Jackson's Woman

by Judi Lind

  “Nope. No reason to care, neither. Verity McBride murdered her pa.”

  Vera sighed. How could she make this man question his unfounded certainty? Why were these people so set on convicting Verity of the murder? Hoping that her tone was reasonable and not filled with the frustration she felt, Vera asked, “What was Verity’s motive? You said Rafe supported her... why would she kill her only source of support?”

  Wiggins drained the contents of the two shot glasses of potent-smelling whiskey and stared at Vera. “How come you’re so interested in this? You act like you’ve got a personal stake in Rafe’s murder.”

  “I just don’t want that girl to be hanged for something she might not have done.”

  He leaned closer until his vile breath wreathed her face. His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I don’t suppose you know where that girl’s hiding, do you? Seems to me you’re askin’ a passel of questions about something that ain’t no concern of yourn. How come?”

  The air shimmered with the heated undercurrent of his observation. The background laughter and tinkle of glasses faded into oblivion as time seemed to pause—awaiting her reply.

  Vera sat back and held her breath until the stench of his breath faded. “No, no particular reason. Just making conversation.”

  Wiggins stood up and kicked his chair aside. Bending low, until his filthy face was only inches from hers, he intoned. “You know, it ain’t hardly wise for a stranger to come around askin’ questions about things what don’t concern her.”

  Vera felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise in response to his thinly veiled threat. She wasn’t used to intimidation tactics. When she encountered men of his ilk during her duties as a highway patrol officer, they were far more conciliatory in hopes of escaping a traffic citation. Wiggins’s threatening manner made her want to reach for her wrist restraints, which, unfortunately, hadn’t yet been invented in 1896. Besides, her better judgment warned that she’d gain more information by adhering to her undercover persona.

  “There’s no need to get upset,” she forced a purr into her voice. “I told you I was just talking.”

  “Oh, you ain’t seen me riled yet,” Wiggins snapped, apparently not in the least placated by her response. “I’m just warning you that a purty face ain’t liable to hold back the hangman. You seem to be taking a little too much interest. I’d watch my step if I was you. Evenin’ ma’am.”

  He straightened, glancing around the bar as if making sure their conversation hadn’t been overheard. With a slight tip of his stained hat, Jess Wiggins strode out of the bar.

  Vera watched him leave, still taken aback by the virulence of his reaction to her questions. Why had he been so prickly? If Wiggins’s only role in the death of Rafe Wilson was that of bereaved friend, why was he so unwilling to talk about it? Wiggins seemed determined that Verity McBride, and no other, should be blamed for the shooting.

  She was still pondering when she sensed a presence approaching. Glancing over her shoulder, Vera encountered Jericho’s dark eyes warily watching her.

  Using his booted foot, he drew out the chair Wiggins had just vacated and straddled it, folding his long arms across the curved wooden back. “Never seen Jess Wiggins go home so early on a Friday night. You two didn’t hit it off?”

  Vera rolled her eyes. “No, I’m afraid not. And I’m so brokenhearted.”

  “You didn’t have to sit with him. That’s not part of your job.”

  What was that harsh edge she detected in his tone? Irritation? Jealousy? She tossed her head, dislodging the ridiculous thought. Jericho Jackson had no interest in her. And given their... peculiar circumstances, she might as well ignore that odd pitty-pat in her stomach whenever he came close. Not much point in fostering a relationship when their lives were separated by more than a century. This was an entanglement she’d like to see Dear Abby resolve.

  Forcing her thoughts back on his comment, she nodded slowly. “Speaking of job descriptions—”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry. That’s a term from my ti—I mean, a term they use in California.”

  Jericho stared into her eyes for a long, piercing moment. “How is it you know so much about California? You’ve never been out of Arizona.”

  Vera exhaled a deep breath, ruing yet another slip of the tongue. Every conversation was fraught with danger. Jericho obviously thought she was mentally unhinged. If she told him the truth, he would have no doubts. She had to be more careful, keep everything she said conversational, inane. “Guess I’ve read a lot. Newspapers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She sensed he was going to question her again so she leaned forward and changed the subject, hoping to break off further inquiry. “You said it wasn’t part of my job to sit with the customers. What about the other women who work here—do they have to sit with the men?”

