The Promise of Jenny Jones (15 page)

"Jenny wouldn't break a promise!" A tear ran down her cheek. "Jenny says a person isn't worth a fricking spit if he breaks a promise!" Another tear dropped on the bodice of her maroon riding outfit.

"Look, don't cry. All right?" A man was neverso helpless as when faced with a woman's tears. A child's tears were even worse. "We won't decide anything right now," he heard himself say. "We'll talk about it later when you're calmer." Right now, he wasn't too calm himself. "Maybe you should wipe your nose."

To his great relief she managed to remove a snowy handkerchief from her cuff without dropping the reins.

"Jenny says a promise is sacred." Her voice muffled inside the handkerchief. "Jenny says anyone who breaks a fricking promise might as well put a gun to his head."

A little of "Jenny says" went a long way, he decided irritably. "Don't swear."

"I'm only telling you what Jenny said."

"I get the point, all right? Jenny Jones does not break her promises." Thin-lipped, he stared toward the sinking sun. In the future, he would be damned careful what he said and how he said it. Apparently children accepted every word as gospel.

Meanwhile, he didn't know how he was going to get around this obstacle, only that he had to.

He was still pondering the problem when they stopped to set up camp for the night, still thinking about how to pick up the pace while he tethered the horses, watered them, then dug a fire pit and unpacked provisions.

"I can fill your coffeepot."

"I'll do it," he said absently. She might fall in the small stream that ran near the campsite. When he returned from the stream, he noticed that she had unrolled the bedrolls.

"I can hang the coffeepot over the fire."

"I've already got it."

She pursed her lips, then sat down on her saddle and folded her hands in her lap. "I don't know how to cook," she informed him, watching as he set down the skillet. As if there was any way in hell that he would have allowed her to get that close to the flames. "Will you teach me how?"

"Aren't you kind of young to be cooking?" He shredded some boiled beef with his knife, added dried onion, and rolled the bits inside a tortilla before he placed them in the iron skillet and set the skillet on the fire to heat. He cut some more beef, more onions.

"Jenny says I should know how to cook by now."

He gazed at her above the flames licking the bottom of the coffeepot. "For someone who professes to hate Jenny Jones, you sure quote her a lot."

"No, I don't. She's not a lady. Did you know that she has hair between her legs?" Graciela shuddered. "Don't you think that's disgusting?"

Ty froze, and the tortilla dropped from boneless fingers into the dirt. Heat scalded his throat and jaw. Ducking his head, he stared at the tortilla, took his time picking it up and brushing off the sandy dirt. "Ah … well…"He cleared his throat with a strange-sounding cough.

And he wished like hell that he was anywhere on earth but here with this child. Silently he cursed Robert for asking him to undertake this errand. He cursed Marguarita for getting pregnant in the first place. He cursed himself for discovering a modest streak that he hadn't even suspected.

"Jenny says all grown-up women have hair between their legs." Her raised eyebrow conveyed enormous skepticism. "That's not true, is it?"

Oh God. Agony twitched his muscles, pulled down the corners of his mouth. The last time he'd squirmed like this, he'd been a schoolboy. Raising his knife to within an inch of his eyes, he inspected the blade with intense scrutiny.

"Ah … didn't you say that Jenny Jones never lies?" There was a nick that he hadn't noticed before. He'd have to fix that.

Graciela heaved a huge sigh, her shoulders dropped, and she directed a sad stare toward her toes. "So it's true," she said mournfully. "Well, I'm not going to grow hair between my legs."

He was dying, absolutely dying. When he could trust himself to speak, he cleared his throat with a choking sound and said, "A couple of these are hot. Fetch one of those plates." His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

And his treacherous mind flung visions of a naked Jenny in front of his eyes. Damn it, he could see a triangular patch as coppery as the flames blurring in front of his gaze.

"Look," he said, struggling against images no decent man should imagine in the presence of an innocent child, "we'll give the horse problem another day, all right? But we have to cover more ground. We'll trot and walk, trot and walk, until you're comfortable."

He'd known a redheaded whore inSan Francisco. Her skin had been milk white, brushed with flame down there. Oh God, he couldn't think about this in front of his six-year-old niece. What kind of man was he? Sweating slightly, he poured a cup of coffee and watched her eat, making himself think about tomorrow's ride.

