Explaining Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  But it probably helped that she wasn't sitting straddle behind him, like before. And until they resolved what they'd been discussing, before Alden's sudden bent for murder interrupted them, he wasn't sure he should enjoy the heaven of her arms around him anyway. He wasn't sure she would want his, either.

  "The . . . undertaker?" murmured Wright, uncertainly, when they reached the jail. He still seemed dazed. Killing did that to a fellow—even a son of a bitch.

  "He'll be here," Laramie assured him dourly, cutting the sheriff's incongruously wrapped, red-and-white-checked corpse down from its horse. "Help me carry him inside."

  Once they dumped the thing in its own cell, Wright just stood there, staring at it. So Laramie had to herd the other rustlers in by himself. He gave pennies to excited little boys to run and fetch the local ranchers—and Thaddeas Garrison—to the jail.

  "I'm going home now," announced Wright then, suddenly turning for the door, but Laramie caught his arm and pushed him into the deputy's chair instead.

  "It will look better if you stay," he warned.

  "Look better." Alden Wright stared up at him, both confused and somehow insulted. "I said it was self-defense."

  He was an idiot. Laramie just wasn't sure how he felt about the man's idiocy. Wright had clearly murdered the sheriff in cold blood. Gagged, Ward couldn't even have taunted him. Cuffed, Ward hadn't likely threatened him.

  You could have killed him, Wright had complained back at the box canyon—trying to make things easy on himself, Laramie guessed. Why didn 't you kill the son of a bitch ?

  Then he'd been forced to sit there, waiting for Laramie and Victoria's return, watching the sheriff and maybe thinking through everything Ward had said about Julie, over and over. Maybe Ward had smiled. Maybe he'd even laughed. Either way, Alden Wright had snapped, and become a killer himself.

  Assuming he wasn't already, at the least, an accomplice.

  Alden Wright was rich. A rancher. A bachelor. He'd seduced Laramie's sister, led a lynch mob to them, and abandoned Julie during the worst days of her short life. Laramie tensed with more than ten years of slow-burning fury, to think of it. And now that they were more or less alone, except for the captive rustlers, he finally managed to do what he'd been failing at since arriving in Sheridan.

  He asked a question. "You think you loved her?"

  Wright's head came up, and some of die glazed look to his eyes cleared. "I did love her."

  "She told you where our hideout was, and you told—"

  "My father!" Wright stood, turned angrily away, ran a hand down his face. "Just my father. Do you think I haven't regretted that, every day?"

  Laramie stared at him and thought, Not the way I have.

  "I was so angry that year. My father wanted to send me to college, but I was going to prove what a great rancher I made, so that I could settle down and marry Julie. He said he'd use the information to straighten things out between your family and the Wards. He said nobody would get hurt."

  God, what an idiot. He'd also been young; Laramie admitted that to himself with extreme reluctance. But...

  'You sat there." His voice shook on those words— the drawback of allowing himself to feel things again. 'You sat there and watched them do it."

  "And a twelve-year-old boy showed more grit than I did," Wright agreed, and spun to face him again. Tears glittered in his wild eyes. "Yes, I did that. I betrayed her, and I let her father and brother die, and I never confessed it to anybody until Victoria, and her only because ..."

  He gestured with one confused hand, and Laramie found himself nodding agreement. Because she was Victoria.

  "I was a coward, and a fool, and—and a libertine!" Wright planted both hands on the desk between them. "If you want to kill me for that, you go right ahead. I probably deserve it. But don't you dare say I didn't love her. Maybe I didn't love her right, or enough. God, she went to Howe instead of me! If she'd just come to me .. ." He shook his head. "I didn't deserve her. But I loved her."

  Laramie stared at him and felt a final shifting, a final cracking, deep inside where the hatred had protected him all these years. The last of his heart's shell seemed to fall away—and it hurt.

  God, it hurt. That was the problem with stopping. Stopping was when a fellow remembered to hurt. But his family had been murdered, and he'd wasted his life ever since. Maybe it was long past time to hurt.

