Jasper Mountain (8 page)

Digger stopped whistling. “So, Rooowlf, how long did it take you to get cross country?” That time, his pronunciation of the Swede’s name sounded more like a moaning dog than ever before.

“You ever shut up?” Rolf asked.

“Not for very long,” Digger admitted.

“Try,” the Swede said, standing. He fisted his huge hands.

Digger stared up at the giant towering over him. His mouth dropped open. Jack stopped stirring. Time to remind the Swede who was in charge. Of course, one punch from Rolf would probably kill him. He hoped his thought hadn’t registered on his face.

Jack jumped to his feet. “Digger and I don’t have to be searching with you. We’d much rather be at the saloon or in a decent bed after a decent meal. You were in trouble, and we volunteered to help. I’m not asking for gratitude,” he said with a bravado he didn’t quite feel, “however, a bit of civility might be in order.”

The Swede’s anger melted into a perplexed expression, like he didn’t quite understand.

“We’re out here trying to find your wife,” Jack said. “You could be a little nicer.”

Neither man broke eye contact. The only sounds were sizzling sausages and boiling stew.

“Five months,” Rolf finally said, unfisting his hands.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Took us five months to get to Jasper.” He finished by sitting back down and glancing over at Digger.

Digger whistled low. “Golly! I ain’t never done nothin’ for five months.” Digger grabbed a plate and dug in. “Bless you, Jack, you can even cook out in the wilderness. You’d make some man a fine wife! Even though you might look kinda ugly in a dress.”

Jack laughed and sat back down. Rolf continued to scowl. Dull anger darkened the big man’s face as he took the plate Jack passed to him and shoveled food into his mouth with his fingers. Jack wondered, not for the first time, what went on between this man and his wife. He must be difficult for a lady to abide. Jack’s earlier statement nagged at the back of his mind. Did Laney Olsson throw herself off a cliff?

After dinner, the three men bedded down. Jack relaxed and his thoughts returned to Tom.

“Dig, at the hotel, where do you keep your stuff?”

“I got a cubby. We all do. Why?”

“Yeah, I saw them when I was looking around and wondered. I doubt Cain’s bothered to search Tom’s things.”

“He’d have to shoot through the lock, and I don’t recall such an incident.”

Jack laughed. “With his aim he’d probably take out a few men in the process.”

“You think Tom left something that might point to what happened to him?”

Jack shrugged. “Probably not. But it might not hurt to check.” He smiled. “'Night, Dig.” He rolled on his side and let the breeze and chirps of the night music calm his thoughts.

“Hey, Jack?”

He rolled back over on his side and propped his head up on his hand. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for standin’ up for me in the saloon. With the sheriff.” Jack smiled. “My pure pleasure, Dig. Cain’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t much like the idear of a bullet in my gut, or spendin’ the night in jail. I don’t know what makes my mouth run off. I ain’t so good at quiet,” Digger admitted.

“Speakin’ of that, you two gonna shut up anytime soon?” Rolf asked.

“Oh, don’t mind us, Rolf. Go ahead and keep to yourself. We don’t ‘spect you to have nothin’ worth puttin’ your voice to,” Digger said, tossing the comment over his shoulder. “Hey, I got me a grand idea, Rooowlf. How ‘bout you do us all a favor and doze off?”

“Dig, please. Hush up. I’m not in the mood for a brawl,” Jack said under his breath.

“Oh, all right. Anyhow,” Digger said returning his attention to Jack, “thanks. You’re a good friend.”

“Why don’t you just get up and kiss him?” Rolf asked.

Digger’s eyes grew huge. “Hey, Rolf, you made a joke.” Digger flopped onto his back. “Don’t that beat all? A Swede with a sense of funny.” He plopped his hat over his face. “'Night, Rolf. ‘Night, Jack,” Digger said, his voice muffled through his hat.

“Good night, Dig,” Jack muttered, relieved his friend finally decided to settle down. Jack hoped for this search to end happier than his first one this week. He dropped off into the comforting hold of sleep.

