Taming of Jessi Rose

by Beverly Jenkins

  The guard looked between the two, nodded to the lawman and closed the door. He did turn the key however.

  Alone now, Dix asked, “Why didn’t you write and let somebody know you were in here?”

  Griffin scratched at the lice that’d taken up residence in his clothing in the six months since he’d been sentenced. A prisoner’s personal hygiene was not high on the warden’s list of concerns. “Who’s there to write?”

  “Me. Your brother.”

  “Why? So you could come and bust me out?”

  The lawman ignored the crack. “The warden said they gave you seven years.”

  Griff shrugged. “Give or take a few months.” He had been a handsome man at one time, but the red gold hair and the muscular physique were hard to discern beneath all the dirt, beard, and grime. Griffin knew that he smelled as bad as he looked “So, how is big brother? Last I heard he was still back east.”

  “No. He and I left Chicago together in ’84. We took a wagon train of mail order brides to Kansas, then he headed down to Texas. He was going back to try and clear his name.”

  Griff thought his brother’s quest would be a futile one. “Those rebs aren’t ever going to admit Jack was framed, or that they killed Royce.”

  Royce was Royce Blake, a Texas preacher who’d pulled a twelve-year-old Griffin Sloan out of a whorehouse in Abilene and taken him home to be raised alongside his natural son, Jackson. Even though Royce and Griff rarely saw eye to eye, Griff had come to love and respect the old man. Years later, Royce’s ambush death at the hands of a well-connected West Texas rancher had further hardened Griff’s heart against the rich and powerful. “I wish big brother luck.”

  And he truly did. Even though he and Jack often argued about Griffin’s profession, they’d had some good times growing up. He hadn’t seen his half-brother in many years. “So why are you here, Dix?”

  “To save your hide, maybe.”

  “You busting me out?” he asked with sarcasm in his voice and in his topaz eyes.

  Dix didn’t smile. “In a way.”

  Griffin studied the lawman. Dix would make an excellent poker player; his face rarely gave anything away, but since the Seminole didn’t play cards, the attribute seemed wasted. “What does ‘in a way’ mean?”

  “It means I have a job for you. Complete it satisfactorily and you could walk away a free man.”

  “Could?”

  “Could,” was the only commitment the marshal seemed ready to make.

  “It wouldn’t happen to involve robbing trains, now, would it?”

  The lawman did not appear amused by Griff’s flippant attitude. “You are about to lose seven years of your life in this hellhole. Robbing trains is the last thing you should be joking about.”

  Griff knew he was right. Robbing trains was why he’d been sentenced here in the first place—that, and the woman who’d betrayed him to the Pinkertons six months ago. Were it not for his attraction to pretty women, Griff would undoubtedly be still robbing trains. “I admit it, you’re right. But I had a damn good time while it lasted.”

  And he had. Keeping true to his vow to make the railroads pay for his mother’s death, he’d robbed trains for nearly five years, from California to the Mississippi and back again, sampling as many willing women along the way as the days and nights allowed. He’d given a good portion of the money away to needy families facing desperate situations, but had kept enough to make sure he’d end his days comfortably. Prison had momentarily derailed those plans. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Read this.”

  Wildhorse pulled a letter from his shirt pocket and handed it over.

  Griff looked at the front. “It’s addressed to you.”

  “I know, read it anyway.”

  It began:

  Dear Sheriff Wildhorse,

  How are you? This time I am not writing to ask for old wanted bulletins for my collection. This time I’m writing because me and my aunt Jessi need your help. Reed Darcy wants to take our land. He killed my grandfather. I know you are very busy in Indian Territory, but could you see your way clear to come down and arrest Darcy? Our sheriff is in his vest pocket and won’t help. If you can’t come, will you send one of your deputies? Please come soon.

  Sincerely,

  Jotham

  Griff looked up and handed the note back. “Sounds like it was written by a child.”

