Secondhand Bride Page 18

  “Never that,” Jeb said, watching her intently.

  The approbation, small as it was, and hoarsely uttered, gave her the impetus she needed to press on. “The—the man was drunk, and he was old, too. He drew on Jack, even fired a shot, but it went wide. He couldn’t have hit the side of a barn. But Jack—Jack shot him, just the same.”

  Jeb brushed the side of her face with his fingers, but he didn’t speak again.

  “It took a man’s death to make me see the truth about Jack Barrett,” Chloe murmured, seeing the grisly scene again, in her mind, as dazed by the horror of it as she’d been when it happened.

  “He got away with it? Barrett, I mean?”

  Chloe nodded. “People had seen the old man draw on him, and he’d pulled the trigger, too. Jack said it was self-defense, but it wasn’t. He didn’t have to shoot anybody— he was so much younger, so much faster. He could have disarmed the fellow, with no bloodshed at all.” She shivered, suddenly cold. “I should have gone to the law myself, told them what really happened, but I was scared of what Jack might do. He was furious enough when I left him.” She blushed. “We were never—together, Jack and I.”

  Jeb’s hand lingered on her cheek, was gentle there, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She needed some sort of response from him, no matter what it was.

  “Well,” she said tartly, “I’ve told you the whole story. Are you satisfied now?”

  He left her standing in the middle of the room, went back to the bed, swung his legs up onto the mattress, and settled back into a pile of pillows. “How about a game of checkers?” he asked, as if she hadn’t just poured her heart out at his feet.

  She stared at him, confounded. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  “I need to think things over some,” he replied. “Black or red?”

  It took her a moment to realize he was still talking about checkers. “You’re impossible!” she accused.

  “I can beat you in five moves,” he said, with a slight smile.

  She was competitive, especially where Jeb was concerned, and this was a challenge she couldn’t ignore. “Black,” she said, and drew a chair up close to the bed, watching carefully as he prepared the board.

  They were still playing when the sun set, and Becky came in to light the lamps. She disappeared, only to return minutes later, followed by Sarah, each of them carrying a tray of food.

  “Who’s winning?” Becky asked.

  “I am,” Jeb said, without hesitation. Unfortunately, that was quite true, but Chloe hadn’t given up hope of prevailing.

  “Kade’s here,” Becky told them, setting Jeb’s supper tray in his lap. “He and Mandy are downstairs in the dining room.”

  Jeb surveyed his plate, as if taking inventory, picked up a chicken leg, bit into it, and spoke with his mouth half-full. “All this attention,” he said. “I may get spoiled.”

  For a moment, Becky looked as if she meant to tousle his hair, though she must have thought better of the inclination, for she refrained. “Yes,” she said. “The sky may get blue, too.”

  He laughed at that, and Chloe found herself envying Becky a little. If she’d pointed up one of his many faults, however obvious it might be, he would have glared the hide right off her.

  Becky went sailing out, Sarah following, and Chloe, starving, concentrated on her supper.

  “Tell me about the kids,” Jeb said.

  Briefly, Chloe was confused; Jeb had a way of changing horses in the middle of the conversational stream. Then she realized he was asking about her students, and since it seemed like a safe subject, she was disposed to enter into a discussion. They hadn’t spoken much, while playing checkers, and the confessions she’d made earlier, in regard to Jack, had taken a lot out of her. Anything remotely serious would have been a strain at that point.

  “There are the Sussex children,” she said, feeling greatly cheered. “Harry wants to be like Kade when he grows up.”

  Jeb made a noncommittal sound, rather like a grunt.

  “I think his younger brothers are only there because Harry is,” Chloe went on, warming to the topic.

  No response. Why had Jeb initiated this conversation, she wondered, if he didn’t intend to participate? On the other hand, whenever he spoke more than two words, they wound up snarling and clawing like a pair of alley cats. It made sense to leave well enough alone.

  She liked talking about the children, found it easy. “Jennie’s mother works at the Bloody Basin.”