"Uncle Ty?"

"What?"

"I said I'd scrub the plates. Jenny showed me how. You rub them out with sand,then wipe them off with a wet cloth."

"Fine," he said absently, staring into the fire. He wondered if Jenny Jones's skin was milk white and brushed with flame down there.

"I'm tired. I'm going to go to sleep now." When Ty didn't respond, she made a little sound. "You have to turn your back, so I can undress and put on my nightgown."

"Oh." He spun on his heels so rapidly that coffee flew out of his cup. Damn Robert. Robert should have been here instead of him. Robert could have waited until their father's estate was settled; what difference would a few more months have made?"

"I'm ready to say my prayers now."

"Fine … is there something I'm supposed to do?" Tentatively he turned around and saw her kneeling beside her bedroll, dressed in a lacy white nightgown.

"You're supposed to kneel with me and listen."

"I guess I can do that." He supposed hearing a prayer wouldn't harm him. Might do him some good. But he was glad there was no one to see him going down on his knees.

"Fold your hands like this."

He dug his knees into the hard dirt and glared into the darkness. "Just say your prayers."

She said the "Our Father," then she asked God to bless a numbing list of people. It was sobering to hear how many Barrancas cousins there were. He wondered how many of them were searching for her right now.

Pausing, she opened one eye. "I don't know what to say about Jenny. She's gone now, so I guess I can stop asking God to kill her, but she still should be punished for killing my mama."

Shock narrowed his eyes. "You've been asking God to kill Jenny Jones?"

Graciela nodded solemnly. "But He hasn't done it yet."

He stared at her. "Does Jenny know you're asking God to kill her?"

"What should I ask God to do about punishing her? Should I tell Him some good punishments or just let Him decide what's best?"

"Graciela," he said slowly, inching into unknown territory, "now you know Jenny didn't kill your mother."

"Jenny was supposed to die, not my mama." Her chin lifted in a stubborn expression that inexplicably made Ty think of his father.

He studied the fresh onslaught of tears and decided he didn't want to get into this. "Why don't you just sayamen. "

She closed her eyes again. "God? You don't have to kill Jenny anymore, but you should punish her bad. You should make her cry and bleed a lot. She should feel very very sorry for killing my mama. Amen."

Ty blinked. His niece was praying for blood and death, and he'd thought she was an innocent?

"You can kiss me good night now," she said, smiling at him and lifting her cheek. He peered over his shoulder into the darkness,then brushed a hasty peck across her cheek. "Now you're supposed to tuck me in."

After pulling the blankets up to her chin, he rose to his feet and stared down at her. His bloodthirsty little niece looked like an angel with her hair flowing around her face and her lashes feathered on her cheeks.

Shaking his head, he returned to the fire and sat on a rock to finish the pot of coffee. This had been one hell of a day, and he felt the exhaustion in his shoulders, but he suspected he wouldn't fall asleep anytime soon.

It was aftermidnightbefore he crawled into his bedroll, and later still before he dropped into an uneasy doze.

* * *

The next thing he heard was the tiny click of a hammer being drawn. When he tried to sit up, a fist pressed him down, and he couldn't turn his head. His temple hit the barrel of his own Colt. Staring up at the first opalescent tints of dawn, he ground his teeth together and waited.

"I didn't figure you to be such a sound sleeper," said a cheerful voice whose husky tone he recognized all too well. "Put your hands on top of the blankets.Do it slow."

"You know I'll come after you," he said, narrowing his eyes at the sky. If she was a killer, he'd just advised her to shoot him now.Mexicohad roasted his brains.

"If you do," Jenny said, whipping a rope around his wrists before he could make a grab for her, "I'll shoot you down like a dog. You just go on home toCaliforniaand tell the sainted Roberto thatme and the kid are on our way. You're not part of this anymore."

He hated himself for suggesting this, but it was a possible way out of a bad situation. "If you're so dead set on intruding where you don't belong, we could take her toCaliforniatogether."

"Do you really think I'm going to fall for that? The minute I relaxed my guard, you'd take Graciela and leave me behind faster than a fly can flap its wings."

Once she had him trussed up like a hog, she woke Graciela. Ty couldn't see them, but he heard them shouting at each other. Eventually, Jenny dragged Graciela over to him and pointed.

