by Lynda J. Cox
His sigh rippled to her. “Go back to bed. I’ll be here in the morning.”
JON REINED THE LIVERY horse up on the edge of town. Straight out the road, Victoria said, and he’d come to the main house for the Brokken Arrow ranch. Or, he could keep on riding and not look back. If he wasn’t back that night, would Victoria order up a posse and come after him? He knew the answer to that as well as he knew the back of his hand.
His sight dropped to the scratches running the length of his hand. He had to have scratched himself on the rose, though he didn’t remember rising from the chesterfield, dressing, or going out the back. When the door slammed against the clapboard with Victoria shoving it open, and startling him to full awareness, he’d been confused and more than concerned to realize he was on the porch.
As a child, he’d been afflicted with episodes of sleep-walking. He hoped that disorder hadn’t returned. When the sleep-walking had occurred as a child, it was usually after a particularly distressing event happened—the loss of his beloved grandmother to apoplexy; failure to save a friend from drowning when they had disobeyed their parents and had explored a newly frozen river; assuming the adult responsibility for putting his pony out of its misery when he asked the little gelding to jump a fence much too high and the result was two broken bones—his arm and the pony’s leg.
Sitting in the middle of the road, searching for answers to a riddle without clues, wasn’t getting him to the Brokken Arrow. Delaying ingesting a healthy portion of crow pie for things he hadn’t done wasn’t getting him there, either. If he was going to transform Jonathan English, asking for pardon from Isaac Iverson was the best place to start. He put his heels into the horse.
When the ranch house came into view, Jon didn’t know if he should laugh or tuck tail and run. Victoria hadn’t been joking with him when she said he couldn’t mistake the place for anything else. The house rose on a small hillock. Two stories of dark, elaborate and ornate woodwork, a high-pitched roof, and narrow, tall windows all combined to create a forbidding and imposing appearance.
He rode into the yard. Before he could dismount, he was met by a man about his age descending from the deeply shaded porch. “Can I help you?”
Jon swung off the horse and dropped one rein. “I’m looking for Mr. Iverson.”
“Last I saw Isaac, he was in the barn, greasing the bearings on the buggy.” The other man gave Jon a cursory once over. “You’re Jonathan English.”
“Yeah.” The word felt as if it choked him. He’d already met the three Brokken brothers, so this couldn’t be another Brokken. “You are?”
“Chance Hale.” Chance wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, his head dipping, as if he didn’t like offering his name any more than Jon liked offering up he was Jonathan English.
Jon knew that name. Men on both sides of the conflict knew of Hale, his proficiency as a Sharpshooter, even the extreme risks he took to get a killing shot. “Not a chance in hale? That Chance Hale?”
Hale’s expression shuttered faster than a dowager could clutch her pearls before falling onto a fainting couch. “War’s over. Isaac’s in the barn, if you want him.” Hale turned on a heel and walked away without another word, retreating to the shadows of the large porch.
Jon’s horse shook its head, sputtering as if laughing. Jon heard the door slam. He blew out a short breath. Yep, he was off to a good start. He picked up the drop rein and led the horse around the house to the barn.
The barn, like the house, could have been on any Pennsylvania Dutch homestead back East. The interior was cool and filled with the scents Jon associated with a well-used barn—hay, leather, warm bodies, and even fresh manure. The aroma brought back all the pleasant times growing up that he’d spent in his family’s barn.
A buggy was braced high enough the wheels on one side would have been clear of the ground if they were still attached to the vehicle, and an aging black man bent under the frame, a bucket of grease in one hand, a thick brush dripping with goo in the other.
“Mr. Iverson.”
Isaac Iverson backed out from under the buggy. His eyes widened for the space of a heartbeat. “Mr. English.” His expression cleared. “Or is it back to being Sheriff English?”
“Mister is fine.” Jon cleared his throat. “Actually, Jonathan would be even better.”
Iverson’s brows arched upward. “All right, Jonathan. What brings you to the Brokken Arrow?”
