrummed as she folded the neck of her robe in her fist.

He touched her arm, his grip a light pressure. “I’ve been all over the world, Mrs. O’Malley, and you are as intoxicating as any woman I’ve seen.”

With a twinge of reluctance, she drew her arm away. “
Intoxicated
is the word, Mr. Wolfe, although it describes you, not me.”

His hand drifted onto her thigh, and Libby stood up so quickly she saw spots before her eyes.

He sighed and took another swig of his brandy. “I shouldn’t drink.”

Why she didn’t turn and run, she didn’t know. “Nothing is good unless it’s done in moderation,” she answered.

“Except sex.”

His lack of inhibition shocked her. No man had
ever
spoken so boldly to her before. He probably deserved a sharp smack across the face, but oddly, she’d been lured into the conversation like a trout to a fisherman’s fly.