  He glanced back toward the cell where they'd put the dead sheriff. "Did it make you feel better?"

  Looking confused again, Wright shook his head.

  "No," he said, voice hollow. "I thought I would, but I just feel..."

  Ugly. Used. Worthless. Humiliated.

  "She's still dead," explained Wright. "So it didn't really help at all."

  "It never does." Laramie took a deep breath, rolled some of the kinks out of his shoulders, exhaled. Julie—-Julie—was dead, but not at her own hand. She hadn't died of a broken heart. "It doesn't look like self-defense," he offered.

  Wright shook his head, a spectrum of emotions from betrayal to resignation shifting across his face. "What?"

  "I wasn't there," Laramie warned. "But when I rode in, it looked more like he'd been trying to escape."

  The front door of the jail creaked open, and he spun to face the intrusion, afraid someone important had overheard. Someone important had overheard. Victoria.

  Despite that he had said nothing illegal, offered no alibi, Laramie felt guilty. She believed in right and wrong, not in helping a killer—

  But she said, closing the door behind her, "I thought that, if he was trying to escape, maybe he moved fast and scared you into thinking he would hurt you. Not that I was there, either."

  Between them, she probably had the most clever criminal mind. When she came to Laramie's side and slid her arm around him, gazed approvingly up at him, he knew he wouldn't care if she was a criminal. He loved her, every curious, contradictory, troublesome inch of her—and from the way she was looking at him, he must have somehow stumbled back into the world where she loved him, too.

  Or maybe he'd never left it.

  'Yes," said Wright, slowly. "I'll try to remember more ... carefully."

  Laramie ignored him to gaze back down at the most beautiful face in all the world. The one he still wasn't sure he deserved. The one who'd helped him come closer than he'd ever expected.

  I heard, Victoria mouthed up at him, and maybe he looked confused, because she sighed, ducked her head, then seemed to force herself to face him. "I listened outside the door. I'm sorry—for everything. Forgive me?"

  He stared down at her for another long minute. Forgive her?

  Then he laughed.

  Laramie had a rusty, uncertain laugh. Victoria adored it. She adored him. She adored him even more when he sank onto a bench and pulled her into his lap with him, his arms tight around her, her skirts draping across him to his knees, and overcame his smile just long enough to kiss her.

  Oh, but he had to be the best of kissers.

  "Uh, excuse me," interrupted Alden from where he sat remembering. "I'm not quite sure of proper etiquette in such circumstances, and I'm loath to deny Mr. Laurence anything at this point, but as the lady's actual escort, it does seem I should register a protest. No offense."

  It was Ross, his arms still tight around her, who unleashed another of his beautiful smiles and made it real. "We are engaged to be married."

  His eyes searched hers, as if even now he had any doubt. She bit her lower lip and nodded encouragement. Yes, they were. Engaged. To be married.

  If it was a respectable engagement, they would have plenty of time to collect proof to support all of her instincts about this man she loved. It might put her family's mind at ease, whether she needed it anymore or not.

  "Oh," said Alden. "She, er, hadn't mentioned that before now. My apologies."

  Ross shrugged, and Victoria draped her arms over his hard shoulders. She'd never felt him so relaxed.

  "And thank you for not killing me,"
added Alden, his laugh only a little uneven.

  But Ross looked at Victoria when he said, "I should have gotten the whole story first."

  The door to the jail opened and Victoria's father walked in. As soon as he saw Vic and Ross, he stopped still, stiffened. His gray eyes began to narrow.

  Ross stood so quickly, only his arms around her kept Victoria from falling onto the floor. "Boss," he greeted. "I—"

  Then he just stared, an almost amused look of helpless resignation stealing onto his dark, angled face. He'd lost his words again.

  "Ross wants to speak to you," finished Victoria quickly.

  Papa glared from him to Victoria—who wriggled her feet back to the floor and tried to convey in her smile how very happy she was—then back to Ross.

  Then her father turned around and walked back out.

