Jackson's Woman

by Judi Lind

  Kindness? No, his behavior wasn’t predicated by kindness. Guilt, yes. Repayment of a debt, yes. Stubbornness, yes. And lust, hell yes. But he couldn’t allow her to credit him with a grace of spirit he didn’t possess.

  Vera wouldn’t listen to another word. Taking his hand, she led the way to the settee. “Please don’t ask me to explain now, Jericho, but there are so many things I need to know. Things...things I should already know. Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” he said without thinking. He couldn’t remember another occasion in his life when someone asked for his help with such sincerity, such appealing guilelessness. A dozen times a week someone needed money, or free drinks, or asked him to lend his name to some fund-raising event, but to need him? His counsel and his physical help? This was a new and disarming experience.

  Jericho Jackson grew up in saloons, spent his early teens on Mississippi paddle wheelers. He’d never known his mother, his father wouldn’t talk about her and Jericho never even knew whether she was alive or dead. Yet he missed the softness of a woman’s gentle guidance.

  Oh, his father had tried to do his best for the boy, but Martin Jackson had been a professional gambler. He’d hauled young Jericho from one saloon to the next. While he was good to the boy—there was always ample food, warm clothing and shelter-Martin Jackson wouldn’t, or couldn’t, offer the affection Jericho so badly needed.

  It was always, “Boy, help sweep up the kitchen,” or “Boy, fetch me and the fellers a drink,” or, “Boy, it’s time you went upstairs now.” On the infrequent occasions when his father brought one of the dance hall girls back to his room, young Jericho was expected to make himself scarce until morning.

  Those were the times Jericho loved the most. He’d go back downstairs to the raucous gambling hall and study the card sharks at work. Most were eager to show off for the young admirer and introduced him to the secrets of professional card playing. They’d taught young Jericho more than when to hold and when to fold. They’d taught him to keep his expression blank, his emotions hidden deep inside, and to keep his own counsel. The same rules he’d used to govern his life for most of his thirty-three years.

  Rules that hadn’t worked since he first heard Vera’s plaintiff voice calling from that mine shaft.

  Rules that weren’t working now.

  Now he tried to put aside his raw awareness of that tiny little hollow at the base of her throat. The sweetly scented spot that pulsed with her lifeblood.

  As if oblivious to his sudden and nearly overwhelming need, Vera spoke quietly. “I need to know about the trial. How does it work?”

  Dragged back to the problems that threatened to overwhelm them both, he shrugged. “They’ll find you a lawyer, pick a jury and there’ll be a trial.”

  She tossed her head, flyaway strands of ebony floating through the air like errant silken webs. “What about proof? I mean, if no one saw Ver—Er, the murder committed, how can they positively prove who killed Rafe?”

  “Everybody knows you two fought worse than a weasel and a snake.”

  “Which am I?” she asked ruefully. “The weasel or the snake?”

  Jericho turned to face her, sorry for the offhand choice of words that had offended her. “Neither. I’d say you were an...angel caught in a war between the devil and his minions.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I kind of feel like the devil is dancing on my petticoats right now. But back to the trial. They can’t have any forensic evidence or—”

  “What’s forensic evidence?”

  “You know, rifling marks on the bullet, fingerprints, DNA, trace evidence, that sort of thing—”

  At his bewildered expression, she broke off and said, “Oh. You don’t have that kind of scientific ability yet, do you? I keep forgetting where I am.”

  Jericho scratched his head. “Ver, sweetie, I know you don’t think Doc Greavy’s got much on the ball, but...but I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about.”

  Tears filled her eyes and Jericho thought he might drown in their sudden sadness. “Never mind. It was just something I once read about.”

  She tried to blink away the moisture filming her eyes. Turning quickly away, she stared out the window into the black night.

  He’d never had a woman up and break into tears before. The women in Jericho’s life were hardened, toughened by the rough existence they had to muck out of the wilderness. Vera’s tears eroded the calluses of indifference that had long since formed over his heart.

