The work put him in control, gave him a sense of pride and accomplishment. He swung the ax until his biceps burned and sweat trickled down his collar, until Elizabeth’s screams of pain during childbirth stopped ringing in his ears.
He knew she was fine, but he couldn’t shake his impotent rage at his own helplessness. He’d borne that same weight on his shoulders staring down at his sister-in-law’s prone body. Doreen had done nothing wrong. She’d been running her errands when she’d arrived at the bank on the wrong day, at the wrong time. She’d walked right into an armed robbery, and the outlaws had shot her. The senselessness of the act had shaken Jack’s faith, making him question God’s plan. Why Doreen?
The dark-haired beauty had married his older brother when Jack was barely sixteen. When he’d decided to join the Texas Rangers instead of working the ranch like his older brothers, she’d been the only member of the family to support his decision.
After the shooting, he’d let his emotions overtake his good sense. When an enraged posse had tracked down a man named Bud Shaw and declared him guilty, Jack had gone along for the ride. Even when every instinct in his body told him the man was innocent. During the following weeks, he’d split his time between the family ranch and a Paris, Texas, jail. Questioning the imprisoned man at length had only cemented his doubts. There were two Bud Shaws roaming the central plains, and the man rotting in jail, waiting for his own hanging, was innocent.
Jack had pulled every favor owed to him by the local judge to buy the wrongly convicted man half a year’s clemency. Three long months had passed since then. Every day without locating the real outlaw weighed heavy on his conscience.
His nieces and nephews deserved justice—but so did the innocent man sitting in jail. The one decent lead Jack had followed had led him to this isolated homestead in the middle of nowhere. Dawdling here wasn’t going to bring justice for anyone. Jack had lingered over the widow and her newborn long enough. He was party to a grave injustice, and he couldn’t rest until he set it straight.
He slid the last stump into place. Squinting at the horizon, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his leather-clad hand. The day looked to be overcast, but clear and calm all the same. If he left in the next hour, he’d be back in Cimarron Springs by lunch. His hands tingled with expectation. The familiar anticipation of embarking on another journey focused him, chasing away his lingering unrest. He had a goal, a purpose.
The widow and her child were none of his concern. Jo’s family, the McCoys, would see to her well-being. Besides, a pretty woman was never alone for long in this part of the country.
The ax missed its target.
Jack windmilled his free hand, managing to right himself just before he tumbled into the woodpile. Straightening, he darted his gaze to the house. No mocking faces appeared in the square windowpanes. Satisfied his gaff had gone unnoticed, he slung the blade over his shoulder.
“Guess that about does it,” he muttered to himself.
With his thoughts focused on the multitude of tasks to accomplish before his journey, he barely noticed the frigid, knee-deep snow on his trek to the barn. He’d saddle up Midnight, say his goodbyes and be gone. Simple as that.
A rare thread of regret tugged at his heart. He forcibly pushed aside the nagging concern. Mrs. Cole had survived this long on her own, there was no need to think she needed his assistance. He was a lawman, not a nursemaid. He had a job to do.
Jack slid open the barn door, relieved to find the cavernous space empty. He inhaled the pungent aroma of hay and feed. The scent reminded him of home, of his youth. He’d grown up mucking out barns, working from dawn till dusk on his family’s cattle ranch. The familiar sights and sounds released an unwelcome longing to work with hands, to build something lasting, to recapture the camaraderie he’d once shared with his brothers.
Chickens clucked and a cow lowed. Midnight, one of two horses in the four stalls, whinnied.
A sound outside the usual barnyard racket caught his attention. Jack paused, tilting his head to one side as he heard it again. He recognized that sound all right.
His jubilant mood fled. Someone was crying. Not the pained howling of a body in agony, but a quiet whimper of despair.
Jack groaned. There was only one person on the homestead who’d hide in a stall rather than cry out in the open. Determined to slink away before he got sucked into another emotional conversation, he backed to the door. He’d already dealt with one weeping female this week. His problem-solving skills were limited to things he could shoot or arrest.
He had one hand on the door when another faint sniffle doused his annoyance. Compassion for Jo dragged his feet to a halt. The code of honor ingrained in him as a child reared its ugly head. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. He’d tackle this one last obstacle, and then he’d leave. After all, he’d comforted Elizabeth.
He was practically an expert on women now.
Chapter Four
Jack had an idea where to find the weeping girl. He crept through the barn, his boots silenced by the hay strewn over the floor. He should be saddling Midnight instead of chasing down the source of those muffled sobs, but his conscience drove him forward against his good sense.
Dust motes stirred in the shaft of light sluicing through the hayloft. The wind had blown the door open almost half a foot. No wonder he’d nearly frozen to death these past two nights. In his haste to escape Jo’s trap, he hadn’t fully latched the hayloft. He’d been so cold he’d almost hunkered down next to the milk cow for warmth.
