by Susan Wiggs
“No one’s ever asked me to stay.”
“So I’m asking.”
He took a deep breath. She held hers. Finally, he said, “I can’t.”
It took all her self-control not to tell him about the baby. She would not stoop to using that lure. From time to time, she’d had a patient who had “trapped” a husband with a baby. The unions were never, ever happy ones.
She lay in his arms and let hope trickle out of her. She would not cry. She would not. She understood now that she couldn’t change him. She couldn’t take his wounded heart and make it capable of loving again. She was a doctor, but she couldn’t heal a man’s basic nature.
Letting go was hard; it hurt, but at the same time she felt liberated. “You understand,” she whispered, “I had to try.”
* * *
Joel Santana staggered to the ship’s rail, took off his battered hat, and puked one more time into the churning swells of Puget Sound. He had been in this pleasant state for days, ever since setting sail from San Francisco.
Now, even with the wooden toothpick towers of Seattle in full view, he was still at it. Heaving and reeling like a dying man.
Yeah, he wished he were dead. He’d been wishing it for a week. All during the voyage up the West Coast, through the devil’s own Strait of Juan de Fuca, and now to Seattle. He gripped the rail of the four-master with one hand and wiped his face with a wrinkled bandanna, avoiding the tongue-clucking and sympathetic glances of the other passengers.
The ship belonged to the Shoalwater Bay Company, reputedly the best shipping company on the West Coast. Didn’t matter. His stateroom was appointed as lavishly as any grand hotel room. Didn’t matter. He was as sick as a flea-bitten mongrel dog.
Joel Santana, who had survived gunfights, capture by Indians, floods, droughts, desert sun and a dozen love affairs gone sour, was finally defeated.
By seasickness.
When the ship docked, he pushed women and children aside and half ran, half rolled down the gangway, sinking to his knees at the bottom and shamelessly pressing his lips to the dock.
“What’s that man doing, Mama?” asked a child’s voice.
Joel didn’t even look up.
“Another victim of the demon rum, no doubt,” said a stern female voice.
Joel ignored her. At length, he hauled himself up and went to wait for his baggage. There wasn’t much of it—he’d turned in his horse and saddle in San Francisco. He didn’t know how long he sat there before he started sizing up Seattle. A rough, rollicking town of muddy log roads winding up the hills, towering forests with trees so tall they seemed to reach into heaven, and everywhere the water, ships and barges and Indian canoes plying back and forth from hundreds of green islands.
He blinked out at the Sound, and something stirred within him. This was it, he realized with a jolt. The place in his visions in the desert. The place to which he’d escaped while he waited to die. But he didn’t die. He’d struggled and puked his way to this strange corner of the country, and he knew he’d been here before. Not physically, but in his dreams.
Joel was not a superstitious man, but it had to mean something. To recognize a place out of a dream as being real just didn’t happen every day.
The decision was made by his queasy stomach before consulting his head. He was staying here. This was where he would live the rest of his life. Out on one of those verdant islands—he’d get there by canoe if he had to—and he’d never leave again. Hell, maybe he’d even find an Indian wife, one with a loud laugh and a big butt—“Here you go, mister.” A ship’s boy in Shoalwater Bay Company livery dropped Joel’s leather bags at his feet.
He dragged himself back to reality and flipped the kid a coin. Hefting his bag, he lurched a little and then started across the sawdust flats and up a muddy hill from the waterfront. Someone—he had little recollection of who—on board had told him the J & M Hotel was the best in town. Joel wanted the best, at least for one night. Tomorrow he’d go to the telegraph office and check in with the local marshal, letting the area authorities know what progress he’d made.
Progress. He’d managed to travel across half the country without getting a glimpse of Jack Tower and Caroline Willis. He’d come to Seattle on the woozy hearsay of a whore. He was lucky she hadn’t given him something he couldn’t wash off. If he ever found his quarry, he’d have performed a miracle.
But that was what Joel Santana did best. Took up hopeless cases and made them work out. Any sane man would have given up by now.
He stopped walking, turned to look down at the waterfront and the Sound beyond. There was a reason he’d come here, a reason beyond the search for a wanted man. He felt a strange elation as he checked into the hotel, bathed and shaved, then went in search of the first good whiskey he’d had since San Francisco.
Compared to that city, Seattle was small and compact, the buildings crowded along the hills leading down to the waterfront. As he sampled the whiskey—most of it rotgut—Joel also went to work. Asking his questions, showing his pictures. And in the third place, dimly elegant, antlers of elk and moose decorating the bar, he got lucky.
Slipping a generous tip into his pocket, the barkeep stroked his chin. “Yeah, I seen her, but she wasn’t with the guy in the drawing. It was someone different.”
Suspicion dried Joel’s throat. Damn. She was picking up speed. Was Jack Tower a goner already? “Well?”
The bartender poured him two fingers of Garrick’s. Joel savored a burning swallow.
“Right over there,” he said, then busied himself wiping down the bar.
