Harry looked profoundly relieved. Most likely, he didn’t own a pair of shoes, and if he did, they were reserved for very special occasions. “Ma says you’re going to have your hands full, with a pack of wild coyotes like us.”
Chloe got to her feet, dusted off her skirts, said a silent goodbye to John. She wasn’t sure what the future would bring, she wasn’t sure of Jeb McKettrick, or even of her own good sense, but there was one matter upon which she was absolutely, unequivocally, rock-solid certain.
“I can handle it,” she said.
26
Jack Barrett had to change his plans, and it was an inconvenience he sorely resented. He hadn’t worried overmuch about coming face-to-face with little Miss Cavanagh, but Jeb McKettrick was a different case. There’d be too many questions asked if they happened to meet up before time. When he’d seen Chloe’s beau ride through the Circle C’s gates the day before, he’d known the brief stay was at its end. It was goodbye to the soft bunk, easy work, and good grub. Unless, of course, Miss Sue Ellen Caruthers turned out to be a decent cook and cordial company. She’d been willing enough yesterday, when he’d been assigned to drive her to town to meet the stage, simmering with rage at Cavanagh’s spurning. He’d inquired if she was inclined toward revenge, along the way, and she’d said she was.
Now, riding northeast, intending to make friendly with his new ally and bide his time until the day of reckoning arrived, it was his sorry luck to run straight into Henry Farness, the foreman of the Circle C. Past his prime, Barrett reflected, as he reined in to greet the man with a tip of his hat and a reserved howdy.
Farness didn’t smile. He narrowed his eyes as he regarded Jack, taking in the bedroll and loaded saddlebags. “Looks like you’re movin’ on,” he observed. “Seems a trifle sudden, given that you just moved into the bunkhouse.”
Jack’s horse, like him, was eager for the trail. It danced beneath him, nickering and flinging its head from side to side, and he gave the reins a firm yank. “I’ve got a restless spirit,” he said, and that was all the explanation he meant to give.
Farness turned his head, spat. “We have our hands full on this place, what with the new herd and all,” he said. “Need every man we can get.”
“Jeb McKettrick can take my place,” Jack said, then wished he hadn’t spoken the name out loud. The smallest slip could get a man remembered for all the wrong reasons; folks might start adding things up in their heads, making connections between one event and another.
Farness shook his head. “Since you ain’t been around long,” he remarked, still watchful, “there’s no way you could know how it is with that Triple M outfit. Angus’ll drag the kid home by the scruff if he has to, but home he’ll go, you can bet your last nickel on that.”
“I don’t reckon that’s my problem,” Jack said, pushing back his coat to uncover the .44.
Farness’s gaze went to the gun, as any man’s would, but he didn’t look scared. Maybe he didn’t have sense enough. “You wanted this job pretty bad,” he observed, “until one of the McKettricks showed up on the Circle C. You got some reason to run from them?”
If only the old fool hadn’t gone and said that, things might have gone better. “Just a coincidence,” Jack said, thinking of the notches on his gun handle.
“Then why’d you show me that iron of yours just now?” He glanced past Jack’s shoulder in the next moment, fixing his gaze on something, and by reflex, Jack turned to look. It wasn’t a ruse; there was a rider approaching, still a fair distance away, but coming on fast.
Jack shifted, with a creak of saddle leather, and when he turned to Farness again, the coot was holding a six gun on him, cocked and ready.
“One thing you might want to remember,” Farness said evenly. “In the high country, a man don’t ride alone if he can help it.”
Jack made himself smile. “Put that piece away, you old codger,” he said reasonably. “I didn’t draw on you.”
“I reckon it must have crossed your mind, nonetheless,” Farness replied. “You’d just keep on headin’ in the direction you was goin’ when we met and don’t show your face around the Circle C again.”
Though he controlled his expression, Jack had no command over the flush of anger that gushed up his neck to throb in his face. “Now that was a downright unneighborly thing to say,” he lamented. He had his .44 out and fired before the foreman could get off a shot; as the old man fell, Jack turned and shot the oncoming rider right out of the saddle.
Too bad it wasn’t Jeb McKettrick, he thought. Once that was done, he could dust off his hands, collect Chloe, and move on for good.
With a sigh, he got down from his horse, rolled Farness over, felt the base of his throat for a pulse. Dead, he concluded calmly. Served him right for running off at the mouth.
He mounted up again, rode to the place where the other man had fallen. A kid—Jack had seen him around the bunkhouse, though he couldn’t recall his name. Given that half his face was gone, he represented no threat, but Jack put another bullet in him anyway, for good measure.
That night, in the cabin where Sue Ellen waited, he carved two more notches into the handle of his .44.
27
Holt was at his desk, tallying the figures in a ledger, when a knock sounded at the front door. He glanced at the clock irritably, figuring he ought to leave for the Triple M to fetch Lizzie home, dreading the inevitable encounter with Angus. Maybe the old man would be out rounding up cattle or something.
“Keep your britches on,” he barked. He pulled his .45 from the gun belt on the peg next to the door, as a precaution, and swung it open.
A ranch hand, name of Simmons, stood on the porch, his face grim. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said, “but there’s been a killing. Two of ’em, in fact.”
Every muscle in Holt’s body tensed. “Spit it out,” he said.
“Mr. Farness went looking for some strays, up on the north range, first thing this morning,” Simmons said uncomfortably. “Ted Gates went with him, figuring on shooting some rabbits for the stewpot. When they wasn’t back to help with the horses, some of the men went looking for ’em. Found ’em dead.”