Jack woke with a start, every sense snapping to sharpness. How long had he been asleep? Digger slept flat on his back, his hat still covering his face. Across dying embers, Rolf snored. Did Rolf’s rumbling jolt him awake? Overhead, bats fluttered across the pale disk of the moon.

Something watched them. He felt it.

A branch snapped beyond his range of vision. Slowly, carefully, Jack reached into the pack beneath his head. His hand gripped the reassuring butt of his pistol. He just needed to pull it out without blowing his head off.

Another snap. Animal? Human? Comanche?

In one fluid motion, he rose to his feet. He’d learned long ago to sleep wearing his boots. No chance of a snake or scorpion crawling in them for the night. Jack took a few careful steps toward the sounds he’d heard. Someone watched, all right. He sensed a presence. Eyes, huge and dark, looked right into his soul. Whatever stalked him wove through his mind, prying it open, twisting, turning.

He stumbled back and his free hand grabbed his forehead. What the hell? His heart thudded in his chest.

Another bunch of bats fluttered through the night sky. What were so many of those critters flying around for, anyway? Jack saw them ever so often, but never so many. Some might label such an occurrence a bad omen. A shudder shook through him before he shut it off.

He crept forward, trying to discern shapes in the cold moonlight. All he saw were brambles and trees, twisting and entwining through the dark like misshapen skeletal arms. He took a few steps closer to the night maze.

Then Jack saw her, standing among the trees as if one of them. A mass of curls darker than the night surrounded her face, her skin glowing silver. An apparition made of moonlight?

In that moment, Shakespeare came to life. Jack understood how Nick Bottom felt when he first glimpsed Tatiana. Surely such a magical creature was not of this earth.

He shook his head and blinked. She was gone.

Confused, Jack scanned the landscape. Silence. No sound. No movement. He heard nothing beyond the cadence in his ears. Had she ever been there?

“Get a hold, Jack,” he said aloud. “I’m losing my sanity,” he whispered. Behind him, he heard someone stir. He whipped around.

“Jack?” Digger asked, breaking the unnaturally silent dark. He got to his feet and lit a lantern. Rolf lumbered up, slow as rising bread.

Jack returned his attention to the trees. A woman in the woods? A spirit? Some mystical forest creature, or nothing more than another Jack Buchanan flight of fancy?

Or perhaps the ghost of Laney Olsson.

Digger came with a lantern held high. Twisted shadows swung in the lamplight.

“You hear something?” Digger asked.

He lowered his gun and tucked it in his waistband. “I think I was dreaming. Maybe even sleepwalking.”

“Laney!”

Jack and Digger jumped at Rolf’s bellow.

“Jesus, Rolf. I bet they heard you in Jasper,” Digger said. Nothing moved. At all. Unnatural stillness surrounded them. Once again, bats fluttered overhead. Rolf pulled his gun.

Jack grabbed at the big man’s arm. “We don’t need to start shootin’ at bats.”

“Laney?” Rolf asked the dark. Still, no movement. “I’m gonna look myself,” he said, raising his lantern higher and moving forward.

Jack gripped the Swede’s arm. “No, Rolf, you’ll kill yourself wandering around. Dig and I will be busy getting your sorry carcass back to Jasper instead of searching for your wife. Besides, daylight is in another hour or so.”

Rolf’s face scrunched in intense concentration.

“Do you hear anything? See anything?” Jack asked. “We’ll continue right at daybreak. Trust me, if Laney’s out here, we’ll find her.”

Rolf nodded, returning to his bedroll. He sat and continued to scan the landscape around them. Jack lay back down. This time, his hand stayed around the butt of his gun. His solid, real gun. He laid it across his chest, holding tightly to his only reassurance.

One thing was sure. He wouldn’t get any more sleep.

I
sabella St. Claire strode down the main street of Jasper, as she did every Sunday morning. She was a beautiful woman, cultivated from a line of exquisitely bred women. But Isabella was determined to be nothing like her mother, a woman who allowed passivity to disintegrate her from the inside out like a perfect peach, rotting away.