Joel took his time over the whiskey, then turned as if to leave. At a corner table, a large man sat hunkered over an empty glass. Joel could tell from the cut of his clothes that he was a man of means. His sleeves were rolled back to reveal one burly forearm. The other arm was wrapped in white bandaging. The wrapping was frayed as if it hadn’t been changed in a long while. He held his head in one hand.
“You all right?” Joel asked, moving toward the table.
The man turned to face him. Joel caught his breath. An ugly, festering gash angled across one eye, and a healing burn mark slashed the temple. The wounds weren’t from your ordinary barroom brawl, Joel thought.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” the man said.
“Try me.”
He took a deep breath, then glared at the gold band around his ring finger. “Woman trouble.”
“You fought over a woman?”
“Nope.”
“A woman did this?”
“Yeah.” The huge man seemed to shrink with misery.
Joel’s instincts snapped to attention. “She must be some woman.”
“Yeah, she’s something all right.”
He held out his hand. “Joel Santana. Just got into town.”
The big man stuck out his good hand. “Name’s Armstrong. Adam Armstrong.”
Fifteen
That evening, Jackson spread out the poster and stared at it. Not a perfect likeness, but the curved scar on his cheek would be a dead giveaway. He lived it all over again, that last night in Rising Star. The argument with Hale Devlin, who didn’t want to say where Carrie had gone. The frantic search through the upper floor of the saloon. The reek of blood and gun smoke. The sound of his own racing heartbeat as he and Carrie ran for their lives.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling pummeled by the images that wouldn’t leave him alone. Now that Carrie was dead, he wondered if the past really mattered. He didn’t have to protect her anymore. Maybe, just maybe, the truth could come out and redeem him. He had to make a decision.
If you don’t vindicate yourself, you’ll never be free. Leah’s voice whispered seductively in his mind. It’s never far enough. You c
an never run far enough. You can never outrun injustice.
Damn it. She was right. There had to be a way. He had to prove he wasn’t this Jack Tower, this murderer.
Somewhere abovedecks, a hatch opened with a loud thud. Jackson jumped. For a split second, he was back in the saloon, hearing a slamming door.
The door. Had it been the hot Texas wind blowing that night? Or was it a witness fleeing in terror? Then, with a flicker of pure, clear insight, he knew. Hale Devlin. He’d seen the murder. He knew what had happened.
There was no reason Devlin, who had been Carrie’s procurer, should come forward. But he knew the truth. He had seen. He was the key. With Devlin’s statement, Jackson would win vindication, the right to stay with Leah.
Depending on Devlin’s word was risky, but Jackson was a gambler at heart. He climbed the companion ladder to see who was there.
“Jackson?” Sophie Whitebear’s voice. “I need to speak to you.”
He stepped out onto the deck. Summer twilight surrounded the harbor. Sophie stood waiting, her hands folded in front of her.
“It’s about my people on Camano Island,” she said without preamble. “They’ve been talking about trading for more guns.”
“There’s always going to be talk, Sophie.”
“I think it’s more than talk.”
He ran a hand through his hair. St. Croix was as useless as tits on a boar. He’d let the raiders get away with the stolen guns before. They’d probably take advantage of his incompetence again.
Jackson thought of the scalping scar and St. Croix’s too-large fortune. Then he looked at Sophie and knew he couldn’t turn his back on her. Someone close to her had died. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself unless he did something about the smuggled guns.
“I’ll check the caves at the bluff,” he promised. “If there are any guns, they’ll wind up at the bottom of the Sound.”
“It’s not enough.”
He set his jaw, knowing she was right. Getting rid of the guns wasn’t a permanent solution. Getting rid of the gunrunners was. He couldn’t believe his own ears when he heard himself say, “I’ll figure out who’s responsible and deal with him.”
“Then you’ll stay?”
“Sugar, you’re not giving me much choice.”
“You could choose to leave. But I knew you wouldn’t. When will you tell Leah?”
Leah. He felt a sharp stab of yearning. She was the reason he wanted to stay. The guns were only an excuse. “I imagine you’ll take care of that for me, Sophie girl.”
“Tell her yourself. She should hear it from you.”
“Just because I said I’d deal with the gunrunners doesn’t mean I’m putting down roots,” he objected, suddenly scared again, scared of the powerful emotions that gripped him.
“I always thought you should court her,” Sophie said as if he hadn’t spoken. “You never courted Leah.”
He blinked. “Never...” Sophie was right. He had gone straight from squabbling with Leah to making love. He’d drawn her into his life with a sweep of his arm—and as he recalled, he hadn’t given much thought to courting. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Sing songs to her? Bring her roses?”
“Yes. And other gifts.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late,” Sophie said. “We’ll all help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Court her.”
“Who said I was going to court her?”
“It’s what you want, Jackson Underhill. It’s what Leah wants.”
After she left, he sat on the bow of the boat, thinking hard. Could she be right? He spent half the night mulling over his options. There had been a witness to the murder. A statement from him would clear Jackson’s name.
And then he wouldn’t have to run anymore.