He added another chore to his growing list. Better for him to climb that rickety ladder than risk having one of the women break a leg. The third rung from the top was nearly rotted through. Unfortunately, sealing his impromptu exit had to wait until he dealt with his current problem.
Stalling, Jack lifted his shoulders and stretched, easing the cramps from sleeping on the hard-packed floor. He tugged his gloves over his exposed wrists. The barn had given him shelter and little else. A feather bed in town called to him like a prayer.
He peered into the first stall, his gaze meeting the sloe-eyed stare of the caramel-colored milk cow. He inched his way to the second stall, glancing over the half door. Jo huddled in the corner, her thin arms wrapped around her legs, her forehead pressed against her bent knees. Two long braids brushed against the tops of her boots.
Midnight whinnied, stretching a velvety nose out the last enclosure. Jack saluted his companion with a finger to his brow. “Soon, I promise.”
The girl jerked upright, her face averted.
Jack rested his elbows on the half door, chafing at the delay. He adjusted his hat forward before reminding himself this wasn’t an interrogation, then set the brim back on his head in the “I’m friendly and approachable” position.
He didn’t even know what was wrong, let alone how to fix the problem. Once again he cursed the mistake that had led him here. Why hadn’t this homestead been teeming with hardened outlaws instead of weeping women?
He recalled Jo’s mention of influenza. She was probably just concerned over her ailing family. Jack added the sheriff’s failure to inform him of the influenza outbreak to his growing list of gripes against the incompetent lawman.
Sucking in a breath of a chill air to fortify himself, he contemplated his strategy. “Something bothering you?”
“Nope.”
Jack bit back a curse. Didn’t women love to talk? That’s what all the fel
lows complained about, anyway.
As much as he’d like to turn tail and run, his feet refused to move. Frustrated, he reached into the stall, yanked a length of straw from a tightly cinched bale and twirled it between his fingers. “Seems like there’s something bothering you.”
She swiped her nose with an exaggerated sniffle. “You’re touched in the head, Ranger.”
The spark in her voice encouraged him. Rage was an emotion he understood, and inspiring anger in a touchy female was easier than shooting tin cans off a flat stump. “Then why are you crying?”
She threw him a withering glare. “I ain’t no weeping female, so why don’t you do something useful, like ride on out of here?”
“Maybe I will.”
Undaunted by her harsh words, he continued to twirl the hay between his fingers. A chicken flapped through the barn, pecking at the dirt around Jack’s feet. He let the oppressive silence hang between them. People generally didn’t like silence. Most folks would rather fill up an empty space, even if that space was better left empty.
Jo kept quiet, a trait that won Jack’s increasing admiration. At least she wasn’t crying anymore, another positive sign. If she didn’t want to talk, then he sure wasn’t going to force the situation. Looked as if he was going to make it to town before lunch, after all.
She bumped her hand down the length of one dark braid, her gaze focused on the hay beneath her feet. “Mrs. Cole says you were chasing bank robbers when you barged in.” She shot him a sideways glance. “What if you make another mistake? What if someone gets hurt?”
His fingers stilled. He had the uneasy sensation this conversation had nothing to do with bank robbers. “You make a mistake, you make amends. That’s all the good Lord asks of us.”
“How do you make amends for lying?”
He busted the straw in two pieces. Everybody lied, he reminded himself. Just not for the same reasons. “You make up for lying by telling the truth. You wanna start now?”
“I told Mrs. Cole I could deliver that baby. But I couldn’t.” Her chin quivered. “I was so scared I wanted to run away.”
Relief shuddered through him. He’d been expecting to hear something much worse. She was barely more than a child herself, no wonder she’d been terrified. He was making a fast slide past his thirtieth year, and he’d considered running away himself. “You delivered a baby. That’s a grave responsibility. Being scared doesn’t mean you lied, just means you’re human.”
“You ever get scared?”
“Every day.” He barked out a laugh. “You wanna know a secret?”
She scrambled to her feet, brushing at the baggy wool trousers tucked into the tops of her sturdy boots. A voluminous coat in a dusty shade of gray completed the tomboy uniform. She flipped the braid she’d been worrying over one shoulder.
Her clear, green eyes searched his face. “What secret?”
“Truth is, I might have beaten you to the door. I wanted to hightail it out of that room faster than a jackrabbit out of a wolf den.”
“Truly?”
He chuckled. How many times had he done the same? Judged someone’s face, watching for subtle hints to test the sincerity of their answers? “I was terrified.”
Midnight butted against the neighboring stall, reminding Jack of his purpose, of the unfinished business weighing on his conscience.
As Jo absorbed his confession, her shoulders relaxed.
He mentally patted himself on the back for his inspired handling of the situation. A few more words of assurance to wrap things up, and he could leave. He’d have to regroup in Cimarron Springs and interview the sheriff once more. Judging by the lawman’s lazy work habits, the task of gathering information was going to take all afternoon, further postponing his trip.