  “It was. Jotham’s ten or eleven now. My wife and I met him and his grandfather in Denver last year, and—”

  Amazed, Griff interrupted him. “You have a wife?”

  “Yep, name’s Kate.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since ’84.”

  “No disrespect, Dix, but you married? That’s unbelievable. What’s she like?”

  For the first time, Dixon Wildhorse smiled. “A handful. She’s a crusading newspaperwoman, and it seems like I spend more time bailing her out of jail than chasing outlaws. She’s amazing.”

  Wildhorse, married. Griff found that amazing. The marshal he knew had been married to only one thing: bringing lawbreakers to justice. If Griff ever got out of prison, he’d certainly have to make it a point to meet Mrs. Kate Wildhorse. Any woman who could take Dix’s mind off of his duties, even for a moment, had to be very special indeed. “Okay go on, explain the letter.”

  “Kate and I met Joth and his grandfather in Denver last year. When the boy found out I was a lawman, he asked if he could have my old Wanted bulletins for his collection. He and I have been writing back and forth since then.”

  “The boy collects wanted posters.”

  “His daddy was Calico Bob.”

  Griff stared. He’d crossed paths with the notorious Calico Bob on only a few occasions, but had found him to be one of the most intelligent outlaws he had ever met. He was also one of the most deadly. Rumor had it that he’d shot and killed a man simply because he didn’t care for the make of the man’s shoes. One of the territorial judges had given Bob twenty-five years in the Ohio State Penitentiary for that irrational act. “This boy is Calico Bob’s kid?”

  “Yep.”

  “Never knew Bob had family. So what does this have to do with me?”

  “I want you to go help Joth and his aunt.”

  Griff stared. “You’re joshing, right.”

  The marshal’s face said he was not.

  “I’m no knight, Dix, and besides, the warden would never buy it.”

  “He already has.”

  Griff fought down the inner excitement that one phrase sparked. Would he really be able to walk free once more? “Why would he agree?”

  “Because he’s been asked to.”

  “By whom?”

  “Judge Isaac Parker.”

  Griff was stunned. Every outlaw in the West knew Hanging Judge Parker. He ran the court down at Fort Smith, Arkansas. Usually, once Parker sentenced you, not even divine intervention could pry you loose. “Why send me?”

  “Because you’re smart and resourceful and you know how to stay alive. There’s been a murder, you know.”

  “And?”

  “It’ll give you a chance to tweak some noses, legally.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Railroad’s involved.”

  For the first time in months, Griffin flashed the smile that had endeared him to women from the Mississippi to the Rio Grande. Maybe this was going to be a better scheme than he first thought. “Start at the beginning.”

  “Judge Parker and I found a nest of vipers a couple of years ago who were selling phony railroad stocks to old people back east. Actually, my wife Kate was the one who turned over the rocks. Anyway, we caught the man we thought was the brains of the outfit, Rupert Smalls. However, it now seems we didn’t catch the other head—Reed Darcy.”

  “That’s the man the boy mentioned in his letter—the one he says murdered his grandfather.”

  “Correct. Judge Parker wants Darcy brought to justice, too, but as Joth said in the letter, the local sheriff’s on Darc
y’s payroll.”

  “Does Parker have jurisdiction this far south?”

  “He says he does.”

  Griff had no intention of questioning the mandate of Hanging Judge Parker. The only person who’d ever questioned Parker had been the President of the United States, and he’d done it only once. “So why doesn’t he send you or one of his other lawmen?”

  “We don’t have the men to spare on what may be a long investigation, and Kate and I are leaving for San Francisco in a month.”

  “Why doesn’t Parker get a Texas lawman?”

  “He wants somebody loyal only to him. He doesn’t want to find out later that the man he sent in is on the railroad’s payroll.”

  “Okay. Say I agree. What’s to keep me from just taking my freedom and heading on down to Mexico, like I’d always planned?”

  “Me,” the lawman replied bluntly. “I will find you. Even if it takes a decade. And when I do, that red head of yours will be silver by the time you see freedom again.”

