by Linda Jones
She couldn’t answer for a moment, and Jackson turned his hard face to her. There was an impatience in his eyes and in the set of his mouth that she didn’t like at all.
“I packed them away, with the rest of your old things.”
“Unpack them. Give one to Doc, and keep one with you at all times.”
“No,” Doc snapped, and her own negative response followed.
Jackson leveled a stern gaze on her. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with, but I do. There’s nothing wrong with protecting yourself.”
Catalina stood and turned her back on the men at the table. She busied herself, unnecessarily, at the stove. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Doc to carry something for protection, but it is his decision to make. Harold Goodman wants him dead. He doesn’t exactly want to kill me.”
It was evidently the wrong thing to say. She heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor and turned to face a fuming Jackson. Had it been too much to hope for, that he could completely abandon the violence that had ruled his life to this point? It was his answer to everything, to every problem.
“I saw what bullets did to you, Jackson,” she said softly. “No matter what, I could never do that to another human being. If I held a gun on Harold Goodman or anyone else, I wouldn’t be able to fire it. I would remember what guns had done to you, and I wouldn’t see anything else.”
There was a subtle softening of his eyes and the mouth that could be so harsh. He was trying to understand.
He tilted his head and glanced down at Doc. “I suppose you feel the same way.”
“Well, sort of,” Doc admitted. “I’ve seen more than my share of bloodshed.”
When he turned his eyes to Catalina again she could see the fight that was going on there … if he could have forced her to wear a weapon on her hip at all times, he would. But he was trying to understand.
“I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” he admitted, and it was a confession, of sorts, that he cared for her. He sighed again, with as much disgust as before. “Harold Goodman doesn’t have the morals that make you two refuse to protect yourselves. He may be too cowardly to do the deed himself, but he has no reservations about having Doc killed. And you, Catalina … I know you think that you can take care of yourself … ”
“I’ve been doing it for a long time.”
Jackson was silent, and she knew that he was far from satisfied. With a filthy curse muttered just under his breath, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Jackson had managed to spend the entire morning in the barn. Catalina scrubbed the table with more energy than was necessary, putting all of her strength — and all of her frustration — into long strokes.
He was avoiding her, and doing it so obviously that she couldn’t fool herself into thinking it was anything other than deliberate. Was he still angry with her because she refused to carry a gun? She knew he didn’t understand. Did he regret asking her to marry him? Had his proposal been nothing more than the desperation of a man who had thought himself dying? Now that he was certain to recover, was he finding it much too hard to leave Kid Creede behind? She had seen the harshness in his eyes that morning, the chill. How far would he carry this? Would he, like Wilson, leave her at the altar, or would she wake one morning and find him gone — long before wedding plans could even be made?
She glanced up as the door opened but didn’t stop scrubbing the table that sat in the center of the room. Jackson stood in the doorway, hesitating, reluctant to enter the little house.
Doc was in town and wouldn’t be back for several hours. The morning was gone. Wasted. They could have had some time alone, but Jackson had kept his distance.
“Come on in,” Catalina looked down at the tabletop and scrubbed even harder. “I won’t bite.”
Jackson stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him. His movements were graceful as always, but slow — careful.
“Are you all right?” Catalina set the rag with which she had managed to scrub every surface in the house on the shining table and straightened slowly. Jackson’s face was pale, his lips the same pasty color as his cheeks, his eyes narrowed.
“I think I did too much,” he said as he walked to a chair Catalina pulled away from the table.
She couldn’t remain angry at him when he looked like that … almost as pale as he had been the day he’d been shot. “I’ll fix you some tea. Maybe that will … ”
“Is there any coffee left?” he interrupted her. She knew by now that Jackson hated tea, but Grandma Lane had sworn by a cup of sweet tea for what ailed you.
“It’s cold. I could heat it up, but tea would really be better for … ”
“Heat up the coffee,” he ordered shortly.