  When he didn’t answer right away she found herself wondering why his means of employment was so important to her. True, no one wanted a friend who was involved in unsavory activities. She was uneasily aware that her growing feelings for this enigmatic man were quickly surpassing mere friendship. As she waited in breathless anticipation for his response, she found herself half hoping he’d admit to the allegation and thereby nip her developing interest to the bud.

  Shifting his hooded gaze, Jericho glanced around the crowded barroom, looking over one shoulder then the other. “Yep. That’s what I pay them for—to entertain the customers. There aren’t a lot of available women in these parts. The men like having someone soft and feminine to spill their troubles to.”

  Running her fingertip around the rim of her empty beer glass, she asked nonchalantly, “And that’s all they have to do? Talk?”

  “What exactly are you asking?”

  Vera shrugged. “I just wanted to know what those rooms upstairs are used for.”

  “Sleeping.” Jericho pushed away from the table and strode back to the bar.

  Susannah, the waitress who’d brought their drinks sauntered over. “Looks like you’re not having a real good night, honey.”

  Vera looked up at the woman’s guileless face, but couldn’t ignore the burning stares of the miners at the nearby tables. Ducking her gaze from their unbridled curiosity, she asked, “Was my voice that bad?”

  Susannah tucked a strand of bloodred hair behind her ear and picked up Wiggins’s empty glasses. “Wasn’t talking about your singing. The men liked you just fine.”

  “What, then?”

  Cocking her head at Jericho’s stiff back leaning against the bar, Susannah leaned forward, not bothering to hide her avid curiosity. “You ran off two of the town’s most eligible bachelors in ten minutes flat. I’d say that was the town record.”

  Vera laughed wryly. “I’d hate to think things were so bad in this town that Jess Wiggins is considered a catch.”

  “He takes a bit of getting used to, I’ll grant you that.” The redhead picked up the tray of glasses and turned toward the bar. She paused and looked back at Vera. “All the same, it’s a might strange, seeing how the most hound-ugly woman usually can’t discourage Jess Wiggins.”

  Vera drained her beer mug and stood up; it was time for her second show. “Sue. this has been a strange week any way you look at it. Trust me on that.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jericho watched through the wide, smoky mirror behind the bar as yet another facet of Vera’s complex personality unfolded. The shy gangly girl he’d known as Verity was submerged beneath the stronger, more sexually potent personality of the woman who called herself Vera. Now, in the somewhat bawdy third incarnation of Vera LaFleur, another surface was revealed.

  He’d given up trying to make sense of what had happened to Verity—or of the words of the songs she warbled in a slightly off pitch but huskily pleasant voice. Instead, he preferred to watch that unconscious grinding of her womanly hips, the coy yet frankly sensual glances she cast at the hooting cowpokes who made up her appreciative audience.

  If it wasn’t
for the vengeful posse hell-bent on stringing her up, Jericho would be tempted to take Vera LaFleur up on that tantalizing promise her pouting lips revealed. Tempted, hell. If her very life wasn’t on the line, he’d have her in his bed tonight.

  A gentle shudder teased his loins at the thought of Vera’s warm body squirming beneath his touch, her thick sheaf of dark hair only partially veiling her nudity.

  The song ended and Vera lightly descended from the small stage. Catcalls and boots stomping on the wooden floor hailed her progress across the saloon. As she came up behind him, Jericho quickly glanced down into his tankard of beer. He was still stung from her insinuation that he was running a bawdy house. Of all people, she should know better.

  His back tingled as Vera stopped behind him. Just as he was about to turn and grin, and save her the embarrassment of having to offer an apology, she turned and stalked toward the stairs. Jericho downed the dregs of his tankard. The hell with her. Jericho elbowed his way through the rowdy crowd and stomped outside.

