Secondhand Bride Page 15

  If a twice-divorced schoolmarm wasn’t a scandal, Chloe didn’t know what was. She hesitated, then accepted his arm, knowing he’d make a scene if she didn’t. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Still at the table, Becky greeted them with a discerning glance and a smile. Sam stood, and nodded a somber greeting.

  “I’d best get back to the jailhouse,” the marshal said. “Good to see you, Miss Chloe. Jeb.”

  Chloe acknowledged Sam pleasantly, as did Jeb, and he left the table.

  As soon as Chloe had settled into a chair, having deliberately taken the one beside Becky’s, and thus opposite Jeb’s, the other woman rose. Chloe barely refrained from grasping at her skirts, to keep from being left alone with Jeb.

  He looked on all the while, wearing an insufferably smug grin.

  “I’m hungry,” Chloe said, unsettled by his cheerful mood. Maybe he was up to something, and maybe he was just trying to confuse her.

  “Good,” he said. “I think I’m in the mood for meat loaf tonight. What about you, Teacher?”

  Chloe snatched the menu out of his hands and hid behind it. Her stomach, rumbling before she stepped into this dining room, was now doing a Mexican hat dance. While she was trying to think of something to say, preferably acidic, a man in a suit and string tie stopped beside the table.

  “I was sorry to hear about those murders on the range,” the fellow said to Jeb. “First that poor woman and the stagecoach driver, and now Farness and that young cowboy. It’s as if the same old trouble is starting up again.”

  Jeb’s smirk vanished, replaced by a grim expression. He glanced warily at Chloe, who had come out from behind her menu to stare at him with horror-widened eyes, then shifted his gaze to his friend’s face. “Whoever did it,” he said quietly, “we’ll find them, and they’ll hang for it.”

  “Hanging’s too good for them,” the man said, and, with a nod to Chloe and a brief farewell to Jeb, headed for the lobby and the outside doors.

  Chloe’s memory caught on the crimson stains she’d seen on Holt’s clothes when he came to the cottage behind the schoolhouse that morning. She’d been concerned then, but finally decided that he must have been doing bloody work on the ranch. “There were two more murders?”

  Jeb nodded. “I wasn’t going to mention it, for fear it would spoil your supper,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm. “Somebody shot two men on the Circle C. In cold blood, evidently.”

  The fine hairs on the back of Chloe’s neck rose like wire, and she gave an involuntary shiver. “Dear God,” she said. Killings were, unfortunately, not all that uncommon in the more rustic parts of the West, and she was still reeling from what poor Lizzie must have suffered, seeing her aunt and an innocent stagecoach driver die. The news of this second incident struck her midsection like a ramrod.

  “We’ll find them,” Jeb said, and his eyes seemed veiled, even though he was looking straight at her. “Sam will get up a posse, and we’ll track them to hell if that’s what we have to do.”

  Chloe was more terrified of the look on Jeb’s face than she was of any murderer. She saw an image of him in her mind, dead and bloody, and she was sickened. “That would be very dangerous,” she pointed out carefully.

  “Around here,” he said, “when there’s a mad dog on the loose, we put him out of his misery.”

  Chloe’s confused stomach churned. “But you could be killed!”

  The smile was back, but it was so cold that Chloe would have welcomed the insolent grin he’d displayed previously, and heartily. “I won’t be,” he said. “But he might.”

  Chloe clutched the edges of the table. She imagined herself visiting not one grave, down at the churchyard, but two, and if the mere prospect was unbearable, the reality might destroy her completely. “What if there isn’t just one man?” she demanded. “What if there’s a whole gang? I know you’re fast with a gun, but he—or they— might be faster!”

  He leaned forward a little. “Worried about me, Chloe?”

  “You are impossible,” she accused, finding it harder and harder to keep her voice down. “This is not some game, Jeb—it’s not shooting bottles out of the sky behind the Broken Stirrup Saloon!”

  Becky swept over, a small pad and a pencil in her hands. “Would you two like to order?” she asked, with hasty good cheer.

  “Meat loaf,” Jeb said, glaring at Chloe.

  “Chicken, please,” Chloe said, glaring back.

  Becky made notes, hesitated briefly, and went away.