  Reaching into his coat pocket for the dress kerchief he always carried, he dabbed her eyes. “Now, don’t go crying on me. Get mad, yell at me, hit me, hell I deserve it! Kick the living bejeebers out of me. Just don’t cry.”

  “But...but don’t you see? It’s hopeless! How can I possibly prove I didn’t kill Rafe Wilson? That’s why our founding fathers set up our rights the way they did—innocent until proven guilty. So with no witnesses and no real evidence, how could a jury find me guilty beyond a reasonable doubt? Yet that’s exactly what’s going to happen and I can’t stop it!”

  Unable to bear the sight of her heartbreak any longer, Jericho wrapped his arms around her, pressing her damp face against his chest. “I don’t know what it’s going to take to prove your innocence, but we’re going to do it! You’ve got to trust me now.”

  She drew back and looked into his eyes. “I...I don’t have any choice, Jericho. You’re all I’ve got.”

  The enormity of her words filled him with a warm, heated glow that seemed to emanate from low in his stomach, spreading out to singe his limbs and scorch his heart. His entire life, until this moment, had been a solitary, empty existence.

  Until Vera reached deep into his soul and touched him with a sweet, golden intimacy so freely given. “Don’t do that,” he growled, unable to bear the burden of her unqualified faith in his less-than-sterling character. “Don’t put that kind of responsibility on my shoulders.” Or that kind of trust.

  “The only thing I’m asking of you,” she whispered, “is that you don’t abandon me. Don’t leave me to face this alone.”

  Fear and uncertainty melted into physical, primal need. Utter, churning, demanding want for this woman filled his belly. He pulled her into his arms. His mouth lowered to capture hers, soft, yielding and filled with an urgency as raw and compelling as his own.

  She sank against him with a mew of surprise mingled with unabashed delight. Her full, womanly breasts pressed against his chest, their sweet pressure almost unendurable.

  Groaning with his raging desire, Jericho traced his hands down her shoulders, brushing against her form-defining bodice until he found those rounded hills of enchantment.

  Jericho was bombarded with emotions he’d never imagined. He was a man who’d experienced much. No stranger to the charms of a woman’s body, he was powerless against the hot tide surging in his loins. But this was more than mere physical yearning. This was the ancient need of a man to claim a woman as his own. To give himself fully, unreservedly, to this woman in return.

  Dropping his head, he delighted in her murmur of pleasure as his tongue sought and taunted her nipple through the cottony fabric. Jericho wanted nothing more than to spend this night—and eternity—exploring her seductive body. Giving pleasure instead of taking it for his own.

  Slowly, though, another dimension of reality faded into his awareness. In the distance, almost hidden by his intensity, Jericho became aware of the hum of excited voices.

  He paused in his ardent ministrations, wondering if he’d mistaken the roar of his heated blood for the voices he heard. No, the voices were closer now. Louder.

  “What’s that?” Vera’s frightened voice broke the spell.

  He pulled away and stood up, turning his back in order to hide the evidence of his arousal while he buttoned his thigh-length black coat. In a voice unfamiliar in its raspiness, he replied, “I’d better go check.”

  But before he could reach the door to the corridor, the hum of voices strengthened to a str
ident, piercing clamor. Placing his palm on his pistol butt, he threw open the door.

  Led by Jess Wiggins, a crowd of about twenty men tromped down the hallway in his direction.

  “Where is she? You’re hiding that murderin’ little bitch and we want her,” Wiggins, the self-appointed spokesman, demanded.

  The mob roared their agreement. In the back, almost looking ashamed, Jericho spotted Yorkie watching intently.

  Sensing Vera cross the room to see what was happening, Jericho moved into the corridor, closing the door firmly behind him. Flipping the tails of his jacket behind his hip, exposing his Colt, he stepped forward until his chest was inches from Wiggins’s.

  Fetid fumes from the miner’s alcohol breath soured the air between them.

  Jericho waited until the mob stilled before he said quietly, “I know you weren’t referring to Miz LaFleur in such a crude manner.”

  Still filled with the bravado of a liquor-filled belly and a gallery of appreciative disciples, Wiggins puffed his chest out until it slammed into Jericho’s. “And so what if I am?”

