Claudia Dain Page 3

  "He's a fine-looking animal, Mrs. Walton. I'll pay seventy-five dollars for him and the tack that goes with him." It was a fair offer.

  With a nod of acceptance, Emma Walton sent Maureen in to fetch a pen and paper. She drew up a bill of sale as she balanced the baby on her hip while he got the bridle and saddle on Joe. Lillian brought him an old brown saddle blanket after another nod from her mother. It was all over in a matter of minutes. Pocketing the bill of sale and leading Joe out of the yard, Jack could feel the eyes of the Walton clan on his back. They were clearly still nervous about him.

  And he hadn't pushed even one of those kids off the porch.

  His walk back through the center of Abilene was about what he expected. He was more and more certain he felt the weight of that bill of sale with each step he took, and more and more thankful for it. If any man stood to be named a horse thief, it was him.

  "Isn't that Emma Walton's horse?"

  "You know it is."

  "Didn't he come in on the train? Isn't he leaving the same way he came in?"

  "I heard Powell wouldn't sell him spit."

  "Powell always was smart as March wind."

  Jack ignored them and kept walking. At least Joe wasn't giving him any trouble.

  "Where'd you get the horse?" one of the onlookers asked him. He looked up; she was the first one to talk to him directly. She was a spry woman with a mass of dark hair and bright blue eyes, sort of reminded him of the little Samaritan.

  "Bought it," he answered without breaking stride. "And Mrs. Walton's got the same number of kids now as she did when I got there."

  One of the kids hanging around in front of the mercantile ran off down the street, back toward the Waltons'. His word obviously wasn't good enough. It figured.

  The dark-haired woman with blue eyes kept looking him over as he tied up Joe at the sheriff's. She seemed to be sizing him up for purchase, though that was a crazy thought. Jack walked into the sheriff's office through the open door. Lane was sitting behind his desk, eyeing the horse he had tied to the rail.

  "If anybody asks, I bought this horse from Mrs. Walton for seventy-five dollars. I have a bill of sale."

  Lane smiled and draped his legs over the corner of his desk. "If anybody asks, I'll tell 'em."

  * * *

  Anne stood and watched the westbound train depart. The steam curled around the wheels before rising to stain the sky. Car after car lumbered past, heavy, almost reluctant in their initial momentum, they eventually would have to be forced to a stop at the next station, farther down the line: Solomon City, then Ellsworth, Russell, Hays City, Trego, Buffalo Station to the northwest or Great Bend, Kinsley, and Dodge City to the southwest. Due south lay Council Grove, Emporia, Newton, and Wichita, while due east lay many more options, the grandest being Kansas City. She knew them all, each stop, each station, on the web of lines that connected Abilene to the world, but she had been nowhere. Abilene was all she'd ever remembered seeing. She'd seen enough of it to last a lifetime.

  "He didn't get on, did he?"

  Anne turned and looked into her aunt's blue eyes. Sarah knew something.

  "He didn't," she answered. "I thought he'd be out on the first train."

  "Is that why you're here?" Sarah said. "Looking for him?"

  "I'm not looking for anyone," Anne sniffed. "Why, did you find him?"

  "Whole town's found him," Sarah said on a laugh, "even though you're the one who's supposed to be looking for him. You'd starve as a bounty hunter, Anne."

  "What's he doing that the whole town is watching?"

  "He bought himself a horse." Sarah grinned.

  Anne couldn't see that buying a horse would be much to look at, even in Abilene.

  "Tried to hire one from Powell first," Sarah said with a smile, remembering the story as she'd heard it from Susanne. "Powell wouldn't hear of it. Then he tried to buy one and didn't get any further."

  "That's ridiculous. How is Mr. Powell going to make a profit if he refuses to let out his stock?"

  "Said he figured that Jack Skull would kill any animal he sat on."

  "Ridiculous."

  "Wait, it gets better," Sarah said. "Skull practically had to beat it out of Powell to get the name of anyone in Abilene who'd sell him a horse. Powell eventually coughed up Emma Walton."