Catalina turned away from him and did as he asked. As he demanded. He did have regrets. She could see them in his narrowed eyes, could feel those regrets in the new awkwardness between them.
She didn’t look at him as she heated the coffee and then poured a single cup of the thick black brew.
“When do you think you’ll be well enough to travel?” she asked, as casually as she could manage.
“Not soon enough,” Jackson grumbled, and Catalina knew then that she’d been right all along. He wanted to leave her behind. As he’d healed, he’d changed his mind about her, about marriage and love and that new life. When had he decided? After that searing kiss? Or after their argument just that morning?
In either case, he had evidently decided to stay away from her, so it would go no further. So the break would be easy.
Catalina didn’t look at him as she set the tin cup on the table. She kept her eyes on the floor. If she looked at him and saw the truth in his eyes … that he didn’t love her the way she loved him … she would cry like a baby. And that wouldn’t do. Not at all. That would send Jackson running from the house, from Doc Booker’s ranch.
“Catalina?” His voice was soft, unsure, a whispered question that hung between them. “Are you all right?”
She did lift her head then, and looked Jackson squarely in the eye. What she saw there wasn’t indifference or uncertainty. A little worry, a little pain. And he did love her.
A smile crept across her face. “You’re already beginning to look a little better than you did when you came through that door.”
He pulled his eyes away from her and reached for the coffee.
Catalina placed a chair next to Jackson’s and sat beside him, her skirt brushing his legs, her thigh next to his. Jackson all but groaned, loosing a deep grumble as she touched her hand to his leg.
“You’ve been avoiding me all morning,” she accused softly.
“Yes, I have,” he admitted curtly. “And a lot of good it’s done me.”
“Are you still angry with me?”
“I can’t stay mad at you for very long,” he said, as if he didn’t understand. “Even when you’re stubborn and pigheaded and wrong.”
“I’m pigheaded?” Her fingers danced on his thigh.
Jackson didn’t answer but to make a noncommittal sound in his throat. Something between a sigh and one of Doc’s harrumphs.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
Jackson turned and stared down at her face, narrowing his pale blue eyes. “You always ask why. You are the nosiest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you.” Catalina drummed her fingers against Jackson’s hard thigh.
“It wasn’t a compliment, Catalina.” Jackson grabbed her hand and placed it almost harshly on her own lap. “Don’t you understand what I’m trying to do?”
“No.” Catalina placed her hand back on his thigh. “What are you trying to do?”
Jackson took her hand and removed it from his leg, but he didn’t drop it in her lap as he had done before. He held it, lacing his fingers through hers.
“I’m trying to give you what you want.” He sighed. “And it’s not easy.”
“What I want?”
“Your magic.” Jackson
moved his thumb against the palm of her hand, rocking it gently back and forth. “You deserve your magic, your wedding night. I know there was that one night at Alberta’s, but … things were different then.”
Catalina wanted to throw her arms around his neck. “You’re my magic, Jackson. All the magic I’ll ever need. Yes, I waited for the right man, and I found you. A ceremony won’t make me love you more.”
“I want you to have everything you’ve ever wanted.” Jackson raised her hand to his lips.
“I do,” Catalina assured him. “I have you.”
Jackson’s smiles were rare, but he gave her a brilliant one now. Dimples and crinkled eyes, he took her breath away, stole her heart with that smile.
“I’ve never done anything … right before. It’s not easy.”
“I don’t want to wait,” Catalina insisted softly. “You’re still not able to travel, and we can’t be married in Baxter. I won’t be married in Baxter.”
Jackson leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “Soon,” he promised. “We’ll be able to leave in a few days, and well go to Tucson before we head to Texas. We can be married there, and stay in a nice hotel for a few days. I passed a hotel there a couple of times that looked right fancy. Four stories high, and there were little men out front in funny red uniforms carrying baggage and opening the door for everybody that went into the lobby.”
