Sterling's Way (Lawmen & Outlaws) (6 page)

Maybe he’s so used to cheating people it hardly rattles him anymore
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Finally Brown spoke. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but since you don’t appear to be mentally incapacitated I’m going to investigate the charges you’ve brought against me. Then, and only then, will I address your concerns. Does that sound like a fair arrangement?”

Jack was not unreasonable. He was willing to give the man a chance to redeem himself by returning what was not rightfully his.

He nodded. “I don’t want to turn this fiasco into a slugfest or shootout. I just want what’s mine, and I’m giving you the chance to do the right thing. Investigate—but don’t waste time over it. My patience only stretches so far, Brown.”

“Fair enough. I assume this ‘land theft’ has something to do with property in Kansas. Am I correct?”

Jack turned for the door, anxious to be out into the heat of day and away from the unsavory businessman’s den.

“Don’t play dumb with me. You and I both know you’re raiding the Kansas plains like an Indian on the warpath.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and looked back at Brown. “You’re cutting people’s hearts out, one home at a time. I don’t know if that’s worked for you before, but I assure you the people of Carroll’s Junction won’t stand for it. We want our deeds—and we’re not going to wait long for you to make things right. It’s in your best interest to deal with this—quickly.”

“Is that a threat?” Brown’s hand went to his holster but he didn’t unsnap the pistol strap.

Jack adjusted his hat, deliberately keeping his own shooting hand far from his Peacemaker. If he wanted to he could blow a hole in the other man’s thumb but that would only confuse matters.

“Not a threat, Brown. A promise.”

Chapter Six

Four days after she fled Boston, Kristen had written her mother a letter. It hadn’t been a letter in the true sense of the word. Rather, a hastily jotted jumble of lines designed to calm her mother’s nerves. It went, of course, unsaid that her mother would be beside herself with worry over the sudden disappearance of her only child but Kristen didn’t need to hear the words to know the truth. And while she had been angry, frustrated and a whole host of other emotions when she’d packed her valise and crept out of the house, Kristen hadn’t been so heartless that she didn’t take her mother into account. Therefore, the short missive sent from the road.

It wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, the sort of letter Kristen had been taught to write at The Boston Academy for Young Women. There was nothing newsy or cheerful in the words. Even her penmanship was poor, something that writing on her lap in a cramped coach rumbling along a rutted track was impossible to avoid. But the object hadn’t been to produce a tidbit of charming correspondence. Kristen had only wanted to allay her mother’s fears, and hoped the note had been successful in that regard.

Now that she had reached Brown’s Point, it seemed fitting that she compose a proper letter to Mother. She had no intention of giving away her whereabouts. There had to be a way to post the piece of mail without doing so.

Her room held the most essential furnishings. A bed, chest of drawers, night table, oil lamp and chamber pot, all sturdy and somewhat shabby. The only item out of character in the no-nonsense décor was a ladies’ writing desk tucked under the lowest part of the sloped ceiling. It sat beside a small, round window which looked out onto Main Street and was Kristen’s favorite spot in the room.

She sat at the desk and pulled out a sheet of stationary. The grade wasn’t as fine as the vellum she used at home, but it would serve its purpose. A deft twist of the wrist opened the half-full jar of blue ink she’d brought with her. Then, she lifted her favorite pen and held it above the jar for a moment while she composed the opening words in her mind.

Finally, she dipped the pen and began to write.

Dear Mother,

It is with a light heart that I open this letter. I hope it is received with an equally cheerful, and loving, heart. Firstly, let me assure you I am fine. I have reached my destination and while I am still uncertain whether or not I will remain where I now find myself, I am, at least for the time being, happy. I plan to remain here for the foreseeable future or until an event or person causes me to change location.

I apologize for any worry I caused you and Father. I know I have done so, so please do not try to spare my feelings by denying the fact. I did not attempt to spare yours when I ran off, did I? I deserve no better treatment, Mother, nor do I ask for it now.

