Secondhand Bride (25 page)

“T
his is Sue Ellen Caruthers,” Mandy said, when they’d gotten the visitor out of her wet clothes, rubbed her down with towels, and maneuvered her into one of Concepcion’s nightgowns. “She was one of the brides.”

Concepcion nodded. “Yes, I remember,” she said. “She kept house for Holt for a time.”

Mandy bit her lower lip. “Holt told me she left the ranch house when Lizzie came,” she said, wondering what had transpired between then and now. “We all figured she’d gone to Flagstaff or somewhere. What do you suppose she was doing out there on the range alone, when Tom found her?”

“I do not know,” Concepcion sighed, tucking the covers in around her patient, then adding a quilt from the bottom drawer of Jeb’s bureau.

“Should I send someone to town for Doc?” Even though Mandy and Kade occupied the main bedroom now, and Angus had signed the house over to them, she still deferred to Concepcion on most matters. The woman was a second mother to her, and her sensible ways and genuine kindness gave the lie to most people’s perception of a mother-in-law.

Concepcion smoothed Sue Ellen’s damp hair back from her face and pondered for a long moment. “No,” she said presently, with a slight shake of her head. She touched the gash on Sue Ellen’s right temple, which they’d treated, as best they could, with salve, and peered beneath each of her eyelids. “She does not have a concussion. We must let her rest, and watch her, but for now I think there is little Doc can do that we cannot. If she runs a fever, then we will ask him to come.”

“I’ll sit with her,” Mandy said, drawing up a chair. “You’d better go see what Angus did with the baby.”

Concepcion sighed and shook her head. “
Sí
,” she agreed. “The man can drive a herd of cattle from Texas to the Arizona Territory, with less than a dozen men to help him, yet he does not know how to tend a little child.”

Mandy thought of her own husband, and her secret, and she smiled to herself. Kade would make a good father, but he’d need some teaching if he was going to be any real help when it came to changing diapers and calming a fitful infant.

She could hardly wait to start the lessons.

S
he was gone, the sneaking bitch.

Gone.

Jack swore. There was no sense in trying to track her now, as it was stone dark out, and besides, he was tired from the long trip into Flagstaff. He’d brought back a nice team and wagon, too, and boxes of groceries, and how had Sue Ellen thanked him? By running off the moment his back was turned.

He tossed his hat across the cabin and shoved a hand through his hair. She couldn’t have gotten far, not on foot. Trouble was, if she met up with anybody along the way, she’d surely tell them where he was, what he’d been up to of late, and what he had planned for the McKettricks.

Damn her, anyway. When he caught up to her, and he would, he’d see that she never ran off at the mouth again. To anybody. He should have taken care of her early on, when he’d known she was going to be trouble, but he’d been lonely, wanted a woman handy, to give him ease and cook his food.

Jack seethed with impotent fury. Now he’d have to move on, find another place to hide out. Dark as it was, well-digger’s-ass cold as it was, he couldn’t risk staying put, not even for one night. And what was he supposed to do with the team and the wagon, the foodstuffs he’d paid good money for, and that damn doll?

His anger shifted to Chloe. This was her fault, when it got down to cases. It was all Chloe’s doing. Chloe, with her fickle, whoring ways. And the task of cleaning up the mess fell to him.

He’d left that note for her, on the blackboard at the schoolhouse.

Next time, he’d be a little bolder.

Outside, he unhitched the four horses he’d bargained for, and left them to graze and find their own way in the world. He saddled his gelding, having led it behind the buckboard all the way from Flagstaff, and hoped it wouldn’t go lame on him before he’d found a new place.

After stuffing what he could of the provisions into his saddlebags, along with the doll he still meant for Lizzie Cavanagh, he lit out, much diminished and more determined than ever.

His luck took a more favorable turn an hour later, when he came upon the cave, tucked away in a nest of rocks alongside a creek. There was plenty of grass, so he hobbled the gelding, took off the saddle and bridle, along with his other gear, and spread his bedroll on the ground. He couldn’t risk a fire, since he wasn’t sure who might be nearby to see it.

By God, he’d have Sue Ellen’s gizzard for this, he vowed, as he lay down and tried in vain to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground. And when he was done with her, he’d see to Chloe and her fair-haired cowboy. No sense kidding himself any longer; after all that had happened, his lovely bride would never see things his way. She was too stubborn for that.