  “I don’t need you to tell me what’s dangerous,” Jeb said, his jawline taut, when they were alone again. “I’m a man, not a boy—or at least, you seemed to think so the other night.”

  “That,” Chloe said, fighting tears, “was a terrible thing to say!” She started to stand up, planning to flee, though it meant starving all night.

  Jeb stayed her with a sigh, and, “Sit down, Chloe. Please.”

  Chloe sat, but supper, a tenuous affair to begin with, was completely spoiled, even though she choked down as much of it as she could, and so was her evening.

  Thanks to Jeb, she would have another sleepless night.

  30

  Well, Jeb thought miserably, as he mounted up to make the long ride back to Holt’s place, where he was now an official resident of the bunkhouse, he’d sure fouled up with Chloe.

  Again.

  He’d intended to apologize for the way he’d acted at the ranch the night before, try to straighten things out a little, as hopeless as the task seemed, but he’d let his pride get the better of him, they’d had words, and she’d left the hotel, right after supper. Wouldn’t even let him walk her back to the cottage. Oh, no. Doc Boylen had come along just in time to do that.

  He sighed. He was a natural botcher, that was the plain and simple fact of it. It seemed that every time he made the effort to reason with Chloe, he said or did the wrong thing—and he hadn’t done any better with his pa. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected the old man to say or do when he told him he’d be riding for the Circle C for a while, but it hadn’t been the shock and pain he’d glimpsed in his father’s eyes before he rode out.

  The schoolhouse was dark as he passed it, but he caught a glimmer of light from the cottage in back, and imagined Chloe there, puttering with those thick and well-thumbed books of hers, or maybe making tea.

  The moon, full for the last three nights, was waning, and thus the road was darker. He’d been over that trail so many times in his life that he didn’t have to think about it, and neither did his horse.

  He’d traveled maybe five miles when the crack of a rifle sounded from a nest of boulders somewhere on his left; he felt the bullet splinter the bone in his upper right arm before he had time to react.

  The pain was a blazing affront, a white-hot flash, but his training was ingrained. He reached across his middle and drew his .45 with his left hand, even as he fell.

  He spoke sharply to the panicked horse, to drive it out of the line of fire, and rolled into the shadows on the side of the road. Another shot struck, pinging off the rock not six inches above his head.

  His right arm felt as though it had been stomped to a mash by a team of dray horses. He scrambled deeper into the brush, cursing the darkness, breathing deeply and slowly, in an effort to gather his scattered thoughts and govern the inevitable emotions—rage, and no small amount of fear.

  This was no time to lose his head.

  “McKettrick!” his attacker shouted, out of the gloom. “You’re a dead man, so you might as well come out where I can see you!”

  He knew that voice, but from where? His fitful mind tried to seize on a name, a face, anything, but the wildfire consuming his arm crowded out reason. “Who are you?” he yelled back, more out of reflex than because he thought there was a chance in hell the man would actually tell him. He was dealing with a bushwhacker; anybody but a coward would have confronted him in the open, in the broad light of day.

  “Somebody with a powerful grudge,” cam
e the response.

  “I figured that much out for myself!”

  “I hit you, I know I did. Come on out, now, and I’ll put you right out of your misery.” The voice was closer now, an evil crooning. A black fog rose around Jeb, threatening to gulp him down whole.

  “I’m not going to make it that easy,” Jeb answered. His belly pitched; he gulped hard to keep from losing his supper—he couldn’t afford the distraction. In the near distance, he heard his horse, the comforting jingle of bridle fittings. Steady, he told himself silently, fighting to stay conscious. If he blacked out, he wouldn’t have a banker’s chance in hell.

  “Now, don’t be a fool.” Closer still.

  Jeb squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, tried to breathe in rhythm with the pain. “That’s good advice,” he said. “You might want to take it.”

  A laugh. A familiar one.

  Who, dammit? Why couldn’t he catch hold of the name?

  The ground vibrated slightly under Jeb’s chest. Hooves. Someone had heard the shots. Someone was coming. Riding right into a bullet of their own, most likely.

  He lifted the .45, fired the customary three-shot warning in the air.

  The other man swore, whistled for a horse. Maybe he’d heard the riders for himself, and maybe he knew the signal for trouble.