What I do hope to receive, with all my heart and soul, is some measure of understanding. I did what I felt obligated to do. I could not, and still will not, do what Father demanded. While I realize his proposed plan might, to some, seem perfectly ordinary, it felt like anything but ordinary to me. The thought of doing what he wanted was like wearing a noose around my neck, tightening and squeezing every breath and bit of life right out of me. I could not bear the thought, and I pray you take my feelings on the matter into consideration when you judge my actions.

I know you will judge me, Mother. It is something we all do, whether or not we care to own up to it. I myself am guilty of the practice. I have been judgmental in the past, have formed opinions without facts and formulated ideas about people without truly trying to see beyond the obvious. While you and Father taught me better than to think myself above those who served our household, I never before had the opportunity to get to know people—especially women—who come from circumstances wholly dissimilar to my own. I have been surrounded—insulated, if you will—by those whose prospects and situations were nearly identical to my own. That is not the case anymore. Here I have become acquainted with women who do what they must to survive. Lest you jump to conclusions, and think I am in cahoots with women of loose moral values, let me tell you that is not the case. I am simply saying I have learned, and continue to learn, that life in Boston isn’t the only life for me and that even reduced circumstances and prospects are far more palatable to being swept into a match I am vehemently opposed to making.

Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with the man Father chose for me—at least nothing I am aware of. He is intelligent, and kind, and will make some other woman a fine husband. But I will choose my own man. And if one does not show himself to my heart, I prefer to remain alone rather than in a loveless marriage.

So, in closing, I wish you well and hope you do the same in my regard. I meant no harm, Mother. You and Aunt Irene always told me I’d find my own way in the world. It seems you both knew me better than I knew myself, and were right on the point. I am making my way, and am pleased with how it is being made.

Love to both you and Father.

Your daughter,

Jane Kristen Marsh

With a satisfied sigh, she blew gently on the drying words. Hopefully her parents would forgive her rash actions. Maybe they might even see—someday, anyhow—that they had played a part in her middle-of-the-night flight.

She folded the letter, then carefully slid it into an envelope. Writing the address she had known all her life brought a pang of homesickness but she quickly pushed it aside. There was no room in her new life for regret or recrimination. No looking back. With an eye to what the future held for her, Kristen stood, brushed a piece of lint from her skirt front with an impatient hand, and then headed for the door.

I should mail this before I change my mind—and before they send some Pinkerton men or a posse out looking for me. Goodness, let’s hope they haven’t already done so!

Irritated, that’s what he was. Uncharacteristically so, but still, there was no mistaking it. Since the previous afternoon, Jack felt like he’d run his hands over a rough-hewn log—except that the splintery feeling covered his whole body.

It had been many years since he had made the mistake of wiping any part of his anatomy over a partially finished log. One of Grandfather’s earliest lessons at the family sawmill had been to mind the wood slivers. They went in more easily than they came out.

“Under the skin, can drive a man to sin,” Jack muttered.

He wasn’t sure if he only had splinters in mind, or if the miller’s motto applied to women, as well.

One thing he knew for sure: That honey-haired eastern woman had gotten under his skin—big time. And now that he and Brown were hammering out their differences, he might not be in her company too much longer. The thought brought a fresh wave of irritation.

“Nice morning, isn’t it?”

“A fine morning, ma’am,” Jack responded. His lips curled but the smile did not reach his eyes or warm his heart.

With a nod, he tipped his hat to the elderly woman exiting the Emporium. She carried a lumpy bundle in her thin arms, and he wondered if she had far to go. Perhaps he should offer to carry it for her? The last thing he felt like doing was toting who knew what to who knew where for some old woman who was bound to chew his ear off but ignoring one’s upbringing was nearly impossible.

Jack was relieved to see a young mother, a red-cheeked toddler on one hip, hurrying to meet the woman. She balanced the package on her other hip while she somehow managed to extend a steadying elbow to the woman she called Granny. He watched the trio walk away before he turned to gaze into the Emporium’s plate glass window.