  “I’ve met her,” Jeb said, helping himself to another piece of chicken.

  Chloe felt a sudden thrill of jealousy. “Oh, really?”

  His grin was insufferable. “What’s the matter, Chloe? Afraid I might be one of her regular customers?”

  She bridled. “I don’t care one way or the other, Jeb McKettrick.”

  He was cocksure. “You’re a liar.”

  “If you’d like me to leave, just keep talking like that.”

  He made a face. “It’s okay, Chloe,” he said. “All we did was play poker.”

  “Do you honestly think that’s of any interest to me whatsoever?”

  He put the tray on the table next to his bed, atop the Roman history, leaned forward, and captured her gaze as surely as if he’d clasped her head in his hands and forced her to meet his eyes. “You’re jealous as hell.”

  Her temper came to a steady simmer. “You’re flattering yourself,” she said stiffly. “Something you seem to be very good at, I might add.”

  He chuckled, reached to stroke her cheek with the side of his thumb. “I’m good at a few other things, too. Remember?”

  “Am I interrupting something?” The third voice separated them as surely as a cleaver quivering in the floor between them.

  Chloe whirled, watched as Kade McKettrick walked into the room, grinning a little. “You ought to make sure the door’s shut,” he observed, “if you’re going to stare into each other’s eyes and talk about what you’re good at.”

  Chloe blushed, and so did Jeb, although she suspected he was merely irritated rather than mortally embarrassed, like she was.

  “I could come back later,” Kade suggested mildly, though his eyes were still alight with mischief.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jeb retorted.

  Chloe set her tray aside and stood, smoothing her skirts. “I’d better go,” she said hastily. “I’ve got tomorrow’s lessons to prepare.”

  “Becky asked me to tell you she has a basket ready for the Jessup kids, whoever they are,” Kade remarked, watching her closely. “It’s in the kitchen.”

  Chloe nodded, silently blessing Becky for her unceasing generosity, glanced at Jeb, and got her gaze snagged on his, as easily as that.

  “I still want to see those papers,” he said.

  She slammed the door on her way out.

  38

  The Jessup wagon was lit from within, the canvas cover glowing in the gathering dusk, and two swaybacked horses grazed nearby, in the deep grass, hobbled. Chloe held her skirts in one hand and Becky’s food basket in the other as she made her way over and tapped politely at the tailgate.

  There was a hush inside, then the burlap curtain at the back was swept aside by a small, grubby hand, and Walter’s face appeared, a pale oval of concern. Recognizing Chloe, he smiled, though cautiously.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  Walter’s gaze dropped to the basket she carried. It was covered with a red-and-white checked napkin, and emitted the savory scent of fried chicken.

  “Hullo,” he said, sobering. Ellen peered around his shoulder. The child needed her face washed and her hair combed, but Chloe let the thought alone, since there was no diplomatic way to broach such a subject.

  She smiled and held up the basket, privately wondering what the missing Mr. Jessup expected to do with these children when winter came. “I’ve brought you some supper.”

  Walter recoiled ever so slightly. “Charity,” he said, with sage contempt.
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  “All we got is beans,” Ellen put in, looking hopefully at the basket.

  “This is absolutely not charity.” Chloe replied to Walter’s statement, with conviction. “It’s a present.”

  “What’s the difference?” Walter demanded, though he did seem to be wavering slightly.

  Chloe considered carefully before she replied. “You give charity when you feel sorry for a person,” she said. “A present means you like somebody and want them to be your friend.”

  Walter weighed the matter, taking obvious care to find the balance. “All right, then,” he allowed, at some length. “Long as it’s a present.”

  “It most definitely is,” Chloe said firmly, extending the offering.

  Ellen licked her lips. “I am purely weary of beans,” she confessed.

  Chloe smiled at that, though inside, she wanted to weep because there were so many children like the Jessups, living on stubborn pride and very little else. Times were hard, and folks did what they had to to survive. “Do you ever get scared, staying here by yourselves?” she asked, treading lightly onto dangerous ground.