He’d have to kill her.

A shame and a waste, that’s what it was, but sometimes a man just didn’t have a choice.

It was another long week for Chloe. Walter and Ellen moved in with Sam and Sarah Fee, and Becky got the town council to provide bread, fruit, and cheese for the students’ lunches, but Chloe didn’t take as much pleasure in those victories as she might have. She was too uneasy about the message from Jack Barrett, left scrawled across the blackboard sometime during her first visit to the Circle C.

She hadn’t told anyone besides Sam Fee about it, though Jesse Banner had seen it for himself. She’d sworn him to secrecy while the two of them scoured the last vestige of the words away with hot, soapy water, barely finishing before the other children arrived.

She counted the days until she would be back on the Circle C, and did it guiltily, feeling like a fraud. Yes, she wanted to see Lizzie. And yes, she looked forward to Holt’s company, too, but it was Jeb’s presence she longed for. Against all reason and sense, as surly and as unwelcoming as he was bound to be, she needed to be near him.

When Friday afternoon finally came, she was packed and ready, and waiting in front of the schoolhouse when the buckboard rolled up, driven by the same cowboy who had brought her back to town the previous Sunday. As before, he was accompanied by an armed rider.

In turn, Sam Fee had kept a protective eye on her and the cottage, but Chloe felt uneasy all the way to the ranch. The ride was bumpy, and her feet were so cold they went numb. It seemed to her that somebody was watching their progress, every mile of the way.

If this last had been a mere fancy, Chloe could have dealt with it, but she knew it wasn’t. Jack Barrett was out there someplace, and God only knew what he was planning to do next.

When the lights of the Circle C finally came into view, she wanted to weep with relief.

Lizzie rushed out to greet her, closely followed by Holt, but there was no sign of Jeb. That figured. He’d decided to stay inside and be cussed, most likely. She shouldn’t have been so disappointed, given his behavior the last time she’d seen him, but she was.

Upstairs, in the room where she’d stayed before, Chloe began unpacking her things, while Lizzie watched her intently from her seat on the bed. No pretty, wild grasses had been set out this time, and the place hadn’t been aired out, like before.

“Uncle Jeb’s gone away,” Lizzie said, with no preamble whatsoever.

Chloe stopped what she was doing and turned to face the child, a folded nightgown in her hands. “What do you mean, he’s gone?” she asked.

Lizzie’s expression was solemn, even stoic. “He saddled up his horse this afternoon and left,” she said, with a nonchalant little shrug. It was an act, of course. Chloe saw confusion in her eyes and worry in the set of her small shoulders. “He said he’d be back, but I’m not sure he was telling the truth.”

Not trusting her knees to support her, Chloe went to sit beside Lizzie, and wrapped an arm around her. “What did your papa say?”

“That he shouldn’t have counted on a McKettrick,” Lizzie said sadly.

Chloe propped her chin on top of Lizzie’s head. “I see,” she answered.

There was a rap at the door. “You’d best come and have some supper,” Holt said, from the hallway.

“We’ll be right there,” Chloe answered, trying for Lizzie’s sake, and for her own, to sound cheerful.

She heard him walking away, descending the stairs.

“Maybe Jeb went back to the Triple M,” Chloe suggested.

Lizzie shook her head. “He told me he wasn’t going there again, until he had something to show my grandpa.”

Chloe closed her eyes. Where had he gone?

Lizzie stood, took Chloe’s hand, and tugged. “Let’s go,” she pleaded. “If we sit here any longer, I’m going to cry.”

“Me too,” Chloe agreed, and allowed Lizzie to lead her out of the room, along the corridor, and down the stairs.

The kitchen was warm, in comparison to the rest of the house, and there were lamps burning on just about every available surface. Holt had made sandwiches, and he set them on a platter in the middle of the table.

Lizzie ate numbly, and when she was finished, and Holt sent her off to bed, she didn’t take the trouble to object. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, did the same with Chloe, and vanished.

“Do you suppose Jeb found out somehow, and went looking for Jack?” Chloe asked, when she heard Lizzie’s footsteps overhead and was sure she wouldn’t be overheard.

Holt’s jawline hardened. “I know where he went,” he said.