Once her mother collected admirers without issuing so much as a sidelong glance or the crook of a brow. She married a fine, upstanding businessman who grew tired of his wife as their child, Isabella, blossomed into adolescence. He felt entitled to indulge his desires upon his young daughter. By the time Isabella fled her home, her mother was folded with bitterness and shame.

Eager to leave herself behind, Isabella headed west and changed her name. Molly Elizabeth Montfrow never suited her; it was way too plain and heavy. Isabella St. Claire she was now and, truth to tell, always had been deep inside, in her heart. A husband to pamper and finally betray her? Oh, no, not for Isabella St. Claire. She wanted life on her own terms and as much of it as she could get.

She was Jasper’s leading businesswoman, and she wanted to be sure everyone knew it.

Men she passed tipped their hats as their eyes lit with appreciation of one of God’s finest pieces of handiwork. Almost six feet tall in her boot heels and dressed in imported silk the golden color of the setting desert sun, lace at her throat, feathers in a hat perched upon hair of campfire flames, Isabella knew she was the dream of every man in the West. An imposing and breathtaking figure, Isabella used her blessings to her fullest advantage.

After all, they were hers to use.

She did cause some trepidation, especially among the female population of Jasper, but there were not many women in the town. A situation that suited Isabella St. Claire just fine.

Church bells chimed down the mountain. She was late. She quickened her pace, difficult considering the steep incline of the walk. The Rock of God Community Church sat at the top of the town, looking down over Jasper. Probably some sort of sanctimonious statement by the builders, Isabella imagined.

The doors burst open. Reverend McShane headed the flood of the devoted. He frowned when he saw Isabella and turned to wish his parishioners well as they departed, one by one.

Isabella made her way up through the stream of churchgoers. She enjoyed traveling the opposite way of the majority. Women passed her, wearing their calico-ugly dresses and sour faces under bonnets; men wore their Sunday-best suits. Some crossed the street to avoid her. She clearly saw jealousy in the eyes of the women, as well as anger and disdain. In the eyes of the men? Desire. Appreciation. But honestly, mostly, above all? Lust.

Praise the Lord.

Isabella kept her head held high and her gaze locked on Pastor McShane. She took special care not to make eye contact with any of the Boarding House clients. That certainly wouldn’t do, especially since a few of them escorted their wives. She waited until the reverend shook hands with the last of his flock before she lifted her skirts and climbed the steps.

Pastor McShane was a man of God. The man part, Isabella thought wryly, came first. His sculptured face and soulful brown eyes never failed to cause a jolt to run through her. She held an envelope out to him. He threw her a stern look.

“A donation, Reverend.”

He took her offering. “I believe I’ve mentioned you don’t need to come by so early. Or on a Sunday.”

“I don’t slink along the shadows, Reverend.” She emphasized her words with her most dazzling smile.

He frowned, opened the envelope, and his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Miss St. Claire, this is quite generous.”

“It’s been a good week.”

A blush ran up his neck and flooded his cheeks. So easy to embarrass, which made their Sunday morning exchange all the more fun.

“We appreciate your turning the wages of sin over for the Lord’s work.”

Isabella waved her gloved hand. “Please, Reverend. Save your pontification for someone who cares to listen.”

Anger flashed into his eyes. Then compassion softened his expression and something she hated to see: pity. “I simply speak the truth,” he said softly.

“Really. Well, allow me to speak some truth of my own, Reverend. These ‘wages of sin’ helped build this church and run the orphanage. You accept my money every week, yet I dare not cross the threshold of your establishment.” She stopped and forced her anger into a smile. “But please understand, Reverend, you are welcome at my place any old time at all.”

His blush deepened. He dropped his eyes to her feet, apparently struck speechless. She wondered if she lit upon a deep, dark desire in the good Reverend McShane. How very interesting.

Isabella spun, retreating down the steps, knowing he watched her. Poor man couldn’t help himself. None of them could. And God didn’t care to interfere with the will of any of them.

Quite a profitable situation for Isabella St. Claire.