  “Then I wouldn’t take kindly to it....” Without warning, Jericho drew back and punched Wiggins in the stomach.

  “Whuuf!” The larger man bent over and clutched his midriff, trying without much success to suck oxygen back into his pain-wracked body.

  “And I’d have to teach you better manners,” Jericho -concluded, stepping back, his fist still cocked.

  Gagging and choking from the force of the blow, Wiggins staggered backward and looked up at Jericho with bleary eyes. “What’d ya have to go and do that for?”

  “Because you need to learn to keep a civil tongue in that foul mouth of yours, my friend.”

  Wiggins drew back his fist “Why, I oughta—”

  “Think very carefully before you act,” Jericho intoned, his dark eyebrows raised like warning flags. “Because next time I won’t stop until your sorry butt’s lying in a worthless heap at the bottom of those stairs. ”

  Darting a glance over his shoulder at the steep staircase, Wiggins hesitated. “How come you want to take up for a murderin’ flooz—” he paused, catching Jericho’s thunderous glare. “I mean, why’d ya wanta take up for a killer like that?”

  Taking advantage of the man’s cowardly nature, Jericho strode forward, invading Wiggins’s space, knowing the deliberate action would make Jess look bad in front of his followers. He knew he couldn’t take on all twenty men if they got out of hand, but if he could cut the head off this angry snake, Jericho thought he might stand a chance of saving Vera’s life.

  He grabbed the big man’s dirty red plaid shirt. “We’re not having any mob justice, Wiggins. The sheriffs taking her to Prescott for trial and a jury will decide whether or not she killed Rafe Wilson. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you—” he paused and scanned the crowd, giving each man a full two seconds of his cold rage “—and your drunken friends take the law into your own hands.”

  “But everyone knows—”

  “Knows what?” Jericho demanded. He turned to Hank Peters, normally a mild-mannered man, although easily led. “How about you, Pete? You know for sure, deep in your heart, that she shot Rafe Wilson in the back? You see her do it?”

  “Uh, no. Course not.”

  “How about you, Greenblatt? You willing to bet your own life that she’s guilty?”

  The thin proprietor of the only cafe in town shook his head. “Naw, Jericho. But...but Wiggins said—”

  Swinging back around, Jericho released his hold on Jess Wiggins. The burly miner spun through the hallway and landed against the far wall The entire building shook in his wake. “Since when did you all set such store by Jess Wiggins’s great intelligence? When did you all give up your belief in following the law? In exacting justice?”

  Now their heads were drooping; no one would look directly into Jericho’s eyes. Dropping his voice, he drew on every negotiating skill he’d ever learned. “You’ve all been drinking my liquor and playing cards with me for years. Any of you ever know me to break my word?”

  All twenty heads popped up.

  “Naw,” Greenblatt spoke first. “You never broke your word far’s I know.”

  “Me, neither,” Hank Peters agreed.

  “How about you, Yorkie? Or you Mariton? Any of you ever hear of me not keeping a promise?”

  When no one answered in the affirmative, Jericho continued. “Then I’ll make this promise now. You fellas all go on back downstairs and play a friendly round of poker. Or, better yet, go on home to your wives. Let the law handle thins and I promise that Verity McBride will have her day in court. And that ought to be enough for any of you.”

  Yorkie stepped forward. “It’s enough for me, Mr. Jackson.”

  Hat in hand, he edged back down the steps.

  One by one they followed until only Jess Wiggins, still huddled on the floor against the wall, was left. He stared up at Jericho, hatred glittering in his mud-colored eyes. “All right, have it your way for now, Jackson. But mark my words, that bi—woman’s going to swing for my friend’s murder.”

  Not as long as I have breath flowing through my body, Jericho silently vowed. He’d break the law, his word and his body to keep Vera from the hangman’s noose. By God he would.

  Biting his upper lip to keep from punching the vengeful bastard in his big mouth, Jericho said quietly, “Go on back to the bar, Wiggins. It’s over for tonight.”

