Claudia Dain Page 33

  Jack rose stiffly to his feet, his eyes never leaving Anne. He knew Brazos, Tim Ross, was dead. A shot like that could only kill. Anne had killed her father. That took some doing. He didn't know what she'd do now, if she'd blame him, if she'd regret it and dissolve in tears or rise up in anger. What did a woman do when she'd killed her pa to save her man? He didn't know. He never would have asked it of her. He'd never have pushed her to it, no matter how many bullets had found their way into him. He'd take any bullet to save Anne sorrow and trouble.

  She'd waited all her life for her pa to come back. He wasn't going to be the one to take Tim Ross away from her again and for good. He'd lived through that kind of loss. He wasn't going to be the one to do it to her.

  "Anne," he said, catching her eye. She was staring at Brazos, watching the blood run out to turn the dust to red mud. She'd shot him right in the head. "Anne, look at me."

  "Should I keep firing? Should I empty the gun?" she said. Her voice sounded small, lost.

  Damn, but he hadn't wanted anything like this for her. This was his world; he hadn't wanted her stained by it. He'd only wanted to keep her safe, but how could a woman be safe, be clean of the filth of life, with him around? He carried filth and sorrow like a coat on his back.

  "No, you can put it away," he said. "Go on."

  She hesitated and then slipped the gun into her reticule.

  "Anne?"

  "Jack? You all right?"

  "Am I all right?"

  They weren't moving. They seemed frozen in place on the platform. He wanted to run to her, take her up and hold her close. But he couldn't. Because of him, she'd killed a man. Her own pa.

  "I'm fine," he said, forcing himself to stand. It wasn't much of a wound, just some blood and some sting. "Anne? Will you look at me?"

  She did. She wasn't crying. She wasn't anything. She was just looking.

  "Anne, I'm sorry about your pa... all this time... all that waitin'."

  "All that time?" she said, taking a step toward him.

  "You were waiting for him. He was all you ever wanted. I know it, and I'm sorry," he said.

  "Jack," she said, her voice husky and soft. "It was you," she said. "It was you all that time, all those years. I was waiting... for you."

  Chapter 25

  The killing had drawn a crowd. Seemed the whole town, including Jessup at the train window, just had to see what was going on down at the train platform. It sure had been a busy week in Abilene.

  Things like this just seemed to happen naturally when a bounty hunter took up residence.

  "What happened?" Lane asked, arriving just ahead of the crowd.

  "I shot him," Jack said, holding Anne at his side. He was leaning on her as if she were the rock that held up the world and she looked like she could do it, if pressed.

  "You know who you shot?" Lane asked.

  "Yeah, Brazos. Reward money on him. I'll take it in cash," Jack said.

  Lane looked at Anne, who was looking at Jack. Did she know that the man lying in a red mess at the bottom of the platform was her pa? Probably not. She'd been real little when he took off. No reason for her to remember him. No reason at all for her to know that Tim Ross had been going by the name of Brazos for ten years now.

  "Sounds fair," Lane said. "Looks like he got you some. Anne? How're you doing?"

  "Fine," she said, her voice soft and high. Maybe a bit shaky, but she'd seen a shooting and that was to be expected from a gal as sensitive and sheltered as Anne was. "Jack needs some help, though."

  "I'm fine, too," he said, looking down at her, his expression unreadable. "Don't no one need to worry over me."

  "I'm going to worry over you and you're going to like it. I get to take care of you some now. Understood?" Anne said, looking up at Jack, her expression fierce with love.

  Jack cleared his throat and said softly, "Understood." He kissed the top of her head and said, "You sure got grit, you know that?"

  She gripped him hard around the waist and said with a crack in her voice, "I sure do."

  The crowd reached them then and, at a look from Charles, the women of Anne's family kept still about the dead man at their feet. Tim Ross was dead, but then, he'd been dead to them for years. And now Nell was free and they both knew it. That was all he needed. Once this was cleaned up, he was making Nell his woman and no one, not even Miss Daphne, was going to get in his way. If Jack could manage that woman, so could he.