  Jeb raised himself far enough to see the road, sight in on the shadow he glimpsed there. He got off a shot, took a chunk out of the gunman’s left leg as he mounted.

  There was a muffled cry of pain, but his assailant gained the saddle all the same. Jeb ducked just as another bullet struck the rock next to him.

  The hoofbeats were louder now, drawing closer, at a fast clip. Four horses, maybe five.

  “This isn’t over, McKettrick,” the rider called in parting. “We’ll meet again, I promise you that—whether it’s on this side of the veil or in the heart of hell!”

  Jeb didn’t have the breath to answer. He laid his head down and let the darkness take him over.

  31

  Jeb came to on the examining table in Doc Boylen’s office, with the old sawbones breathing whiskey fumes in his face. The pain, blessedly absent while he was out there at the end of the tether, wrenched him hard back to center, and the impact took his breath away. He tried to sit up, get away from it, even as he knew there was no escape.

  Doc pushed him back down. “Take it easy,” he said. “You’ve lost a bucket of blood.”

  Jeb set his jaw, trying to resist the pain, and that only made it worse. “Christ,” he gasped, unsure whether he was praying or cursing. Maybe it was a little of both.

  Doc showed him a syringe. “Morphine,” he said. “Lie still. I’m not too steady tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Jeb bit out. “I get shot, and the only doctor within fifty miles is a drunkard.”

  Boylen chuckled as he jammed the needle into Jeb’s good arm. “I would think,” he drawled, “that you’d be a little more charitable in your estimation, since I’m trying to save your miserable hide. If I didn’t take a nip now and then, my lumbago would get the best of me for sure.”

  The effect of the morphine was immediate; Jeb let out his breath. He’d heard the riders approaching, out there on the road, but he hadn’t seen them. “Who brought me here?”

  “Some of the boys from the Triple M. Your good luck that they happened to be in town last night, whooping it up. Way they tell it, they were on their way back to the ranch when they heard shots up ahead, and decided they ought to look into the matter.”

  Jeb tried to touch his wounded arm, assess the true nature of his situation, but Boylen blocked the motion.

  “How bad is it?” Jeb asked.

  “Bad enough,” Boylen answered. “I mean to operate, soon as I sober up a little.” The twinkle in his eyes said he was kidding; Jeb sure as hell hoped that was the case. A moment later, Doc confirmed the matter. “That was a joke,” Boylen said. “The part about sobering up, I mean.”

  Jeb was in no mood to laugh. “Well, it was a damn sorry one.”

  The doc chuckled again. “You’ll be all right,” he said. “Look on the cheerful side. You’ll have women fussing over you, and Angus’ll probably stay off your back, for a while, anyhow. In the meantime, Sam’s outside, waiting to talk to you. You up to it?”

  Jeb let himself float on the morphine, like a piece of driftwood riding the ocean. “Send him in—not that I’ve got much to tell him. And Doc? Don’t tell Chloe about this just yet.”

  Doc nodded, patted Jeb’s good shoulder. “You just lie still, now. Try to gain a little ground while you can. When that shot wears off, you’re going to be hurting worse than before.”

  “You’re just full of encouragement.”

  Doc laughed, stepped out of view. Jeb heard the surgery door open, and there was an exchange of murmured words. Then Sam was beside him.

  “See anybody?” he asked, never one to mince words.

  Jeb shook his head. “A shadow is all,” he said. “Is my horse all right?”

  “Your horse is fine,” Sam said, in the manner of a man who would waste no more words on a minor subject. “I reckon it was an ambush?”

  Jeb wet his dry lips with his tongue, wished mightily for water. His throat felt like sawdust. “Yep,” he confirmed. “I need a drink.”

  Sam fetched a ladle of tepid water from somewhere nearby, helped Jeb lift his head, and held the rim to his mouth, waiting while he drank.

  “Did he say anything?”

  Jeb coughed, settled down again by force of will. “He knew my name. Said he had a grudge, and that he’d see me again. I shot him in the leg, but he rode out, so he couldn’t have been hurt too badly.”

  Sam digested all this. “We’ll pick up his trail in the morning.”