  “No,” said Walter, very firmly, but Ellen’s “Yes” ran right over it.

  “We got Pa’s rifle,” Walter said, giving Ellen a subtle elbow to the ribs.

  “But he told you not to shoot it,” Ellen pointed out staunchly.

  “I could probably find you someone to stay with,” Chloe said, still thinking of winter. It was autumn, and the bite of the next season was already in the air.

  Both children shook their heads.

  “Pa wouldn’t like that one bit,” Walter explained.

  Chloe wished she could get hold of Mr. Jessup’s ears and give them a good twist, but he was safe at the Triple M, sleeping with a roof over his head and eating regular meals. She’d catch up with him sooner or later.

  “Well,” she said, with a smiling sigh, “if you ever need help, you just come and knock on my door. I live in the cottage behind the school.”

  “We’ll bring the basket back tomorrow,” Walter said, giving the offer of sanctuary a tacit dismissal, along with Chloe herself. “Meantime, we can look after ourselves.”

  “When you see your father again,” Chloe said, turning to go, “you tell him Miss Wakefield wants a word with him.”

  Walter nodded, but only after a long, solemn interval of silence. Then the burlap curtain fell back into place, and he and Ellen were reduced to shadows behind a wall of canvas.

  Chloe walked slowly back toward the cottage, wondering how she’d ever manage to meet up with Mr. Jessup before the snow flew; they would be traveling in separate directions, he coming in from the Triple M on Friday, after a hard week’s work, she going to the Circle C to tutor Lizzie Cavanagh at the very same time. Perhaps they might meet on the road.

  Lost in thought, she took a shortcut through the cemetery, meaning to stop by John Lewis’s grave on the way, and say a brief howdy-do.

  Jack startled her by stepping out from behind a tree, as if he’d been spun from the darkness itself.

  “Hullo, Chloe,” he said, as cordially as if they’d met at a pie social, or in front of the mercantile on a sunny morning, instead of a dark churchyard, surrounded by the slumbering dead.

  She put a hand to her heart, which seemed to be looking for a way out, whether through her throat or by bursting her chest open. “Jack,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “Came to see you.”

  “Well, you’re wasting your time.”

  He merely grinned at that, effectively blocking her way when she tried to pass. He lit a cheroot and drew deeply on the smoke, the ember glowing in the chilly gloom. “I reckon you didn’t expect to run into me,” he observed. She looked up into his hard face, faintly pitted by an early case of smallpox, and asked herself what she’d been thinking, in the first days of their ill-fated acquaintance, when she’d counted him as handsome, and a gentleman.

  “You took the divorce papers,” she accused. She was full of trepidation, but she let none of it show into her voice or her manner. “I want them back.”

  “Chloe,” he said, in a wheedling croon. He moved to touch her face, and she stepped back out of his reach. “Has he spoiled you for me, your fancy man?” he asked, sounding wounded now. Grievously wronged.

  In that moment, a horrible possibility dawned upon Chloe. She had not entertained it before, thinking Jack was still in Tombstone, about his nefarious purposes, but now it was right there, in the forefront of her mind, and would not be ignored. “Did you shoot Jeb McKettrick?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he scolded mildly. “Why would I do that?”

  “I can think of a thousand reasons,” she said, wanting to turn and run, and staying because she knew he’d bring her down in a few strides if she made the attempt. If she screamed, he would strike her, maybe even shoot her.

  “Does he touch you, Chloe?” The question was hoarsely uttered, and there was pain in it, though she didn’t credit it with any substance. One thing she knew about Jack Barrett: He was cold, clear through to his soul. “Does he put his hands on you?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  He blew a smoke ring. “It’s my business, all right.”

  “I’m his wife.”

  “You’re my wife.”

  She shook her head. Retrieving the divorce papers was the least of her worries now; she wanted to escape, that was all. Just get away. “Let me by,” she said coldly, and started past him again.

  He grabbed her arm, yanked her against his chest. “I’ve got money now, Chloe,” he said, breathing whiskey fumes into her face. The smell nauseated her, but not as much as the fear she felt. She was choking on that. “Come away with me. Right now, tonight. We’ll be done with this place, start over someplace else.”