Chloe set down the crusts of her sandwich, surprised. “And you just let him go?”

“I wasn’t here when he rode out,” Holt said. He looked as though he could bite a stove lid in half. “Not that I could have stopped him if I had been.”

“Then how do you know—?”

“A couple of cowhands came to the back door while I was waiting for you and Lizzie to come down to supper. They wanted time off, so they could go to Flagstaff—to the rodeo.”

Chloe waited, confused.

Holt thrust out a sigh. “I guess my brother never mentioned his penchant for bronc-busting in your presence,” he said.

Chloe felt the color drain from her face. “Bronc busting?” she echoed stupidly. “But that’s—his arm—he couldn’t—”

“Oh, yes, he could,” Holt interjected, shoving his plate away.

“But that would be—” she sighed dismally, as her mind collided with the truth. “Reckless,” she finished, on a breath.

“Exactly.”

“But why—?”

Holt looked impatient, as well as exasperated. “He wants the prize money, of course.”

Chloe took that information in, but she still didn’t know what to do with it. “What are we going to do?”

Holt answered with a question of his own. “How would you like to go to a rodeo, Miss Wakefield?”

T
he ride north took a lot out of Jeb, but his mind was fixed on a single purpose, and when that was the case, even his own better judgment was no deterrent. He set aside pain, he set aside fatigue, and barreled in the only direction he knew: straight ahead.

When he arrived in Flagstaff, he stayed clear of the rodeo grounds, even though they drew him, for he was seeking to avoid special notice. He headed for the first establishment his gaze fell upon—the Buckle and Spur Saloon.

Standing just inside the swinging doors, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He’d seen a hundred places like the Buckle and Spur in his lifetime; there was tinny piano music ringing in the smoke-shrouded air, and the floor was covered in lumpy sawdust. The bar stretched the length of one wall, and the murky mirror behind it reflected softer versions of the drinkers bellied up to drown their sorrows. The women were painted, frilled, and feathered, but their kohl-lined eyes brimmed with bitterness and abiding grief—they were creatures of the half-light, appealing in shadow but tawdry on the rare occasions when they ventured into full sun.

He bought a beer, newly parsimonious with his money, now that he had definite plans for it and, having made the requisite purchase, helped himself to hardboiled eggs and pickles from the spread provided for the customers. It was just plain foolhardy to drink on an empty stomach, and likely to cut the term of commerce short, so most such places provided vittles.

He’d taken a seat at a table, by himself, and made short work of the food, when a woman sashayed over. Once, he’d taken a not-so-secret pride in the way they gravitated to him, whether they were upright and calicoclad, or brazen and beplumed, like this one, but since Chloe, the phenomenon mostly irritated him.

“Hullo, cowboy,” she said. “What happened to your arm?”

“Accident,” he replied, knowing she’d keep after him until he answered.

She studied him. “Do I know you?”

He sighed, resigned to his less-than-salutary past. “Probably,” he said.

She smiled a little at that, though tentatively. Obviously, she didn’t have a great deal to smile about. If Jeb had been a crusader, he would have told her to grab up the scattered pieces of her soul and get out, while she could, that it would be better to scrub floors or even starve than to sell herself to any man with the money to pay, but he was no evangelist. If there was one thing he’d learned in life, and it was beginning to seem that there were fewer and fewer of those things than he’d originally thought, it was that folks had to find their own way. Sermons and signposts were mostly ineffective, until a person took them inside, and thus gave them a personal meaning.

“You can’t be in town for the rodeo, not with that arm.” Uninvited, she took a chair. “Buy me a beer?”

Again, Jeb sighed. “Not today,” he said.

Something flickered in her eyes. “Here on business?”

“Yes.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Jeb scanned the room, though he’d already taken note of every person in it. His gaze settled again on a certain peddler, dressed in a plaid suit and wearing a bowler hat. “You know that fellow?”

She frowned, following his look to the table closest to the roulette wheel. “He’s a shyster, and a hand with cards. You want to stay clear of him.”

Jeb pushed back his chair, stood. The pain caught up with a wallop, and he swayed under the force it, then shook it off. Taking his beer along, he approached the peddler.

“Howdy,” he said.

The fellow summed him up in a glance and revealed nothing of the total he’d reached. “Looking for a game of cards?”