  "He hit Mr. Powell?" She needed him for her plan, but she didn't want to hitch up with anyone as violent as that. Not even for a day or two. No matter how he looked.

  "Emma hid her kids on the porch as if the Apache had come to visit," Sarah went on, not to be derailed in what was a fine story, no matter how much truth there was to it, "and when Jack Skull looked ready to throw a couple of them off the porch just for sport, she agreed to sell him Joe, tack and all."

  "I can't believe that he would tangle with a child," Anne murmured.

  "Then he parades that horse down through the center of town like the governor himself, not a trace of guilt to the tips of his fingers, and holes up with Charles Lane. And speaking of his fingertips," Sarah said, turning to face Anne fully, "you didn't say what a handsome man he was, Anne. He's a sight. Why'd you let a man like that walk clean away without a tussle from you?"

  A man like that? According to Aunt Sarah, he had beaten Mr. Powell, threatened to throw innocent children around, intimidated Emma Walton, and was unconcerned about the whole matter. So he was handsome. Lots of men were handsome. Bill was handsome, though in a different way. Jack Skull was rougher, though his features were finer, more cleanly cut, and his eyes the soft blue of a hazy summer sky. And the way he'd looked at her, as if she were the only person in the world he wanted to be looking at, as if he'd come to Abilene just to find her.

  Anne shook herself mentally. He was rough. His hair was long and tangled, his clothes dusty, and his expression forbidding. That's what he looked like and his manners were made to match. Tangled. Dusty. Frightening.

  He was not the sort to stay in Abilene, which made him just about perfect.

  "So he's still in town?" Anne asked as she and Sarah left the platform.

  "For now," Sarah said with a knowing look. "But he's bought a horse; that must mean he plans to use it."

  "He might have checked into the hotel, though."

  "He might have."

  Sarah couldn't shake the smile that shadowed her lips and gave up trying after a while; there was little enough to smile about in her life. She might as well enjoy the sensation. If Anne was taken with the good-looking bounty hunter, it wouldn't do her any harm; besides, he didn't seem as ornery as folks made him out. And he was such a pretty man. Why, if she wasn't an old woman, she might try to corral him herself.

  "It was kind of him to give Emma money for her horse; she surely needs it," Anne said as she casually looked up and down the street.

  "Well, he bought the horse, Anne; it wasn't a donation."

  "Still..." Anne looked into the window of the Demorest Restaurant. He wasn't there.

  "Still?"

  "It's just that... he can't be as bad as people say. No one could be that mean. People just like to talk."

  "You're the one who saw him push that man from the train. I only saw him lead a horse he'd just bought. And that was bad enough."

  "Was he cruel to the horse?" Anne asked, stopping to look at Sarah.

  "No, there's just something about the man, beyond his pretty face, that makes you pause. Still"—Sarah took a deep breath to feed her resolve—"he's a comely man and sure to leave town. You could do worse. And to tell you the truth, I think half of what they're saying about him is empty talk to pass long hours. I looked him over good and proper; he don't have the look of a killer. Just don't think he's more than he is and you'll save yourself some hurt."

  "I won't," Anne promised absently, resuming her stride.

  * * *

  The Cattlemen's Hotel was the only hotel left in Abilene; it was also on the edge of town, as far away from the grumbling humanity of Abilene as he could get and still stay in Abilene. The ex
terior was shingled and painted, the porch shady and well swept, the glass dusty. The interior was worn but respectable with red carpet and one tufted chair in the small lobby. He'd seen a dozen hotels just like it. His reception was exactly what he was learning to expect.

  "And you wish to stay how long?"

  "As long as it takes," Jack said, his throat hoarse.

  It was clearly not an answer that pleased the proprietor.

  "I will require some information as to the duration of your stay. You are not our only patron."

  Jack looked around. He couldn't hear another person. The lobby was empty. The porch was empty. Jack looked at the man behind the counter and kept his silence. The man behind the counter developed a twitch underneath his left eye.

  "Here's a week in advance. I'll let you know if I'm staying longer."

  The proprietor held his tongue. It was a good thing.