  "He'll get used to the idea," she assured Ross confidently. "It's not like you're a sheep farmer," she reminded him, sliding her hand into his, weaving their fingers together.

  Ross looked doubtful. "Just a gunman and cattle rustler."

  "A reformed gunman and rustler."

  Alden Wright mused, "I wonder if it gets easier or increasingly difficult for him each time one of you chooses a husband?"

  Victoria considered that and said, "Even if he doesn 't get used to the idea, I'll still marry Ross. So he might as well."

  "I'm not sure it works that way," cautioned Ross, eyeing the doorway as if noticing that it provided the jail's only exit. But then he saw her watching him and managed a smile, if not one of his better ones. "But we'll make sure it does."

  She nodded happily and whispered, "I love you, you know."

  He bowed his head to hers, worshiped her with his eyes. "Beyond life," he reminded her. "Beyond anything."

  So she stretched up for a kiss, which, after one last, wary glance at the door, he gave her. She sank into his embrace, warm and melting all over again.

  Which was when Thaddeas walked in. Stopped still. Stiffened. His brown eyes began to narrow.

  Victoria whispered, "And I really will visit you in jail."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  "Please state your name for the court," instructed Thaddeas from the front of the room. He looked his most proper and lawyer-like in a three-piece suit. Evangeline, seated beside Victoria, seemed more than content to simply watch him from the gallery, but Vic, leaning sideways to get a better view, wished he wouldn't keep standing between her and the witness. How was she supposed to report on this trial if she couldn't see?

  It particularly frustrated her that the witness looked so handsome in his Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, and she hadn't spent time with him for two whole days!

  "Ross Laurence," answered the man steadily.

  To Vic's satisfaction, Thaddeas turned to face the jury, and she could finally better see her fiance. Ross's tanned, angled face and shiny black hair made him look as dangerous as ever; she suspected that perhaps he still was. But Thaddeas had cleared him of any lingering childhood charges. He was a good man, and he was now helping to convict a no-good rustler.

  Surely the jury would see that!

  Thaddeas said, over his shoulder, "And your profession?"

  "I am the range detective for the Sheridan Cattle Association." Nobody would ever wonder who he worked for now. Despite the shoddy reputation that range detectives had, Ross had told her, he meant to uphold the law.

  And he had experience in overcoming shoddy reputations.

  "How long have you held this job?" Thaddeas was a good lawyer. He never sounded annoyed asking questions for which he full-well knew the answers.

  "Since November," answered Ross. "Eight months." And finally, almost against his will, his gaze touched Victoria's. She liked how his lips pressed together with a brief mixture of pain and amusement. Eight months since he'd saved her from Sheriff Ward, since Thaddeas had cleared his name, since he'd come home to stay! If circumstances had been different, they would be married already.

  But Papa had insisted on a long engagement and Ross had gratefully agreed, as if marrying her was worth any price. The only person who complained about the wait was Vic. And oh, she'd done her share of complaining. After all, Ross had been a model citizen!

  Then again . ..

  "Would you characterize yourself as familiar with the way cattle rustlers work?" Thaddeas managed not to make a face while asking that.

  He and Papa hadn't gotten past that minor point quite yet.

  "Yes," agreed Ross steadily. "I would."

  "So your initial suspicion of Mr. Price was based on experience and real evidence."

  "It was."

  The defendant—a forty-year-old man from Ohio, new to town that spring—scowled at them from where he sat with his own lawyer.

  Thaddeas said, "Please tell us what led you to request that Sheriff Jones take a look at Mr. Price's livestock."

  Ross did so. Since Victoria had heard the story more than once, she nudged Evangeline, then tapped the little watch neatly pinned to her friend's best skirt. Mama had given Evangeline the watch for Christmas, and Evangeline seemed to enjoy opening its cover to show Victoria that it was only ten-thirty.

  They had plenty of time, yet. So Vic jotted notes for her latest newspaper story and, only partly listening, simply watched the man she loved.

  The man she would marry next week.