“Two things.” Jon scanned the rafters for a few moments, and then brought his gaze back to the Brokken Arrow’s foreman. He cleared his throat again. “I owe you an apology. My previous behavior toward you and my words about you were not becoming of a gentleman and were unwarranted.” Please, Lord, let that sound enough like him. “Secondly—”
“Doesn’t it rather stick in your craw, trying to be someone you aren’t?”
An icy fist clenched around Jon’s heart. How did this man know he wasn’t Jonathan? “Excuse me?”
“You don’t believe you did anything wrong. You’re not apologizing because your heart has changed.” With a deliberation bordering on melodramatic, Iverson pushed the brush into the metal bucket. “Without a change of heart, Mr. English—”
“Jonathan, please, Mr. Iverson.” Jon struggled to keep his relief hidden. Iverson wasn’t questioning his identity, merely his sincerity.
Iverson’s brow knit, and his lips pursed. He set the metal bucket on the running board of the buggy, and then wiped his hands on a rag tucked into the waist of his dirty denims.
In the face of Iverson’s continued silence, Jon stuck his hand out to the foreman. “Can we agree that a war such as the one we recently emerged from changes a man’s thoughts and perspective? I truly and deeply regret my previous words and actions.”
Iverson’s gaze dropped to Jon’s extended hand. The pursing of his lips eased and a short, huff of a breath flared his nostrils. He took Jon’s hand and shook it. “You had a second reason to be here?”
Jon nodded. He didn’t wipe off the residual grease that transferred from Iverson’s hand to his. That could be construed in an unfavorable light. “Yes. Victoria and I have talked. For now, I don’t want to resume wearing the sheriff’s badge, but I need to do something productive.” If he had startled the man earlier, this revelation moved into the realm of disbelief. “Being the sheriff involves a certain amount of trust between the town’s folk and me. I don’t know most of the newcomers. Victoria knows them, and she has their trust.”
Iverson bent and picked up the bucket. “So, you’re looking for a job at the Brokken Arrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Iverson snapped his head up. Jon wondered what had created that reaction and then he realized he had addressed the black man as “sir.” Perhaps, if nothing else, that might convince the foreman of Jonathan’s change of heart.
“Can you work cattle?” The foreman crouched under the buggy again, slopping grease onto the underside bearings.
“After the war, I worked for a time on a ranch.”
Iverson paused, seemingly frozen, and then resumed greasing the wheel bearings. “You’ll be working for and taking orders from me. Will that be a problem for you?”
“No, sir. No problem at all.”
The foreman set the bucket down again and straightened. He brought his hard, penetrating gaze to Jon. “If I hire you, I will not cut you any slack. You’ll start at first light and there are some days, we don’t quit until it’s dark. If the moon’s full, we’ve been known to work through the night. You’ll start out at greenhorn pay, ten dollars and fifty cents a month.”
He’d broken rocks in the prison chain gang by the light of a full moon, simply for the privilege of being allowed to continue to breathe. Jon nodded. “That’s acceptable, Mr. Iverson.”
“Good. And, until I say so, it will remain ‘Mr. Iverson’ to you, English.”
“Yes, sir.” Jon didn’t know if he should ask permission to leave or if he should just go.
Iverson settled t
he question for him. He pulled the rag from his waistband and tossed it to Jon. “Wipe the grease off your hands. Tell your wife she might not be seeing much of you in the next few weeks. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at first light.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Nine
Victoria stared down into a half-empty cup of coffee, contemplating why the coffee here in the jail tasted so differently from the coffee she brewed at the house. She used the same beans, the same water, yet it had a different taste. With a snort, she downed another swallow. It wasn’t the art of brewing coffee she knew she considered, but as long as she wondered about the differences, she didn’t brood unnecessarily about what could be happening at the Brokken Arrow. Don’t borrow trouble, her mother always told her.
Still, Jon hadn’t returned from the Brokken Arrow. If he’d found Isaac there, she could imagine the foreman wouldn’t be giving him the slightest leeway. She supposed she should feel some sympathy for Jon having to apologize for Jonathan’s actions. It wasn’t sympathy she felt, though, but rather concern. If he made a mistake, Isaac would be the first to realize he wasn’t Jonathan.