  It didn't take long to clean up the mess Brazos had made in his dying. Once he was carted off, the crowd disappeared with him. Jack, Anne, Miss Daphne, and Nell went off to the Mustang to get him cleaned and doctored some. If Anne hadn't had such a good hold of Jack, he might have wandered off to avoid the fussing that was sure to come, but she had him good and tight.

  Neil McShay watched the crowd that had encircled Tim Ross wander off, the Walton kids the last to go and that after being hounded and snapped at by their mother, and looked back toward where Sarah was standing. He'd never known Sarah Davies to be so still.

  "You want to go with them? Jack's been shot up some and I guess Anne could use the help."

  "No," she said, "I think she'll be fine." And then she smiled. "Did you see how she stood with Jack? That girl's come of age today."

  Neil walked across the street and stepped up on the boardwalk. "She's married, too. Been married a whole week now."

  "So she has," Sarah said lightly, her eyes shining with expectation.

  "So, I guess that makes you free to set your horse on your own trail."

  "Free as wind in the grass." She smiled, not meeting his eyes.

  "So," he said, edging up next to her, crowding her against the platform, "want me to tell you how Ida died?"

  Sarah smiled and let out her breath. "You gave me a scare, Neil; I would have bet money you were going to show me."

  Neil didn't say a word, but his smile was a mile wide.

  * * *

  The saloon was crowded, the old man who usually had himself wedged in a corner was up and drinking, rubbing elbows and listening to the talk. Quiet talk it was; nobody seemed to want to talk out loud about what had just happened. Grey would have, but Jack had told him to shut up straight out and, for once, Grey was listening.

  "Hurt much?" Anne asked as she tied on the bandage.

  "Not much," he said. He'd seen worse.

  "I'm not much of a hand with gunshot wounds," she said, straightening up.

  "You'll do," he said, smiling.

  "I don't want to get any good at it either," she said, frowning down at him.

  "You sure are an easy woman to please. All's I got to do is not get shot."

  "Yeah, but can you do it?" she said.

  The old man at the bar listened to them with a smile and then edged over to the sheriff. Blakes and Grey were down by the window, Martha and Shaughn were washing up, and Nell was walking Miss Daphne home. What he had to say to the sheriff would be private, at least to begin with; what Lane did later was out of his hands.

  "You don't need to hunt over God's creation for the man who killed Bill Tucker. He's standing right next to you."

  Charles looked sideways at the man next to him. He wasn't much to look at; lean, old, stooped, and gray. Hardly the kind of man to gut a man like a deer.

  "Yeah, I know what you're thinkin', but I was a prime man in my day and I still have the strength I earned all those years riding the range and tossing cattle."

  "Why'd you do it?" Lane asked softly. "And why are you telling me? You covered your trail good."

  "Thank ye," he said amiably. "I'll tell you who Tucker was and then you won't need to ask why I did it."

  "I'm listenin'."

  "Tucker was no good. His game was to sweet-talk women out of their land. He took my sister for everything, five years back; she died soon after. I lost his trail and then picked it up again here, in Abilene. I've just been sitting, waiting for him to make his move, wanting to catch him in the act. I thought he was trying it with Anne and her
folks; looked like he was, too, until Jack Skull rolled into town. That put an end to him."

  "Why'd you kill him?"

  "He deserved it."

  "What's the rest of it?" Lane pressed.

  "I'm dying," the old man said easily. "Couldn't wait no more for Tucker to do something where I could catch him. My time's up and I wasn't leaving the world with him still in it."

  Lane studied the man in front of him. There was no reason for him to lie, and what he said fit in with other things he'd been finding out about Tucker and his land deals.

  "What was your sister's name?" Lane asked.

  "Mary Claire Hancock."

  It was a name on his list. It fit.

  "You going to string me up?"