"Take a good look at your uncle Ty," she said, leaning next to Graciela's face. "He's not taking you anywhere. I am. So get your butt dressed. We're going."

Graciela stared down at him with disappointment and contempt. "I trusted you." Having plunged this verbal blade into his heart, she spun in a billow of ruffled nightgown and flounced out of his line of sight.

Jenny leaned over him, her eyes narrowed into slits. "I made the promise. You didn't. Remember what I said. If I see you again, I'll kill you if for no other reason than the trouble you've caused me."

He lay on his side, tangled in his bedroll, as furious and mortified as it was possible for a man to be, listening to the sound of a horse receding in the distance.

One horse. Jenny Jones had solved the Graciela/horse problem in two minutes flat.

He stared at a tiny flowering cactus three inches from his nose and passed the time by imagining himself strangling a certain woman with milk white skin who was brushed with flame down there.

CHAPTER 8

J enny set a northern course midway between the Sierra Madres and the railroad tracks that rolled down the Central Plateau. If she could hold to a hard pace of twenty miles a day, she figured to makeChihuahuain about two weeks.

But two weeks was beginning to look like a wildly optimistic estimate. Three days out ofDurango, the terrain gave way to rocky desert soil and deep arroyos that slowed her pace. Noonday heat blistered the ground, and they had to stop, seeking shelter where they could find it until later in the day.

As night approached, Jenny sought out the low shacks of the campesinos who labored to scratch a life from the poor soil. She knew she'd find a trickle of water near their pitiful patches and maybe a chance to buy fresh meat and milk for the kid.

"My face hurts," Graciela mentioned sullenly, staring with distaste at the chunk of goat meat roasting over the fire.

"Did you rub aloe on your skin like I told you?" Thesmell of roasting meat made Jenny's mouth water in anticipation. The campesino's woman had sold her fresh tortillas, too, and a ripe squash. They would feast tonight. "Drink that milk," she reminded Graciela. "It cost the earth."

Graciela turned her sunburned face toward the campesino's shack, a dark smudge against the night. No light showed through the walls of mud and branch. Either the residents had gone to bed, or they sat around a flame too small to penetrate the chinks.

"Why can't we sleep in the house with them?" Graciela asked in a whiny singsong that had begun to grate against Jenny's nerves two days ago. "I don't like to sleep on the ground. I'mafraid bugs or snakes will crawl in my bedroll."

"Kid," Jenny said, striving mightily for patience, "That's no hacienda up there. Believe it or not, most people don't live like you did. Most people aren't rich and don't have servants, they don't have extra food or beds. Eight people live in that shack already. They don't have a square inch for you. Plus, no one up there is sleeping in a bed. They're either in hammocks or sleeping on the ground just like we are."

Graciela flung her the I-hate-you look. "You said you wouldn't call me kid."

After an interior struggle Jenny conceded that she deserved the accusing tone. "You're right," she snapped, leaning to inspect the chunk of roasting meat. "I'm sorry. If you find a bug in your blankets, squash it. If a snake gets in there, you get out." She stared at Graciela across the fire pit. "Complaining isn't going to change a damned thing. So just make up your mind that it's going to be a tough couple of weeks and keep your mouth shut about the inconveniences, all right? You aren't the only one who'd rather be sleeping in a bed, but you don't hear me complaining all the time."

The kid already looked a bit worse for the wear. Her fashionable maroon riding outfit was gray with dust and soiled by sweat. Part of the hem had torn loose. Since they had no water to spare for washing, their faces were dirty above fresh sunburns. Perspiration had blended with the dust near their scalps, creating a film of mud that eventually dried and began to itch and torment.

When a charred crust had formed on the meat, Jenny cut slices onto their plates and scooped mounds of hot squash on the side. "I know you're tired," she said to Graciela, "but you have to eat to keep up your strength. So clean your plate."

Graciela glared at her. "Uncle Ty didn't order me around."

"Huh! From what you've told me, you ordered him around." The goat meat was dry and on the tough side, but not bad, not bad at all. She'd eaten worse in her time. The tortillas, on the other hand, were thick and chewy and went down the throat the way she imagined ambrosia probably would.