The rattling of the doorknob pulled her thoughts from the different scenarios which could be playing out at the Brokken Arrow. David Landry shoved the door of the jail building open, his face already twisting in a snarl. Victoria ceased her contemplation of her cold coffee and set the cup down but refused to pull her feet off the desk top. “What’s the problem today, Mr. Landry?”
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s not here.” Landry didn’t need to know Jon was at the Brokken Arrow. “Why do you want Jonathan?”
“I’m hoping he’ll pin that badge on, again. Someone needs to start taking the job seriously. Someone needs to do something about that cougar Deborah Brokken insists we leave alone.”
If she had taken this job seriously, Landry wouldn’t be demanding to see Jon, as he’d be back in the prison in Watonga. Victoria silenced that tiny whisper. She had warned Deborah more than a year ago that demanding people leave the mountain lion alone was asking for trouble, especially as brazen as the big cat seemed to be. “Deborah is married to Mr. Hale, so she is now Deborah Hale.”
“I don’t care if her name is Mrs. Jefferson Davis. Someone has to do something about that mountain lion she’s trying to turn into a housecat.” Landry leaned onto the desk, until he was nearly nose to nose with her. “Last night, that cat got one of my hunting dogs. Either you do something about it, or I will. It could have just as easily been my wife or my boy.”
“Move back, Mr. Landry.” Victoria didn’t budge an inch, even though every instinct screamed in warning, and the urge to roll the chair away from him was almost overwhelming.
Landry didn’t give ground, either. “Are you going to do something about that cougar?”
“Move back,” Victoria repeated, this time dropping her hand onto the grip of her revolver. The moment her fingers curled over the cool walnut, the quivering in her stomach and chest eased. “Now.”
Landry pushed away from her, his face contorting further in his anger. As calmly as she could, Victoria picked up her coffee cup and managed a long, deliberate sip. “What do you want me to do, Mr. Landry? I can’t go serve an arrest warrant on a mountain lion.”
“Shoot the thing.” Landry stared at her as if she had completely lost all leave of her senses. “Hunt it down and shoot it.”
“How will I know I’ve shot the right one?” Another deliberate sip of the cold coffee. “I can’t imagine your other dogs not sounding an alarm if it was a big cat, so why didn’t you shoot it?”
“I...I...I wasn’t home when it happened. I was here, in the saloon.” The starch left Landry’s blustering.
“How do you even know it was a big cat, then? Do any of your other dogs have any injuries? I’d think, if it was a cougar, the other dogs would have tried to take it down. You do use them for hunting cougar and bear, don’t you?”
“You ain’t going to do anything, are you, because that crazy woman thinks that blasted cougar is her guardian angel?” Landry turned to the door. “I’ll have to take care of it, even though this is part of your job.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take care of it. I want to be sure I’m going to be hunting for the right animal.” Dealing with nuisance wildlife was the part of the job that Victoria hated, and she never fully understood why Jonathan had allowed that to be added to the duties of the sheriff. Resolving the issue of any nuisance animal made her feel as if she was no more than a glorified rat-catcher. “I don’t want to kill an animal that isn’t a problem.”
“It’s a cougar. They’re all problems, especially when they come this close to town.” The man looked at her as if she had completely taken leave of her senses. “That cat tore my dog’s throat and stomach out. Only thing it ate was the dog’s heart.”
A chill cascaded over Victoria. That wasn’t normal behavior for a cougar. It wasn’t normal behavior for any predator.
“Either you kill it, Sheriff, or I will.”
JON PULLED TWO PLATES from the warmer when he heard Victoria enter the house through the front door. He put both on the table with a flourish when she walked into the kitchen.
Her gaze skimmed over the set table, pausing for a few seconds on the wildflowers he’d stopped to gather and placed in a tall glass of water in the center. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned as she continued to study the arrangement. “What’s all this?” The edge in her voice took him back.
“I stopped at Molly’s and got supper.” He gestured to the plates heaped with fried potatoes, green beans, and pork chops. “I knew you were at the jail most of the day and I...I just wanted to help.”