He’d decided to visit Wichita earlier that morning. Every two-bit thief in Kansas wound up there at some point or another. The frontier city was the key to locating the outlaw, Bud Shaw.
“You’re a brave girl for sticking it out,” he encouraged.
He’d settled Jo’s fears. He’d be in Cimarron Springs by this afternoon.
Jo looked him up and down. “You still chasing them outlaws?”
“Outlaw. There’s only one left.”
“What happened to the rest? How many were there all together? Do you always chase outlaws?”
Jack held up a hand, halting the deluge of questions. “There were three all together. They shot a…they shot a woman during a robbery in Texas. On their way out of town, the sheriff gut shot one of them, a man named Slim Joe.”
“Did he die?” she asked eagerly.
“That kind of wound doesn’t kill a person right off. Slim Joe had a lot of time to talk. He turned over his partners, Pencil Pete and Bud Shaw. We caught up with Pencil Pete right off and threw him in jail. Then we found Bud Shaw. Except, well, I think we made a mistake.”
“Then Bud Shaw isn’t one of the outlaws?”
“I think there are two men named Bud Shaw. I think the outlaw decided to take advantage of a man with the same name, and frame him.”
Jack didn’t want to expand, he’d already said more than he intended. Unease itched beneath his skin. There were two Bud Shaws, of that much he was certain. He’d discovered too much evidence to refute the fact in his own mind. Just not enough to convince the judge.
Jo glanced at him, her expression skeptical. “But what if something else does go wrong?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.” Jack threw up his hands. “Why are you worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet?”
“What if you can’t find him? What then?”
“Standing around here talking about the future ain’t gonna change anything. Why solve a problem before it happens?”
“Don’t get all riled up, Ranger. You’re spooking the animals.”
Jack pressed the brim of his hat tighter to his head with both hands. Women confounded him. He had one female concerned about naming a baby that was too young to answer, and another looking for a solution to a problem that hadn’t yet occurred. What was a man to do?
Gritting his teeth, he forced a smile. “Well, you did real good delivering that baby.”
“Better than you. I thought you were going to throw up.”
“So did I,” he retorted, his voice more forceful than necessary.
She tossed back her head and laughed at his shouted confession. Jack scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. Her infectious laugh soon had him chuckling. The sound rumbled low in his chest, rusty and neglected, then bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d truly laughed, especially at himself.
He used to laugh with his brothers all the time—when they weren’t beating the tar out of each other. They’d roll around in the dirt and blood, bent on killing each other, until one of them said something smart-alecky and the whole group erupted into raucous laughter. He missed that. Missed the camaraderie of his family.
Things had changed after their pa’s death. His older brothers had ceased brawling, and started slicking back their hair. Weddings had followed, and then a new niece or nephew every year after. His mother had reveled in her role as grandmother before she’d died. Lord knew they’d all been lost without her. Jack was too young to take over the ranch by himself, and too old to be ordered around by his brothers.
He’d joined the Texas Rangers instead, and Doreen had supported his decision. Jack pictured his sister-in-law the last time he’d seen her. How the white-linen pillow had framed her ashen face, the growing pool of red seeping through the bandages.
His smile waned. Three months, and he wasn’t any closer to catching the real Bud Shaw than the day he’d ridden out of town. He’d failed the one person who had always believed in him.
“You okay, Ranger?” Jo asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
“You look like someone just walked over your grave.”
“Not mine,” he growled.
He’d crushed all the joy from their exchange, but he didn’t care. “How far does a man have to go to find some peace around here?”
He pivoted on his heel, stalking out of the barn. The sooner he brought the right man to justice, the better.
* * *
Elizabeth hoisted the empty laundry basket onto the bed. Her weakened body protested the exertion. The past two days had been so chaotic, so full of change, she craved a task to ground her. A mindless chore. Something familiar and comforting.
She turned, catching her disheveled reflection in the looking glass above the dresser.
“Oh, my,” she groaned.
Her hair hung in a tangled mess down her back. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink in stark contrast to her pale face. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She looked no better than one of the beggars she used to pass on her way to work in the city. She lifted her brush from the dresser. Tugging the bristles through the snarls, she worked the knots loose. The heavy mass soon smoothed and shined.
Elizabeth didn’t approve of vanity, but even she had to admit her hair was pretty. She had the same blond hair as her mother, thick and long. Wispy tendrils usually framed her face, falling in soft curls around her cheeks. The past days’ toil had left her forlorn ringlets drooping and lifeless. She’d love nothing more than another thorough washing and a decadent soak in the galvanized tub, but that would have to wait.
She braided her long strands with practiced fingers, twisting the coil over the top of her head and securing the thick rope with pins. She rubbed her lips together to add a flush of color, unsure why she bothered. There was no one here to care about her appearance, least of all her sleepy daughter.
The extra effort buoyed her spirits, though, and she needed all her mustered strength to face the mess the Ranger had surely made while she’d been laid up.
Winning the Widow's Heart Page 5