  The night had cooled sharply but the clear sky, polka-dotted with sparkling starlight was a welcome sign. Not likely to snow. Snow kept the miners and cowboys alike penned up; snow in the mountains was bad for business. Snow would also slow down the men who were combing the scrubby hills for Verity McBride.

  Jericho felt like the condemned man who didn’t know whether to pray for a rope or a bullet. A healthy snowfall would be good news for Verity but disastrous for him.

  Turning on his heel, he strode down the sidewalk, the rowels on his spurs jangling with each step. Except for the raucous voices and muted music seeping out of the dozen saloons that dotted the main thoroughfare, the night was eerily quiet.

  “Psst! Mr. Jackson.”

  He turned his head toward the whispered voice and caught a slight flicker of movement in the dark alley. “Who’s there? Come out so I can see you.”

  A hesitant rustling noise, then a form emerged from the shadows. Verity stood in the moonlight, a heavy drover’s coat sagging to the ground around her feet. Her ink dark hair was hidden beneath a stained and rumpled bowler hat. Only her face was recognizable.

  Jericho stepped toward her. “What are you doing out here? I told you not to leave the hotel without me.

  Her dark eyebrows fluttered in surprise. “Mr. Jackson, I haven’t been to the hotel. Didn’t my brother get word to you? I’ve been holding out at that old line shack at the Balbriggan.”

  His heart thudded in his chest. She’d gone off again. Her mind, obviously weakened from the stressful events, had wandered into that strange place he couldn’t fathom. “Verity—I mean, Vera, why don’t you come on back to the hotel with me?”

  She tossed her head. “No. I just need to ask if I can borrow your horse, maybe a bite of food for the road. I have to go to my mother’s people. I’ll be safe there.”

  Forcing himself to remain calm, he inched closet and placed his hands on her frail shoulders. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, that you need to get out of town. Soon as Doc Greavy gets back, we’ll get you to the Apache encampment. I promise.”

  Her head jerked up. “Why would I want to see Doc Greavy? That old buzzard’ll turn me in quick as spit.”

  “No,” Jericho gripped her shoulders tightly, feeling like the last line of defense between this defenseless girl and the men who would imprison her. A few moments ago, Vera was a strong, enticing woman. But that woman had evaporated into this still softly vulnerable girl. With her personas, she seemed to actually physically change. He was suddenly ashamed of those carnal thoughts that had been entertaining him most of the evening. “You have to let me help you.”

  She pulled from his grasp. “I know my way and I don’t need no doctor. Just give me some food and the use of your horse and I’ll hightail it out of here and you’ll be shed of me and my troubles.”

  Realizing he couldn’t reach her in this present incarnation, Jericho nodded slowly. If he could lure her back to the hotel, maybe he could stall her departure long enough for Doc Greavy’s return. “I’ll go over to the livery stable and get one of my horses saddled up. You head on over to the hotel. Go in the back door. No one’s in the kitchen now. Wait there for me. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” she breathed. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me and my kin.”

  “There isn’t enough I can do to repay my debt to your mother. Go on, now, before someone sees you. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Without another sound, the slender girl in the heavy coat melted into the night.

  VERA PACED across the dark hotel room, stopping every few seconds to glance out the window. Jericho had marched down the street nearly an hour ago and hadn’t returned. Where had he gone?

  He’d been clearly miffed with her downstairs. Did he now regret helping her? Maybe he’d gone to find the deputy sheriff and turn her in. Vera didn’t want to think about that other possibility. The one that whispered he was seeking solace from her bruising words in the arms of one of the “fancy” women at Rosie’s Sporting House.

  Unable to stand the silent accusations of the lonely room any longer, she donned her jeans and sweatshirt and slipped out of the room. A glass of warm milk might soothe her frayed nerves. She had to think. Figure out this unfathomable mess she’d literally fallen into.

  Taking the back staircase so no one would spot her in her peculiar attire, Vera stole downstairs to the kitchen. Her hand was on the swinging wood-paneled door when she heard the hum of muted voices. Someone was in the room.