  Jack had just about had it with Abilene and her prickly residents.

  He climbed the angled stairs that led to the second floor; the sixth one creaked. He would remember that. His room was on the north side of the building, facing the street. There were two windows, a bed, a washstand, and a rack for his clothes. It was a respectable room; the bedding looked clean and, better yet, smelled fresh. He turned around and locked the door and headed back out to buy supplies for his trip onto the prairie. He'd be leaving in an hour at worst. He was eager to go; there was no point in dawdling around in an unfriendly town when all the excitement was happening elsewhere.

  He had a murderer to catch.

  He crashed into the little Samaritan on the stairs first.

  It was on the sixth stair, the one that creaked. His arms wrapped around her torso, steadying them both. Her hair, as dark as prairie earth, got in his mouth. She smelled like flowers.

  It all rolled over him in the space of a breath and then he let her go, holding on to her elbows just long enough to be sure that she was firmly on her feet. He let go and backed up, up to the seventh stair, the one that didn't creak. He had to back up from her because all he wanted to do was keep pressing her down until her back was to the floor and her skirts were over her head. He'd never wanted a girl like that, so hard and so fast, not in his whole life. He didn't want to feel that way now. He didn't want to feel that way ever.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," he growled, tipping his hat, using the brim to cover his eyes.

  "No, I... excuse me," she said, her voice as soft as rainwater.

  Her bosom rose as she spoke and he couldn't help watching the rise and fall. Then he felt like hell because he couldn't leave her alone, even with his eyes. She blocked him on the stair; if she didn't move aside, he'd have to brush against her to get down and out of the hotel. And he had to get out. He had to get away from her before he kissed her to the soles of her feet without even knowing her name.

  "Ma'am?" he mumbled, urging her to get out of his way.

  "Hmmm?"

  She was staring at him, he could feel it, though she remained unmoving except for her breast, rising and falling. The urge to touch her was mounting in him and he felt a twinge of panic that he hadn't felt in twenty years. He couldn't have her. She was proper. Off his range.

  He looked up and saw what he knew he'd see. She was looking at him, her light blue eyes unblinking, her mouth soft and open, the pulse in her throat beating visibly.

  She stared at him, her gaze moving all over his face, taking in his untamed hair, his two-day growth of beard, his hungry eyes. She took it all in and stood there, looking softer by the second.

  It was the chilly cough of the proprietor of the Cattlemen's Hotel that broke the moment. Jack was thankful for the intrusion. She turned toward the sound and he bolted down the stairs and out the door. He left her behind on the sixth stair.

  Chapter 4

  She was so pretty. Small and slight, her hair the black of river mud, smooth and slick. He was watching her and he knew she could feel his eyes on her. Knew that she was flattered by it. Knew that she wouldn't fight it when he made his first move. He knew how to make it so a woman wouldn't fight, not until the last breath. Not until it was too late for fighting.

  But that time wasn't now. He was just getting started with her.

  He'd been watching her for weeks, building her trust in him. That was important to a woman. She needed to trust. That was the hard part. What made it easy was that she wanted to trust a man. Any man. As long as she believed the man could be her man.

  Which made it just perfect, because he wanted to be the man she chose, the man she gave herself to. The man she trusted. The man she'd marry.

  That was what he needed.

  And he knew just how to get it.

  With a smile, he tipped his hat, and rode out of town.

  He'd be back. And she'd be waiting for him, just to win another smile from him. Not much longer now. Not much longer before he kissed her.

  * * *

  He'd been out of Abilene for a day and felt measurably better, away from the blatant hostility of the town, away from her. Jack squinted into the late afternoon sun and pulled his hat lower. He was still a bit thrown by his reaction to her. It didn't happen much, feeling a woman's pull that way; made him feel like a calf being roped and tied up. He didn't like the feeling.

  Trouble was, he liked the feel of her.

  Jack pulled off his hat and slapped it a couple of times against his leg, pulling his thoughts back into line. Adjusting his hat down over his tangled hair, he considered the site of the last murder.