* * *
Jackson felt as awkward as a schoolboy as he walked up the path to the boardinghouse. He held a bunch of wildflowers clutched in his sweaty hand. He’d had a busy day, though he hadn’t been picking flowers. He’d been studying St. Croix, trying to get some idea of how he operated. He’d discovered a couple of items of interest. Lemuel lived in a big white house on the water with a brand-new dock jutting out into the Sound. Nothing unusual there, except that the sheriff didn’t own a boat and didn’t seem to be much of a fisherman. He wasn’t a farming man, either, yet judging by the size of his blockhouse, he had room for hundreds of pounds of apples and potatoes.
Now what did a man with no family need with all that storage space?
Jackson hadn’t decided how he’d figure out the answer to that question. Besides, it was time to turn his mind to another matter. At the barbershop in town, he got shaved and trimmed. He put on a starched shirt and boiled collar, sitting patiently while the Gillespie kid polished his boots.
It was all a bunch of nonsense, of course. He was still just Jackson T. Underhill, alias Jack Tower, a man with no place in the world. Until now. Until Leah had given it to him. Until she’d believed in him and his innocence.
He grinned nervously and waved at Bowie, who sat on the swing in the yard, his wheelchair abandoned off to one side. Iona, who was bringing in the laundry in the back, gave him a mischievous wink. The whole boardinghouse must be in on the plan.
Well, hell, Jackson thought. Sophie had spent the day gossiping. You’d think they all knew what he was up to. You’d think they all knew he was about to ask Leah to marry him.
* * *
Alone in the bathhouse, Leah wished she could leave her hair loose to dry in the warm summer night. But she wouldn’t, of course. She gave it a twist and clipped it in place with two pins. She was glad Perpetua had urged her to have a nice long soak in the tub. Calls had taken her from Admiralty Head to Oak Harbor. She’d suppurated a wound, bound a sprained ankle, checked on a case of measles, and finally had rolled in an hour before suppertime.
She thanked God for the busy day. It kept her from thinking about Jackson. But now, alone in the bathhouse, she thought of him. She remembered his touch, the way he tasted and smelled. But most of all, she thought of the way he made her feel—strong and womanly, yet dreamy and vulnerable at the same time.
Working by the light of a brilliant sunset through the frosted-glass windows of the bathhouse, she toweled her hair, then reached for her clothes. Odd, she thought, taking up an emerald dimity gown Iona had set out for her. This was a bit dressy for supper at the boardinghouse. She usually wore the dimity to church.
Giving the matter no more thought, she shook out her shift, pausing just for a moment to look down at her stomach. No change, not in the least. Ah, but she was changing. Just the mere thought of Jackson brought a maddening tingle to her breasts, and her hunger for him plagued her. There was more than nature at work here, though. She loved him to distraction. The fact that they’d made a baby merely added the stark edge of reality to her emotions.
Lost in thought, she put on her shift and bloomers. She had to see him again—if he hadn’t left yet. She had to tell him, but she would do so in a way that made it clear that she expected no commitment from him. Her distaste at using the baby to hold him lingered, but Jackson deserved to know he had a child. Would he fall to his knees immediately, beg her to marry him? That hardly sounded like Jackson.
Did she even want him to?
She shook her head to shut off the haunting questions. She didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t need him. Perhaps if she repeated that to herself often enough, it would start to ring true. She hurried through the rest of her dressing and started up to the house.
A single candle burned on a table on the porch. Frowning, she stopped in the middle of the yard. A tall man stepped out of the house and stood beside the table, waiting.
Jackson.
She dr
ew closer and caught her breath in amazement. Yes, it was him, but a Jackson she’d never seen before. He wore a crisp white shirt, formfitting trousers, a silken waistcoat. When she reached the top step of the porch, he bowed formally and held out a bouquet of flowers.
If Leah had been the swooning sort, she definitely would have swooned. Instead, she took the bouquet and lifted it to her face, inhaling the piquant spice of daisies and lupines. She peeked at him over the blossoms. Up close, he looked even more handsome and appealing. She could see comb furrows in his hair. The scent of bay rum emanated from him.
In the distance, the steamer whistle sounded.
She put the flowers on the table. “I thought you were in such a hurry to leave. What’s all this about?”
He held out her chair, then scooted it in, bending to lightly nip the side of her neck. “I’m courting you.”
She didn’t know whether to grin like an idiot or burst into tears. Bouquets and promises one moment, tears and uncertainty the next. Love was such a giddy, mad, glorious thing. She didn’t know how she’d gone without it for so long.
She picked up a goblet by its stem and took a sip. “Aunt Leafy’s sherry?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He took a seat. “They’re all in on this.” He smiled, that smile that had the power to weaken her knees. He reached across the table, drew the two pins from her hair, and let the damp sable curls tumble to her shoulders. “You should wear your hair loose more often.”
“Why?”
“I just...like it. Makes you look, well, like you do when I’m making love to you.”
She flushed and began to eat. For the past few days, she had vacillated between queasiness and rampant hunger. At the moment, she was starving. There was a salad of tender endive shoots, fresh salmon roasted on a cedar plank in Perpetua’s big iron oven, and hot potato rolls.
But the food held only minor appeal compared to Jackson. She couldn’t do much except stare at him.