  Swiping a- bead of moisture from his upper lip, Wiggins slowly regained his feet and made his unsteady way down the stairs.

  Jericho breathed in relief. Somehow he’d pulled it off. He’d managed to fend off a mob hungry for revenge. Could he do it again? Would he have to?

  Jericho turned around.

  Vera was standing in the doorway, a heavy cast iron poker clenched in her hand. Tears glimmered, unshed, in her eyes. God, she looked wonderful. A strong, spirited warrior ready to defend herself—and him, he had no doubt—against all corners. He’d never been so proud of anyone in his life.

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jericho crossed the short distance and took the fireplace implement from her tightly drawn fist “It’s over,” he whispered, kissing her lightly on the temple.

  She looked up at him, her dark eyes filled with unbearable pain. “Is it really? I don’t think this nightmare will ever end.”

  He reached for her but she pulled away. “That’s the second time you’ve saved my life. Thank you.”

  Head held suspiciously high, she turned and swept back into his aparmdent.

  Jericho took a deep breath and followed. He hoped he wouldn’t have to test his luck a third time. But he wouldn’t bet on it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Vera didn’t think she’d ever be able to sleep. Still, she must have dozed off at some point during the endless night because she was startled awake by Jericho’s hand gently shaking her shoulder. “Time to get up. Deputy Hamblin’s here.”

  His bleak visage reminded her that even though she’d awakened from sleep, she was still trapped in the nightmare.

  She sat up and stared around the dim room. The first faint signs of gray were just starting to light the eastern sky. The room was bitterly cold, and she clutched the comforter under her chin. Jericho was busying himself gathering her things from the wardrobe. He kept his back turned, as if he couldn’t bear to face her.

  Vera understood. She could hardly face looking into the mirror and seeing herself. A few short days ago she’d been a content, if not happy, woman. She’d enjoyed a fairly fulfilling career as a patrol officer, had a nice apartment that she’d slowly filled with comfy Americana antiques, a cat she adored, and a few good friends.

  There had been room for implement, of course. A change in career path, for example, that would include the more investigative processes in law enforcement. Lately her nesting antennae had been quivering and a special man in her life would have been an added bonus. And even though her mother’s losing battle with Alzheimer’s o
vershadowed all her petty grievances, Vera had long resigned herself to the fact that the woman she’d known as her mother was gone; replaced by this stranger who didn’t even recognize her.

  Now, only a few days later, that old comfortable life was over. Today her jailer was transporting her to a small town in the Arizona valley where she was going to be tried for the murder of a man she’d never met. A man who’d died a century before she was born.

  Nothing in Vera’s law enforcement experience had prepared her to deal with this bizarre situation. Nothing in her personal background provided a clue she could use to discover a route back through space to her own place in time.

  She laughed wryly. Too bad she hadn’t paid more attention during her college physics classes. A smattering of scientific background might have provided her passport to the future.

  A movement by the bed caught her attention. Jericho stood beside the tall bedstead, a heavy flannel robe dangling from his fingertips. He handed her the robe and nodded toward the mahogany washstand in the corner. “I brought you a kettle of hot water for washing up. Cook sent up some flesh rolls and butter. Better hurry before they get cold.”

  She nodded. Since the interruption of their short interlude of near intimacy, Jericho was taking great pains to keep all contact detached, impersonal. What emotional tempest hid behind those dark eyes? What secrets did he cover with that outthrust jaw, so firmly constructed it might have been carved out of ironwood?

  She needed to put this...infatuation with Jericho Jackson into perspective. He was like a lovely, dark-eyed puppy gazing adoringly from a pet store window. Vera could admire him, but she couldn’t have him. Not for her own. She had no time for a puppy or a relationship. Her lease wouldn’t allow a dog, and the century separating her and Jackson wouldn’t allow a relationship. Smile at the sweet puppy and go on your way.

  Forcing her mouth to curve upward in an impersonal smile, she looked up, avoiding his eyes. “Thanks, I’ll be right out.”

  “Vera, I, uh, this is going to be all right, you know.”