“A honeymoon,” Catalina whispered.
“Yes,” Jackson whispered back. “So get the hell away from me … please.”
Catalina slid from her chair and away from Jackson. “When can we leave?”
“Just a few more days,” he promised.
“Sit right there,” Catalina ordered sweetly. “I’ll fix you something to eat, and a cup of tea, whether you want it or not. You need it to get your strength back as quickly as possible.”
Catalina fairly danced around the room. He did love her. He was her magic.
She saw the dust and went to the window. A rider. She said nothing to Jackson. It was just a visitor for Doc, and she would tell them that he wasn’t home. In spite of Doc’s cover story about his nephew, Catalina didn’t want Jackson facing anyone. It was too dangerous.
It would be simple enough to intercept the rider outside, while Jackson drank his coffee and rested. He didn’t even have to know that anyone was there, if she met the rider far enough away from the house.
“I need to fetch a bucket of water from the well.” Catalina spun toward the door.
“I’ll get it.” Jackson stood slowly.
“No.” She gave him a bright smile. “You stay put and rest. You’re still a little pale.”
He nodded and sat back down, and Catalina stepped lightly through the door.
Jackson drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. She’d only been gone a minute, but his gut instinct told him something wasn’t right. His gut instinct had saved his life more than once.
He moved to the window and for a moment held his breath. And wished that this time his gut instinct had been wrong.
Catalina stood with her back to him, a hand lifted to shield her eyes from the sun, as Harold Goodman dismounted. Why had she run all that way to meet Harold?
His old suspicious nature grabbed him by the throat, and his stomach did a sick, nervous flip that was a new experience for him. When he’d trusted no one he’d never been disappointed. He trusted Catalina with his heart and soul, and this hint of doubt chilled him to the bone.
How many times had Catalina told him that he would be ambushed in Baxter? Too many to dismiss, but he had dismissed it anyway. Now he couldn’t. How had she known? Did she know Harold Goodman better than she’d let on?
Was Catalina just another player in this game to get Doc Booker’s ranch and the rich ore that waited idly on it?
He didn’t want to believe it was true, but she was talking earnestly to Ben Goodman’s spineless kid as he watched from the window. And she hadn’t said a word to him about seeing Harold approach … about seeing anyone approach.
Jackson’s initial instinct was to rush out that door and confront them both, but he’d never been given to impulsive behavior. His latest impulsive act had gotten him shot … five times. Catalina had been there. In trouble, or so he had believed at the time. Had that been an act, too?
He buttoned the white shirt he wore to the top, all but choking himself. His hair he slicked straight back with both hands. And then he saw them: those wire-rimmed spectacles Catalina had decided would be a good addition to his disguise. Hell, he had nothing else, so he placed them on his nose.
The room swam, even when he pushed the spectacles down and peered over the top rim. Doc’s beloved wife must have been almost blind.
He tripped stepping out of the door and so took small steps as he shuffled across the yard. There could be no limp, so he forced himself to walk steadily and evenly. Harold saw him coming, but Catalina was still talking, and all her attention was on the man she faced.
His foot caught on something and Jackson stumbled forward, catching himself at the last moment and glancing over his shoulder and over the top of the spectacles to see what had tripped him up. A rock. Not too big, but evidently big enough. When he glanced around he saw Harold grin widely. At least the boy didn’t seem to know who he was.
“You must be Doc’s nephew from Virginia,” Harold said, barely suppressing his laughter.
Catalina’s head snapped around, and her whiskey eyes were wide and almost terrified. Was she afraid of what he would do to her? Had she been caught red-handed?
“Yes,” she said before Jackson could speak. “This is Mr. Cady. Unfortunately he can’t speak right now. He came down with a terrible cold on the trip and lost his voice completely,” she said, speaking so quickly her words ran together. “Laryngitis,” she clarified. “A terrible case.”