  Griff believed him, although if he had a head start, who knew if Dix could really make good on his threats?

  As if he’d read Griffin’s mind, Dix repeated, “I will find you.”

  Griff shrugged. To tell the truth. Griff didn’t really want to do this—because of his mother and the circumstances leading up to her death, he had a soft spot in his heart for women and kids in distress, and it would give him another chance to give the railroad bosses fits, but this endeavor sounded like it might be complicated. Outside of robbing trains, he preferred to keep life as simple as possible.

  “So, will you do it?”

  “Do these Claytons know I’m coming?”

  “No. Judge Parker would prefer you went in unannounced.”

  “I’m just supposed to waltz up to the door and say, ‘I’m here to help?’”

  “No, you’re going to go in as an old friend of Bob’s. The boy’s aunt is a widow, but she was Bob’s woman at one time, too, according to Parker’s report, so you shouldn’t have any trouble. Bob died about three months ago. Consumption. Judge wants you to take her his things; hopefully she’ll be grateful enough give you a job or something. That way you can help her and still nose around for evidence on Darcy. If that doesn’t work, the judge has a letter for you to give to her, asking for her help.”

  Griff still didn’t know if he liked this, but it beat his present situation hands down. “Okay, what do I have to do?”

  “Raise your right hand.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Griff was skeptical, but slowly raised his right hand.

  “Repeat after me. I, Griffin Blake, promise to uphold the law—”

  “Wait a minute, I’m not saying that.”

  “If you want to walk out of here with me, you’ll say it.”

  “What is it?”

  “United States Marshal oath.”

  Griff’s eyes widened. “Marshal oath? Are you loco?”

  Dix stood silent, waiting.

  “If word gets around that I’m a marshal, even a pretend one, I won’t have a friend left once I get to Mexico.”

  This was exactly the type of complication he’d meant. He couldn’t take a marshal oath. He’d be unable to show his handsome face anywhere, especially in the old haunts where outlaws gathered. Griffin looked over at Dix standing silent and unreadable.

  “This is your chance to walk on the right side of life, Griffin.”

  “And suppose I don’t want to?”

  “Then you can stay here.”

  Griff shook his head. Everything kept coming back to the seven years. No one in his right mind would choose the hospitality of the Kansas State Penitentiary over freedom, so he raised his hand and repeated the oath.

  “Now,” Dix said, when they were done reciting, “here’s your star.”

  “Keep it.”

  “I can’t. It’s yours. And here are a few more, just in case you decide to hire a deputy or two.”

  Griffin looked over at the marshal and said in all seriousness, “If I put on that star, hell’s going to freeze over and plagues are going to break out all over the land. No.”

  “Take the stars, Griff.”

  “Dix, boils are going to pop out all over my body.”

  “Take the stars.”

  Griff took the stars, but he held them in his hands as if the metal were forge hot.

  Dixon shook his head at Griff’s antics. “Gather up your stuff and let’s get out of here.”

  Griff looked down at the stars in his hands and knew this was going to get a whole lot more complicated before he saw Mexico and the many señoritas awaiting him there.

  Chapter 2

  The fat Texas moon outlined a man riding slowly up to the house. From the roof, Jessi Clayton kept one eye on him and the other on the black expanse of the horizon. Earlier today she ridden into town intending to telegraph the Texas Rangers’ office in Austin about her father’s murder, but she’d been denied access to the wire by the Vale telegraph agent. Because of that, she had a feeling she’d be paid a visit by Darcy’s men tonight, and by being up here on the roof, she’d be able to see them before they could see her. Her nephew, Jotham, was inside awaiting their coming, too. Granted, an eleven-year-old boy had no business being up at this hour with a rifle in his hand, but he refused to let her face this alone. This was his land, too, he’d argued, and as Jessi had promised Dexter, he wouldn’t give up the land without a fight. Life under siege was no way to raise a young manchild, and it ate at her heart every day, but for now, Jessi had no choice.