  Her heart ka-whumped to a double-time beat. Had Jericho betrayed her after all? Was he even now outlining a plan with the posse to take her into custody? No, please God, she prayed, anything but that.

  She pressed her ear flat against the door but could only pick up the indecipherable murmur of two voices speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. Taking a deep breath, she eased the door open enough to allow a peek.

  Jericho’s back was to her. His booted foot was propped on the lower rung of a battered kitchen chair, his elbow propped on his knee as he spoke in an earnest tone to the person seated before him. Vera couldn’t see who was in the chair. She could only tell from the soft voice that it was a woman. And Jericho was speaking softly and tenderly.

  Vera couldn’t understand the sting of hurt and rejection that lashed her insides. Jericho Jackson was a real man with a real life before she’d dropped into his world. Why was she surprised to discover he had a special woman in his life? And why did the realization throb like a cankered tooth?

  Easing the door closed, she backed down the hallway until her heel struck the bottom stair and she tumbled backward in an unceremonious heap.

  The voices stilled suddenly and Vera heard the heavy tread of Jericho’s boots crossing the hotel kitchen. She couldn’t let him see her! The only thing worse than the knowledge of his loving another woman would be for him to witness her humiliation at having been caught eavesdropping.

  Leaping to her feet, Vera scrambled up the steps just as the door to the kitchen opened wide.

  “Hello? Anybody there?”

  Pausing on the landing, Vera pressed her back into the wall until it seemed she would surely burst through the plaster.

  “Is someone out here?”

  The slow creak of wooden floorboards beneath his feet foreshadowed his approach. Hand over her mouth, Vera eased farther into the shadows. The foot steps stopped, paused, then receded as Jericho went back into the kitchen.

  She exhaled in a long, relieved breath and hurried back to Jericho’s apartment Inside, she ran for the bedroom and slid beneath the covers, fully clothed. Lying in the dark she thought back over the events of the past two days. Had the world gone mad or had her own mind taken flight from reality?

  She’d already given up on the hope that she was living through an extended dream; no, somehow, she’d flown through a time warp and landed in a time period whose people and customs she couldn’t accept or understand.

  What
had she been thinking—that she was attracted to this poor man’s version of Rhett Butler? That she could find a way to take him with her back to her future? Or had she imagined she would just stay here in the past and live among the illiterate miners, overworked housewives and sad prostitutes that populated this mining town?

  Get real, she snorted in self-disgust. Like you’d be happy hauling water and darning socks for a chauvinist piglet like Jericho Jackson.

  Vera was a realist, a woman who knew who she was and where she was headed in life. She loved her job and sought greater responsibility, knowing full well that the price of her dedication might mean that she’d spend her life alone. Few men of her world were emotionally equipped to marry a female cop, a woman who didn’t need their protection or financial support. And she’d entertained the notion that Jericho might be evolved enough to welcome a strong, self-reliant woman into his life?

  The very idea was laughable.

  No, it was a blessing she’d stumbled upon Jericho and his female companion. Vera had been too taken by his overt sexual appeal to think clearly. She should be glad for the slap of reality. Now she could forget all about Mr. Jackson’s sexy butt and concentrate on getting back to her own time.

  The answer, she was suddenly certain, would be found somewhere in Verity McBride’s journal. Vera turned up the wick on the oil lamp and pulled the journal from the drawer. Leaning back against the pillows, she pushed Jericho from her mind and tried to concentrate on the words her ancestor had penned.

  What Vera couldn’t easily ignore was the raw ache centered somewhere around her heart.

  THE NEXT MORNING Jericho stood in the open doorway to his bedroom and stared in surprise at the lovely apparition snuggled in his bed.

  What was she doing here? Last night he’d saddled a horse, loaded her saddlebags with food and water and pressed money into her hand. Then he’d served as lookout until she’d safely escaped the town proper, disappearing in the darkness on her way down to Verde Valley. Jericho had never expected to see her again, yet, unbelievably, here she was curled in his bed as if she belonged there!