“I might be.” Jeb took a seat, waited for his arm to stop screaming.

The peddler was interested. “What kind of stakes you have in mind?”

“Your suit.” He put out his good hand. “Frank Potter’s the name. Who are you?”

“Bobby-Ray Walker,” was the pensive reply. “You put me in mind of a man I met once down in Indian Rock,” he added, still musing. “He was a glib talker, a fast gun, and one hell of a bronc buster.”

“Never made his acquaintance.”

Bobby-Ray pulled a poker deck from the inside pocket of his dusty suit coat, watching Jeb narrowly. Evidently, the adding and subtracting was still going on behind that homely face. “What am I supposed to do if you win my clothes right off my back?” the peddler asked, and he didn’t sound the least bit troubled by the prospect. “Even in a cow town like this one, a man can’t go around naked.”

“Wear mine,” Jeb said easily. “We’re about the same size.”

“I’d be getting the best of that deal,” Bobby-Ray allowed cheerfully. “Why don’t we just swap?”

Jeb shrugged, taking care not to involve the wrong shoulder. “Fine by me.”

Bobby-Ray frowned. “Shame to pass up a good game of poker, though.” He turned the deck end over end, in an idle, practiced motion, as he spoke.

Jeb focused his gaze on the cards and in the back of his mind, he heard Angus’s voice.
Never bet on the other man’s game, son. It’s a sure way to lose.
“It isn’t like I’d let you use your own cards,” he said moderately.

“You think this deck is marked?” Bobby-Ray’s little eyes gleamed with good-natured challenge.

“I know it is.”

Bobby-Ray grinned, but there was an edge to it. “I remember you now. I watched you take every prize at a rodeo, down Indian Rock way, about a year ago. You relieved me of twenty dollars in a poker game at the Bloody Basin into the bargain.” He paused, shuffling those cards as easily as another man would breathe. “Your name ain’t Potter, either.”

Jeb smiled. “And yours isn’t Bobby-Ray Walker, so I guess we’re even.”

“Give me my twenty dollars back, and we’ll swap duds,” Walker said shrewdly.

“You lost that money fair and square.”

“Maybe so,” said Bobby-Ray, “but it’s the price of shutting my mouth. I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I
have
figured out that you’re not looking to draw folks’ attention.”

Jeb had no choice but to agree. He laid a gold piece, borrowed from Holt’s tobacco-tin stash, back at the Circle C, on the table. “Deal,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked out of the Buckle and Spur, happily clad in the ugliest suit of clothes he’d ever had the good fortune to set eyes on. The bowler, being a little big, shadowed his features nicely, and he’d pinned the right sleeve up, so it wouldn’t flop around like a flag and rile the horse he intended to ride. That critter was likely to be riled enough on its own.

Leaving his own mount at the hitching rail in front of the saloon, he strolled to the rodeo grounds. Folks took him for a hayseed, judging by their smug smiles, and that was fine by him.

The bleachers were already filling up. He approached the registration table, amid much murmured speculation, and laid out more of Holt’s money for the entry fee. His conscience chafed a little, but he overrode it. He’d replace what he’d taken from his winnings, and his brother would be none the wiser.

“Rules say a man’s got to be fit to ride,” said the fat money taker, seated behind the table and sweating copiously even in the crisp fall air.

Jeb leaned in, aware that when his coat fell open, his.45, now fitted with a southpaw holster of his own making, was plainly visible. Not that he’d shoot anybody without it being a matter of life and death, but he wasn’t responsible for any conclusions the other fellow might come to on his own. “I’m fit, all right,” he drawled.

The big man blustered a little, but in the end, he scooped up the gold piece. “It’s your money,” he said. “You want to throw it away and get yourself stomped by the meanest horse God ever created at the same time, I reckon that’s your affair.”

Jeb smiled his I-knew-you’d-see-reason smile and scrawled his alias on the entry roster. His left hand was still awkward, but he’d been working with it right along, copying pages out of books and drawing the .45 whenever he got the chance. Lizzie was getting to be a pretty fair bottle thrower.

“Ride starts at three o’clock sharp,” the moneyman said.

“I’ll be here,” Jeb replied, and walked away.

Now that he’d gotten into the game, he’d lie low for a while. Bide his time and get a look at the horse even hell wouldn’t have.