  In eight months Ross had been everything, done anything anybody could want of him. He'd practically become part of the family, sitting beside her at church, coming to die Garrisons' increasingly awkward but always interesting Sunday dinners. He'd rented die apartment over Thaddeas's law offices to live in—maybe in part so Thad could keep watch on him and see his innocence.

  That winter, Ross had even helped Audra.

  Of all the Garrison girls, nobody had thought proper little Audra would cause their first real scandal. Her beau, a seemingly respectable banker's son, had taken her on a carriage ride and kept her out well after nightfall—cause enough for rude speculation, especially when Audra then refused to marry the scoundrel. Despite that she'd practically been kidnapped, poor Audra had taken her compromised reputation to heart. She hardly left the house except for church and school. Once she finished out her levels, in May, she mainly went out for church. She hadn't even argued when the Sheridan school board chose not to hire her as a teacher, the one thing she'd ever really wanted.

  Victoria wanted to argue. She wanted to argue plenty! But Audra begged her, and Laurel, and their mother to leave it alone. Reluctantly, they did.

  No such luck with the menfolk, thank goodness. Forced into unnatural silence, Vic had felt all the better to learn that Ross had personally helped Papa, Thaddeas, Stuart MacCallum, and Collier Pembroke put the fear of God into Audra's former suitor.

  Of the five of them, Victoria knew which one most bankers' sons would least want to meet in a dark alley.

  Yet one more way she was nothing like a banker's son!

  Now Audra was taking a teaching position with a widowed aunt, down in Texas where nobody knew her. Victoria didn't want to see her go. But in the meantime, Papa had allowed her and Ross to marry this summer, so that Audra could attend.

  Next week, she told herself happily, and shivered. In a week, Ross would really be part of her family, and she—

  Vic turned back to her friend, and Evangeline surreptitiously opened the watch again. Barely ten minutes had passed since the last time Vic checked. Even with Thad's questions to guide him, Ross was not particularly talkative.

  Good.

  Vic loved that Ross was now earning a living protecting cattle interests from bad men. She loved writing newspaper articles about it; her editor now joked that rustlers were her specialty. But what with her plans for the afternoon, she hoped Thaddeas would finish his questions, convict the greenhorn to a fair judgment, and let Ross finally spend some time with her.

  In public.

  With Duchess.

  "Mr. Laurence, do you have any further proof tha
t the cattle were in the defendant's corral?" asked Victoria's brother, and Ross nodded.

  Thad went to his table and picked up a handful of round, black-and-white photographs, returned to them by mail from Rochester, New York the previous week. "Please tell the court what these pictures show."

  "Judge," protested the defending attorney.

  Ross said, "Cattle in Mr. Price's corral."

  Now the other lawyer stood. "Judge!"

  "Mr. Nicholson, we've been through this before." But the judge glanced wearily toward Victoria as he said it. "Photographs count as legal evidence."

  Thaddeas handed the pictures to the jury.

  The photographs that Victoria had taken of Sheriff Ward, back in the box canyon, had created a sensation in Sheridan. They'd helped convict the rustler's accomplices and stained the sheriff's reputation to the point that nobody bothered investigating Ward's death. Since then, photographs were appearing in court more and more often. Especially since Kodak had recently started selling Brownie box cameras— You push the button, we do the rest—for a dollar.

  Victoria had bought Ross one for his birthday. Of course she would rather take any pictures he might need herself. But he'd gotten frustratingly stubborn about her not putting herself in danger.

  Well, any more danger than necessary.

  Not that she liked the story of how Mr. Price had threatened to shoot him rather than letting him ride away after taking the pictures. Apparently, Ross had ridden off anyway. He'd reassured her that he had a good eye for whether a man had killing in him.

  Mr. Price had not shot him.

  "As you can see," Thaddeas was telling the jury, "this is clearly Mr. Price's cabin. The cattle in his corral bear brands from several area ranches. And lest my colleague argue that the defendant was unaware of their presence, in several of them, Mr. Price himself is standing among the stolen livestock."

  Ross, still in the witness box, deliberately refused to look at Victoria. He was probably afraid he would smile.