  The sheriff studied the foam on his beer and thought about it. "How long did you say you have?"

  "I'll not make it to summer."

  "Hell, I'm not going to waste county money on a trial for you," Charles said. "Besides, there ain't no evidence connecting you with Tucker."

  The old man studied the sheriff with bright eyes and murmured, "Thank ye," before he ambled off to his corner of the saloon.

  The sheriff bought him a fresh beer before he left.

  * * *

  "You don't tell her that was her pa, that's my advice," Miss Daphne said to her daughter as they walked home.

  "I agree. No child needs to see her father killed. I wouldn't burden her with that," Nell said. "It sure is a strange ending though, isn't it?"

  "I find much of what goes on in this world more than passing strange," Daphne said, "but the Lord's ways are mysterious. At least to me."

  "Why, Ma, you hardly ever talk like this. You all right?"

  Miss Daphne took one of Nell's hands and held it in her own. "I'm just sorry that it had to come to this for you. I sure thought the world of Tim Ross when you married him. It's not easy being that far wrong."

  "It's so long past now, and we were all wrong," Nell said. "We couldn't have known he'd turn. He was a good man once."

  "You were right to leave him. He would have ruined Anne," Miss Daphne said. "He would have ruined you." She gave Nell a quick squeeze of her hand.

  "Well, not a one of us is ruined and it's mostly because of you."

  "That's enough of that kind of talk. I didn't do any more than any mother would and you know that for a fact."

  "True enough," Nell said. "But I thank you anyway."

  "With you feeling this obliging, you might want to take a bit more advice from me today," Daphne said.

  "My, you're asking me to take your advice? You really aren't yourself, are you?" Nell teased.

  You hush," Daphne said, dropping Nell's hand. “You tell Anne that you left Tim. She's old enough to know the truth of that. It might even help her some."

  "I think you're right. I'll tell her."

  "And another thing."

  "Here it comes."

  "You tell Charles Lane that I won't have another wedding in my house until I have a better show of flowers. Poor Anne didn't even have daisies."

  "You might need to tell him that yourself."

  "Then I will," Daphne said as she climbed the porch steps. "Don't think I won't."

  "Oh," Nell said with a smile as she followed her mother inside, "I know you will."

  * * *

  "Why did you do it?" Anne asked.

  "You know why. There's no need for you to face all that," Jack said.

  They were walking out toward the house, Jack limping and taking it slow. It was going to take them a while, but they had plenty of time.

  "You didn't need to, you know."

  "I surely did. Don't go telling me what my job is, Anne. I'm going to protect you whether you like it or not. I'd advise you to make up your mind to like it." He stopped and leaned against the wall of Powell's livery. "Why did you do it?" he asked softly.

  "You know why," she said, looking up into his face. He sure was beautiful. He surely was that sweet-eyed boy Martha O'Shaughnessy remembered. "I wasn't going to stand around and watch you get killed. I'm not going to lose you, you know, just make up your mind to it. I'm keeping you around."

  "It was a hard thing you did today. You're going to be living with it a long time."

  "Jack," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face against his shirtfront, "as long as I'm living with you, I can live with anything. He wasn't worth spit and you... you," she said, tears filling her voice and flooding her eyes, "you need to do a better job of taking care of yourself. I can't always be around to fight your battles. You need to learn how to fight back. Some things are worth fighting for, you know."

  "Yeah?" he said, wrapping his arms around her, watching the Walton kids playing in the street, smelling the tobacco of Powell's pipe somewhere behind him, hearing the whistle of a train just coming into town. "Like what?"

  She lifted her face, her light blue eyes huge and fierce.

  "Like us."

  The End

  Author’s Note

  If you’ve wandered into this book first, you probably don’t know that Jack’s ancestors were first introduced in To Burn, a novel that takes place in Britain as the Roman legions have left the Romanized Britons to face the barbarian Saxon invasion alone. Melania and Wulfred begin Jack’s line.