The window display catered to nearly every shopping taste and almost any need. Denim trousers and work shirts, muslin by the yard, household goods and even a few luxury items spread across the wooden plank shelving. The Emporium’s owners had ingeniously added a second tier to their display, where an ivory porcelain teapot claimed the spot of honor. It was not the teapot, however, that caught Jack’s attention. It was what lay beside it that made him suck in a breath.

His mother had left precious few personal possessions behind when she passed on. Most were ordinary items, things any young homemaker might need in her daily activities. They had been quickly absorbed into the rhythm of family life, used until they were no longer serviceable, and then replaced. There was one small box of more intimate treasures that belonged to his mother. Grandmother kept them in the top drawer of her dresser, and Jack had only seen them on rare occasions.

From the time he was knee high to his Granny’s mare, one pair of earrings had caught his attention. Silver with inlaid turquoise, they were nearly identical to the pair behind the glass. One strand of sunlight danced on the surface of one of the teal stones, bringing to mind the depths of the ocean—and the delight he felt gazing into Kristen’s wide eyes.

There couldn’t be any harm in buying a trinket for a friend, could there? Moreover, the simple pieces couldn’t be expensive, so it wouldn’t look like he was openly vying to gain her affections.

It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to begin a romance that was doomed from the start. Once the Kansas deed was in hand, he was leaving Brown’s Point—and Kristen—behind.

But a gift between friends? And such an inexpensive one, at that, seemed within the scope of acceptable behavior. Once made, the decision wiped a good measure of Jack’s irritation away.

He turned toward the Emporium’s open doorway but a reflection in the glass stilled him.

Her back was turned to him but he would recognize her petite profile anywhere. Small shoulders, slim neck and faultlessly erect posture gave her the presence one usually saw in a ballroom, not on a rough street.

She reminded him of one of the lilies Granny kept in her yard, slender and supple, yet strong enough to withstand a lackluster gardener. So often Granny lamented that if her lilies were not tough and resilient, her inattention to their needs would be the death of them. Neglect or over attentiveness were the bane of the lilies’ existence, he had learned that long ago.

Now, with a smile on his lips and a decidedly lighter heart, Jack prepared to shower Kristen with a bit of his own brand of consideration. She might care to take a walk, or maybe something else in the shop might catch her eye or suit her fancy. Jack could take pleasure buying anything for her. If he were especially lucky she might allow him to call on her later this evening, maybe consent to play a round or two of whist or—

A fast volley of shots rang out, breaking the newly acquired peaceful mood of his day. They were close—far closer than Jack cared to contemplate. Of course, the possibility of brash, liquor-driven disputes, often settled with fists or pistols, existed but since his arrival there had been blessedly few altercations of any kind. None had resulted in shots being fired.

Before now.

Jack’s first instinct made him spin on his heel and stride into the street. A pair of heavy workhorses, more accustomed to fieldwork than gunfire, nearly ran him down as they raced past. The wagon hitched to their harnesses clattered—driverless—behind them, its wooden wheels pounding hard over stones and into ruts. Miraculously the wagon made its way down the street intact, but by the time Jack got around it someone else sheltered Kristen.

Patrick Godsend covered Kristen’s slight form completely from view, his own broad back between her and the ruckus at the end of the street. Jack turned in the direction of the shots, and saw a man lying sprawled at the edge of the saloon’s front walk. A small group of men ringed the body. Had any of them been inclined to fire another round, their bullets might strike Patrick or Jack, but Kristen was more than adequately protected from harm.

Jack should have been grateful to the man who put Kristen’s life above his own. He should have kept walking across the street, clapped the preacher’s grandson hard on the back and thanked him. Buying him a sarsaparilla to celebrate the bravery might not be out of order.

Instead, bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down, and took one final look at the couple fifteen feet from where he stood.

They were untangling slowly from each other—far too slowly for Jack’s liking. Kristen pushed a wisp of golden hair off her temple, looking up at the man whose arms were still around her with a glowing smile on her lovely face.