  McPherson was a remote spot just west of the old Abilene Trail and east of the old Ellsworth Trail; in the middle of nothing and on the route to nowhere. Good spot for a murder. The cabin was a scant mile from the town proper, isolated and abandoned, the boards shrunken and wind scraped, the roof just able to keep out water. There was a bed frame, stark and wooden, and a shelf in the corner; that was the extent of the furniture.

  There was no blood.

  There was no sign of life.

  There was nothing to see, nothing to learn. It was just an old shack in the middle of nothing. The place where a girl barely turned woman had died.

  The sun slanted low through the small square of a window in the western wall of the cabin; it was getting late, time to make camp. Jack took a last turn, his eyes scanning the space, looking for evidence. There was none. There never was.

  He left the cabin on quick feet; he wanted to make camp before dark and there was no way he was going to bed down in there. Grabbing Joe, he mounted and rode north, toward Abilene. He'd not make Abilene before dark and didn't care to. A night in the open was more welcome than the reception he'd get in that town. He'd rarely been in a town that had more quills than Abilene had set against him. Only the sheriff and that Samaritan gal had shown him any sign of welcome, and he understood the sheriff's reasons. Why the Samaritan hadn't clawed her way out of his range, he couldn't figure. If she understood men at all, she'd light out, leaving a trail he couldn't follow.

  The rise and fell of her breasts and the smell of her hair came to his mind again with the unexpected force of a hot wind running before a prairie fire. She should have run then, that minute, instead of standing so still, caught in the trap of his arms. But he'd been the one to do the running.

  Jack stroked Joe's neck and urged him northward, running again from the image of the dark-haired girl and the soft rhythm of her breathing. He'd bed down on the prairie, just south of the Smoky Hill River, halfway between the cabin and Abilene; it was an easy ride and, though he was running, he was in no mood to push himself hard.

  He got his fire going and his bedroll spread just as the sun touched the rim of the earth, heating the sky with color just before the long fade to indigo. He laid his horsehair rope around his bedroll in a loose loop. The sound of the darkness changed suddenly and he faded back into the growing shadows, leaving the golden firelight to warm an empty camp.

  The newcomer edged into the light slowly, carefully, taking his time with each ste
p. Jack watched from just beyond the man's range of sight. He, too, was careful.

  "Coffee's ready," the man said, using a folded rag resting on a rock to lift the boiling pot off the fire.

  "Help yourself," Jack answered before moving a few feet to his right, not willing for the man to use his voice to find range.

  "Thanks," the man answered, pouring a cup. "You?"

  "Only one cup. It's all yours."

  "Thanks again."

  The man's hands were both blatantly occupied. Jack had circled his own camp and could detect no other men waiting for him in the dark. He moved into the light of his fire, approaching the man head-on, his hands coiling a length of rope, occupied.

  "Name's Foster. I'm a U.S. Marshal."

  Jack had heard of him; this man fit the description. "Scullard."

  "Haven't seen you around; you new to the country?"

  Marshal Foster kept sipping at his coffee. Jack kept playing with his length of rope. Both men edged around each other with caution born of experience.

  "Yeah," Jack said, his hat masking his features in heavy shadow so that only his stubbled jaw was clear in the firelight. "Up from Texas. Huntin' bounty."

  The marshal nodded and threw the gritty remains of his cup onto the hard soil of Kansas. "Figured you for a bounty hunter. Who you hunting up here?"

  Foster refilled the cup and held it out to him, but he kept his distance. A lot could happen when a man got too close.

  "Been some murders down around Red River Station, track led north; heard from Sheriff Lane in Abilene that you've had some of the same up here."

  The marshal set the full cup down on a flat rock and moved back from it; he stayed in the fire's glow, but he put some distance between himself and Jack. Jack appreciated the effort.

  "You heard right. It's damn ugly when men take to killin' women." The marshal spat in disgust.

  Jack nodded. The memory of a woman lying in the dirt, her blood running away from her life in a torrent, flashed like lightning in his mind. "It's rare enough, thank God." He set the rope down and picked up the coffee, glad for something to rinse his mouth with.