Harold Goodman looked Jackson up and down, openly sizing him up. “That’s too bad. I have a few questions I’d like to ask Mr. Cady. I didn’t even know Doc had any family.”
Was he afraid the existence of a nephew would ruin his plans? At least it didn’t appear that Catalina had told Harold that Kid Creede was still alive … that Jackson Cady and Kid Creede were one and the same.
“What are you doing out here?” Catalina turned her back on Goodman and gave Jackson a censuring glare, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “You should be resting. I’ll be in shortly to make that tea I promised you.”
Jackson peered at her over the run of the late Mrs. Booker’s spectacles. What the hell was she up to?
“I hate tea,” he answered in a rasping whisper, and Catalina rolled her eyes.
“Don’t speak. It will only make things worse.”
Jackson ignored her and turned his gaze to Harold. “What do you want?” he croaked.
Harold kept his eyes on Catalina. “I saw Doc on his way to town this morning. The road passes right by the ranch. I thought this would be a good time to call on Miss Lane. To see that she hasn’t changed her mind about working in Baxter.” He glanced to Jackson then, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Did she tell you that she used to work in town?”
Jackson shook his head.
It seemed that Harold was trying to decide just how much to tell Doc Booker’s nephew … that Catalina had done a turn in Alberta’s bordello? That she had rarely been seen in a dress as prim as the one she wore now? Jackson made sure his expression gave away nothing; no anticipation or interest of any kind.
Harold evidently abandoned his game, deciding not to share what he knew. “I didn’t know you had arrived, Mr. Cady, though of course I had heard you were coming.” He turned his eyes back to Catalina, dismissing Jackson.
“He arrived just yesterday,” Catalina explained quickly.
“So you haven’t had time to tell him about your short but exciting time in Baxter. Short, but sweet, isn’t that right, Catalina,” Harold teased, his mean streak evident in his voice and the hard set of his beady eyes.
He sounded so superior, s
o smug, that Jackson wanted to pound the man into the ground. But he stood perfectly still, pretending innocence. Catalina wrung her hands and glanced from Harold to Jackson and back again.
Harold turned his back on them and stepped into the stirrup. He jumped into the saddle and looked down at Catalina. “I just wanted to let you know that I have another friend coming to Baxter. He’ll be here soon. You won’t want to be here on this ranch when he arrives.”
“Why can’t you just leave Doc alone?” Catalina asked, shading her eyes with her hand as she turned her face up to Harold. “You have enough. You don’t need this place.”
Harold just smiled. “Darlin’, a man never has enough. If Doc’s smart, he’ll go back to Virginia with you and clumsy Cady here.” Harold nodded to Jackson, and his eyes lingered. “You look mighty familiar. Have you been this way before?”
Jackson shook his head slowly.
“There is a bit of a family resemblance,” Catalina said quickly. “It’s the shape of the mouth, I think, and the cheekbones. Just like Doc’s.”
Harold tipped his hat to her and grinned. “A friendly word of warnin’, darlin’. You don’t want to be here much longer. Come on back to Alberta’s. She’ll be happy to have you, and I promise to make it worth your while.”
Catalina took a single angry step toward Harold’s horse, but Jackson reached out and calmly pulled her back, a stilling hand on her arm. Best to allow Harold to ride away, for now. But his time would come. Jackson had already decided that.
Catalina watched Harold Goodman’s back until she was certain he was really leaving. He was like a snake, and she knew that a snake could strike without warning. But he rode away slowly, not even glancing back, and she turned to Jackson with every intention of chastising him for leaving the house. Goodman might have recognized him, even with the changes he’d made in his appearance, and the too small glasses on his nose.
But she didn’t say a word. Jackson was furious. She’d never seen him really angry before, she realized, as the fury blazed in his eyes. He slipped off the glasses and folded down the earpieces slowly.
“Do you have something to tell me, Catalina?” he asked in that silky voice that was as much Kid Creede as the black duster and the six-shooters.