  Jeb thought of the killings on the Circle C range. He’d tried to track the lone rider, after Farness and that poor kid from Tucson were gunned down, but it had come to nothing. Whoever this son of a bitch was, he knew his business. “Good luck,” he said.

  “You recollect anything else?”

  “I’ve heard his voice someplace before. I can’t rightly remember where.”

  “Like as not, it’ll come back to you,” Sam said, without particular conviction. “Guess I’d better leave you be. Doc says he means to do surgery in the morning, and you need your rest to brace up for it.”

  “I’d like to see those riders from the Triple M. Tell them thanks.”

  Sam shook his head. “That’ll have to wait. They’ve gone to tell your pa and brothers what happened.”

  The pain prodded at the edges of the drug’s sweet influence, trying to find its way back in. “Nothing they can do,” he said.

  Sam was already out of Jeb’s limited range of sight, though he must have paused in the doorway, because he answered. “They’ll want to be here just the same, I reckon.”

  Jeb closed his eyes.

  He heard the voice of his attacker. Somebody with a grudge.

  Recognition teased his mind—for an instant, he knew who had shot him—but the impression was gone as soon as he slipped back into the darkness.

  32

  Jack Barrett rode overland, bent low in the saddle, for several long hours. It was near dawn when he reached the cabin, and Sue Ellen came out to meet him, holding a lantern in one hand and a rifle in the other.

  He pitched forward, wrapped both arms around the horse’s neck to keep from hitting the hard, stone-strewn ground.

  Sue Ellen cried out, leaned the rifle against the outside wall, set the lantern on the chopping block next to the woodpile, and rushed over, braced to break his fall if she could.

  “That bastard McKettrick shot me,” he said, through his teeth.

  She helped him down from the saddle, positioned her small, strong body under his left arm. “Dammit, Jack,” she hissed, “you went ahead and did it, didn’t you? It wasn’t just talk. You killed Jeb McKettrick!”

  The open doorway of the cabin loomed ahead; Jack set his mind on s
taying upright long enough to get through it and leaned heavily on Sue Ellen. “I wish I had,” he said, “but there were riders coming, so I had to leave before I’d finished him.”

  “You wretched fool,” she berated, even as they stepped over the high threshold and into the dark house, “you’ll bring the whole lot of them down on us now!”

  Right then, the collective wrath of the McKettrick clan was the least of Jack’s concerns, though he reckoned it might get to be an issue later on. “Just get me some whiskey, Sue Ellen,” he grumbled, “and shut up.”

  She fetched him to the bed, where he fell heavily, then scared up some rotgut from someplace and gave him a dose.

  “I should have kept going, after I left the Circle C, instead of letting you talk me into staying around,” Sue Ellen fussed, after she’d retrieved the lantern, shut and latched the door, and come back to the bedside to peer at his wound.

  “You wanted revenge on the McKettricks as much as I did,” Jack pointed out, flinching when she helped herself to his jackknife and cut a slash in his trouser leg.

  “Just Holt,” she snapped. “Not the whole damn Triple M outfit!”

  Jack drew in a hissing breath and swore. “Take it easy, will you? That hurts!”

  “Good,” she retorted, and plunged what felt like a hot poker into the gash in his flesh.

  “Anyways, Holt’s a McKettrick, whatever he calls himself,” Jack grated. “He’ll be in the thick of this, you can count on that.”

  She hesitated; he felt it in the motions of her hands. “I don’t want you to kill him,” she said.

  “Too late for tender sentiments,” Jack answered. “Give me some more of that whiskey.”

  She held the flask to his lips, and he drained it to the dregs.

  “I mean it, Jack,” she went on, not so haughty as before. “I was furious when he sent me away, and I wanted him to be sorry for what he did, but I didn’t bargain for any killing.”

  “You’re in as deep as I am,” Jack said. “No going back now.”

  Her eyes glittered in the bleak dimness of the cabin. “What are you planning to do next?”

  “Hit ’em where it hurts,” he replied. He hadn’t made any definite plans on that score, as up to a few minutes ago he’d been concentrating on reaching the cabin without falling off his horse, but a few ideas were starting to come to him, like ghosts gliding back and forth at the borders of his mind, fixing to cross over.