  She wrenched free and put a few yards between them, dodging when he tried to grab her again. “No,” she said. “No. Do you hear me? It’s over. We’re not married anymore. We never were married, in any true sense of the word.”

  He pushed back his coat, revealing the .44 caliber pistol he always carried, and Chloe thought he might actually have shot her, if not for the sound of a rifle cocking nearby.

  “Leave her alone, mister,” said Walter Jessup. He might have been a child, but it was a man doing the talking, and from the timbre of his voice, he was in deadly earnest.

  “Walter,” Chloe said firmly, “give me that gun. This instant.”

  Walter obeyed, but reluctantly, and Chloe aimed the barrel straight at Jack Barrett’s middle.

  “I’m taking you to the marshal’s office,” she said, with resolve, audacity being all that was left to her, besides the gun, which would be of little use if she couldn’t pull the trigger. “So you might as well put up your hands.”

  He laughed at her. “You wouldn’t shoot me,” he said.

  The hell of it was, he was right. She might despise Jack, but he was a living, breathing human being, and when he turned his back and walked away, disappearing into the darkness, she let him go.

  “You should have nailed him,” Walter said.

  Chloe held the rifle like a cane, barrel up, and willed the strength back into her knees. In the near distance, she heard Jack speak impatiently to his horse, heard saddle leather creak as he mounted.

  “He’s getting away,” Walter told her, with some urgency.

  “Go find the marshal,” Chloe said, with a wave of one hand. “Tell him to come to the cottage. I’ll talk to him there.”

  Though it was plainly against his wishes, Walter hurried away to do her bidding.

  39

  “I don’t want Jeb to know about this,” Chloe told Sam Fee, as he sat beside her on the cottage steps. She’d leaned Walter’s rifle against the wall when she got back, knowing he’d come to reclaim it.

  Sam, having absorbed her account of the incident in the churchyard in somber silence, along with her theory that Jack Barrett had been the one to shoot Jeb, sighed and thr
ust himself to his feet.

  “Why would this feller want to do a thing like that?” he asked. “Shoot a man right out of the saddle, I mean?”

  Chloe bit her lower lip. This was the part she wished she didn’t have to tell. “Because he and I were married once,” she said miserably. “Now, I’m Jeb’s wife, even if we are getting divorced, and Jack hates him for it.” She remembered the way her one-day husband had pushed back his coat, in order to put his .44 within easy reach, and shuddered. “He hates me, too.”

  Sam surveyed the darkened landscape, as though he could see for miles. “Where do you figure this no-gooder was headed, when he left here?”

  She shook her head, holding her middle with both arms. “I thought he was in Tombstone,” she murmured. “All this time, I thought he was in Tombstone.”

  “You figure he might have been the one to rob the stage, too? Murder that driver and the woman?”

  “Yes. He’s a professional gunslinger,” Chloe said wretchedly. Her temples were throbbing, as if attempting to meet in the middle of her brain and form a single pulse there. “He said he had money. And those two people on the Circle C, the man and the boy, he probably killed them, too.”

  Sam laid a hand on her shoulder. They were not well acquainted, but she knew this was an unprecedented gesture for him. He was a taciturn sort of man and had never shown sentiment in her presence. “I can’t promise Jeb won’t find out about this,” he said gravely. “He’ll be mad as hell, I reckon.”

  A single tear slipped down Chloe’s cheek, and she raised her eyes to Sam’s face, entreating. “He’ll go after him if you say anything,” she said. “And he’ll be gunned down—you know it as well as I do, Sam. Jack has killed a lot of men. Jeb won’t have a chance, with his arm the way it is.”

  Sam was still for a long time, but then he gave one abrupt nod. “I reckon that’s exactly what he’d do, go right after the feller. Trouble is, much as I’d like to think I could round this outlaw up on my own, I’m going to need help, and that means going to the McKettricks. It would be a poor posse without them.”