  The rider was getting closer. He rode like someone who’d been in the saddle a long time. She hoped he had no intention of seeking shelter here, because she couldn’t help him. Unknown visitors were the last thing she needed.

  To her displeasure, she saw that he did seem to be riding her way, so when he got within shooting range, she yelled out, “Hold it right there!”

  He eased his mount to a halt.

  “State your business,” she commanded.

  She couldn’t see his features, but could see him peering around, trying to figure out where her voice was coming from.

  “I’m looking for Calico Bob’s woman,” he replied.

  The big house with its listing chimney and long neglected outbuildings were silhouetted against the night. Griff remembered Dix saying the Claytons had boasted of having quite a spread here. Too bad no one had taken care of it.

  All of a sudden he saw a lone figure move on the roof. “Why are you looking for her?”

  Against the moonlight, the shadowy form looked to be that of a kid, but the rifle trained on Griff was definitely full grown.

  “Promised him I’d bring her his last effects. He’s dead.”

  “When?”

  “Three months ago. Prison doc said it was consumption.”

  “Were you in prison, too?”

  “Yeah.” Griff didn’t bother to add that it hadn’t been the same prison.

  “Just dump his stuff on the ground and get.”

  This was not the reception he’d been anticipating. He thought Dix had said she’d be grateful. “I’ve been in the saddle for a month. I was hoping to bed down here, at least for the night.”

  “No.”

  “Where’s Bob’s woman?”

  “You’re looking at her. Now, leave his things and head out. I need to—grieve.”

  “I’ve been riding a long time—”

  “I don’t care.”

  Exasperated and tired, Griff called up, “Lady, you got no manners!”

  “I know.”

  They’d reached a stalemate. Griff wondered how he could convince her to let him stay. He was too bone weary to ride another foot. He tried another tactic. “Bob won’t rest easy knowing you turned me away.”

  “If Bob’s dead, he’s in hell. He won’t be resting easy for eternity.”

  Griff was taken aback. She didn’t sound like any grieving woman he’d ever met.


  Her smoky voice floated on the night. “Look, mister. I don’t have a place for you to stay, and I don’t want to waste a cartridge convincing you to leave, because I may need it for them.” She gestured toward the horizon. “I’ve got visitors coming, and they’re not after tea.”

  Fluidly raising himself in the saddle, Griff turned in the direction her rifle indicated; there were three of them, riding hard in the direction of the house.

  “Friends of yours?”

  “No, and if you have any sense, you’ll point that horse east and ride fast.”

  He swung his attention back to the woman on the roof. “You up there because you’re hiding?”

  “No,” she answered bluntly. “I’m up here because I want the first shot.”

  He watched as she yelled down into the chimney, “They’re coming, get ready!”

  Griff wondered who she might be alerting, but saved the speculating for later. Right now, he had to convince her to let him stay and he didn’t want the debate to last all night. He was too damned tired to be arguing, especially with a woman with bad manners. “Do you want an extra gun?”

  “It’s not your fight.”

  “I know, but maybe it’ll earn me a place to bunk for the night.”

  Silence.

  He could see her evaluating him, and then the riders.

  She didn’t take long to decide. “Put your horse round back.”

  Griff did as she instructed and quickly reined the gelding around to the back of the house. Moments later he was back, asking, “Any particular place you want me to fire from?”

  “It’s up to you, just don’t let fly before I do. I get first pickings.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She faded back into the darkness behind the chimney. He shook his head at her sergeantly manner, then took up a spot to the left of the porch, all the while hoping her visitors would be dispatched quickly so he could get some sleep.

  The men had halted their horses a ways away from the house and were now talking, debating the best approach, Griff thought, or maybe trying to figure out if the occupants were asleep. With the house so dark and quiet, it certainly appeared that way. Moments later, they began moving on horses reined to a walk. Griff noted that they were being cautious. After meeting the lady on the roof, he didn’t blame them a bit.