“Did you charge it to the jail?” She threw her hat onto the counter and picked up the coffee pot. A moment later, she slammed it down onto the stove top.
He’d forgotten to start a fresh pot of coffee. “No. I talked to Molly, and she started a bill for me. I’ll pay it when I get paid.”
“Great. Another bill.” Victoria picked up the pot again, seemed to realize what she did and this time when she banged the empty pot onto the stove, the clang reverberated in the tension filled air.
Jon shook his head. This was an interesting role reversal for most couples. “I thought we could celebrate a little. I’m gainfully employed.”
She didn’t seem to hear him as she stared out the window over the sink. She hadn’t heard half of what he said, he decided.
“Where were you last night?” The question sounded like the first barrage in an interrogation.
“I didn’t go anywhere last night. I told you. I woke up. I couldn’t sleep after that, so I went out onto the porch.” He closed half the distance between them. “What is this all about?”
She dipped her head and her shoulders slumped. “So, you don’t know anything about David Landry’s dead dog?”
“Why would I?” Jon took another step closer, then halted. His stomach knotted with an unnamed fear. “I don’t even know who he is. Vic, what’s this all about?”
Her shoulders rounded even further. “Maybe, it’s nothing.”
He caught her arm at the elbow and pulled her around to face him. “Whatever it is, if you’re doubting me, I need to know. I need to know so I can try to remove your doubts.”
“How did you scratch your hand?” She lifted her gaze to him. The warmth usually in her dark brown eyes was gone, and what remained was as hard as chert.
This was definitely an interrogation. The knots in his gut tightened, expanded into his chest, constricting around his heart. He released her elbow and glanced at the back of his hand. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I did it when I got too close to that rose bush, but I don’t remember it.” With a flash of insight, he realized what she thought. “Why would I kill someone’s dog?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Her gaze skipped over his features. A tight, mirthless smile dusted her lips. “You shaved your beard and m
ustache off. It completely changes your appearance.”
He wasn’t certain what to say to her observation that sounded remarkably like an accusation. He settled for the obvious. “You didn’t like the beard and mustache.”
Victoria sucked in a sharp breath. “Tell me again how you got here. This time, tell me where you went after you escaped Watonga.”
“Why don’t I save both of us some time?” His temper reached its breaking point. “I’ll just go to the telegraph office and wire Colbert now, so you don’t have to. I don’t know what’s made you suddenly doubt everything I’ve told you, but something did.”
He turned and stalked to the back door. Victoria caught him before he could pull the door open and grabbed his wrist, halting him.
“I’m over-reacting, because a cougar didn’t act normal.” The harsh undertone to her voice was gone and the hardness in her eyes softened. “One of Landry’s dogs was killed by a big cat, and it didn’t take the whole kill.”
“If it was a cougar, why did you assume I was involved?”
She drew in another breath, this one long and unsteady. “Landry said the cat ripped the dog’s throat out, and all it ate was the dog’s heart. Something about that made me think of how you said Jonathan killed those men during Tullahoma.”
“And you think I lied to you about everything—even about Jonathan’s involvement with the murder of those men?” He pulled his wrist free of her encircling hand. “I realize that my life as your husband is completely predicated on a lie, but I haven’t lied to you about anything.”
Her stricken gaze fell to the floor.
“My immediate commanding officer was Tim Minor. Last I heard, he was practicing law in Evansville, Indiana. He’ll tell you it was me. But it couldn’t have been because English left his shell jacket with me when he took mine. The name of the ranch I worked at was the Tumbling M, owned by Martin Carroll. A year ago, Carroll knew he was dying. He came forward, trying to get me released early, testifying I never touched his daughter.” Jon sucked in a shaking breath. “For all I know, he’s gone now. Colbert made it a point to tell me about Carroll’s attempts to get me released early. I don’t want to go back to Watonga, but if I have to, to prove to you I’m not lying about any of this, I will.” He hoped he had been reading her right, and she wouldn’t take that offer on face value.