  In The Willing Wife, a romance set in 12th century England, Nicolaa is a descendant of Wulfred and Melania and the ruins of Melania’s Roman villa are described in that book, the land still in Nicolaa’s control. In fact, the legend of Wulfred and Melania’s love is a story told in the halls of England at that time.

  A Kiss To Die For brings the family line to a conclusion in Jack Scullard. Because Rowland was from France and held land there even after he married Nicolaa, Jack’s branch of the family tree settled in France permanently during the time of Cromwell in England. In the 1790s they emigrated to New Orleans, and in the mid-19th century Jack’s parents moved to Texas to begin a new life. Jack was born in Texas.

  While each book stands very much alone, I hope you’ll enjoy recognizing character traits that have been passed down from one generation to another. It’s a family tree anyone would be proud to be a twig on.

  I should also mention for anyone familiar with The Courtesan Chronicles, my Regency England series, that if you recognized the names of Jack’s two friends, John Grey and Josiah Blakesley, you’re not losing your mind. These two men are the grandsons of the men introduced in The Courtesan’s Daughter, the first book in the Courtesan series. How these men ended up in America and became friends will be the subject of a future story.

  Excerpt from

  To Burn

  by

  Claudia Dain

  © 2002, 2011 by Claudia Welch

  Chapter 1

  Melania tried moving her right leg to ease the cramping and banged her knee against the rough wall of the clay vent instead. Reaching down to rub the throbbing joint, she managed to wedge her hand against her rib cage so that she could hardly breathe and then scraped off half the skin on the back of her hand as she wrenched it free.

  Through the funneling of the hypocaust, she could hear the scrape of movement above her. And the crackle of fire. It would be wonderful to bake herself warm in front of a fire, her very own fire in her very own house, its light warming the room as much as its heat. It was very cold in the underground hypocaust and very dark.

  Her father was dead. This she knew. She had heard the full-throated cry, like wolves howling in animal unison; she knew it meant the Saxons had won. In the winning, they would have killed. It was their way.

  Was it night? Probably. They had attacked at the cusp of daylight and darkness. It must be full dark now or perhaps even morning. She had no sense of the passage of time. She knew only that the raging heat of her fury had hardened to a cold knot of revenge fed by pride.

  They would not gain victory over her, and they would never defeat Rome. She was hidden according to her father's plan. Let them think they had won. She had el
uded them and they didn't even know it.

  Stupid barbari. They would move on, attacking some other poor villa or town, as was their barbaric way, and she would emerge and build her life back to what it once was. They had most assuredly damaged the villa—they were just the sort of stupid oafs to do such a thing—but that meant only that she would have the freedom to rebuild in a more aggressive fashion.

  Let them come again. Just let them. She looked forward to it. But they had to leave first.

  * * *

  Cuthred threw another one of the library scrolls onto the fire. The satisfaction he received from the act was minimal, but all of the bigger items had already been hacked and burned.

  "We are finished here. Let's move on," he said.

  "You may be finished, but Wulfred is not," Cenred said lightly.

  "This place is finished. There is nothing left to take or destroy. I want more fun out of this isle before we return home."

  "Cuthred, you have absolutely no ability to entertain yourself. Must there always be a battle found for you? Can you not find other ways to amuse yourself?" Cenred said on a laugh.

  "No," Cuthred answered.

  "He says no," Balduff said, "and yet I have tried to get him to see the pleasure that a woman can provide. Look at the process as a battle if you must; she has defenses which must be overcome, terrain which must be explored, secrets and hidden places to be revealed. I tell you, a woman can entertain a man for hours before she wears thin."

  "I like battle," Cuthred said.

  "Yes, you like battle, as do I," Balduff said, "but women are more plentiful."

  "There cannot always be a battle," Cenred said.

  "There is no more battle here. Let's go to a place that can provide one," Cuthred said.

  "We will stay until Wulfred says we go," Cynric said.