Holt swore. He’d ridden with Farness while he was still with the Rangers; the man had been a close friend. “You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“Yes, sir,” Simmons replied. “It’s plain it was murder.” He paused to shake his head. “Poor Ted wasn’t but seventeen. He’s been sending most all his wages home to his sweetheart, down in Tucson. They was savin’ up to get themselves hitched.”
Unconsciously, Holt flicked open the .45, still in his hand, spun the cylinder with his thumb. “Where are they now?” he asked, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind him. “The bodies, I mean?”
“Still in the wagon,” was the answer. “I reckon the doc will want to look them over, in town, and the marshal ought to be told.”
Holt caught sight of the buckboard, stopped in front of the barn, when they rounded the side of the house. He stepped up to the rig and used his free hand to toss back the bloody tarp covering the two corpses.
Jeb appeared at his side; he’d spent the night in the main house, planning to move into the bunkhouse when the workday was through. Holt hadn’t seen him since dawn, when they’d eaten a silent breakfast together, each thinking his own thoughts.
“Whoever shot them was riding alone,” Jeb said. “I followed the trail as far as Settler’s Creek. Lost him there.”
Holt laid the tarp down, full of cold rage. Henry had had come to the Territory at his urging, to ride for the Circle C brand, and he was dead because he’d made that choice. And the boy had barely been old enough to shave.
“Anybody have any ideas about who did this?” Holt asked, addressing the grim assembly circling the wagon.
“There was a fella quit the place early this morning,” someone said.
Holt scanned the crowd, looking for the speaker.
Danny Helgesen stepped forw
ard. “Maybe it was nothin’, but he just signed on day before yesterday. Seemed to like the setup well enough until this morning. Folks move on right along, but this feller seemed a mite anxious.”
“Why this morning?” Holt asked.
Helgesen’s gaze slid to Jeb. “I’m just guessin’ here, but he was fine until McKettrick showed up.”
“His name,” Holt demanded.
“Jim Barry is what he put in the payroll book,” said the other man.
Holt turned to Jeb. “That sound familiar to you?”
Jeb shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see anybody I recognized.” He nodded toward the buckboard. Beneath it, drops of blood stained the ground. “Want me to take the bodies to town?”
“I’ll do it myself,” Holt answered. “You ride down to the Triple M and fetch Lizzie home.”
Jeb ran the back of one hand across his mouth, sighed. “All right,” he said. He hadn’t signed on to be a babysitter, but he had the decency not to say so. “Take somebody with you, though.”
Holt nodded, gestured to Helgesen. “Hitch up a fresh team,” he said. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes. The rest of you, get back to work. I’m not paying you to stand around.”
There was no muttering as the other men turned away. Helgesen went about unhitching the horses from the wagon, and Jeb helped. Holt went into the house for a rifle and a coat and a box of cartridges. When he came out again, ready to travel, Jeb was sitting on the porch steps, looking up at the cool blue sky.
“You really need a woman around here,” he said. There was an odd, grudging note in his voice.
Holt moved past him. “Unfortunately,” he replied, as he went by, “you’re right.”
28
Chloe was brewing midafternoon tea when the knock sounded at her door. Her heart gave a fearful, joyous little leap, for she expected to find Jeb there, ready to rant or apologize, there was no telling which, but when she turned the knob and pulled, she saw that her caller was Holt Cavanagh.
He looked gaunt. His clothes were bloodstained, and he held his hat in one hand. “Becky tells me you’ve hired on as the new teacher,” he said.
Chloe blinked. Her first frenzied thought had been that Holt had come bearing bad news about Jeb, and the blood on his shirt and trousers bore out the theory, but his words indicated some other reason for the visit. She managed a nod and a whispered, “What happened?”
“There was some trouble on the Circle C,” Holt said. “I don’t reckon it would be proper for me to come in and talk, with you here alone.”
Chloe caught up with herself, shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t,” she agreed. “But we could sit here on the steps. Would you like a cup of tea?”
He looked mildly surprised, by the offer of tea, Chloe suspected, more than the seating arrangements. “No, thanks,” he said. He waited politely for Chloe to sit, and then took his place beside her.
“I guess you know I’ve got a daughter,” he went on, when they were settled.
Chloe nodded. “Yes. Lizzie,” she said. “I met her at the hotel, after the stage robbery, when Jeb and Sam brought her in. Poor little thing. How is she doing?”
Holt gave a deep sigh, turning his hat in his hands. “She seems to be holding up pretty well.” He paused. “I know you’ve got a job here, Miss Wakefield,” he went on, “but I’m wondering if we could work something out. It’s too far for Lizzie to travel, to come to school, but she needs an education and a woman’s company, and I’ve got you in mind for that.”
Chloe waited for him to outline the logistics, which eluded her at the moment. She was well aware that when he found out what she’d told Jeb, he might not want her help.
“I figured I could have somebody pick you up here in town on Friday night, and bring you back Sunday afternoon. In the time between, you could give Lizzie lessons and set her assignments to do during the week.”
“I see,” Chloe said. It was an odd world. He couldn’t set foot in the cottage, even in the bright light of day, without stirring up a flurry of gossip, but most likely no one would think twice about her spending two days on the Circle C, as long as she was serving as Lizzie’s teacher.
“It would be a temporary arrangement,” Mr. Cavanagh clarified, as a nervous afterthought. “Just until I could round up a governess and a housekeeper. Becky Fairmont will vouch for me, if you’ve got any worries about my character. We’re old friends, and we’ve had business dealings.”
Chloe blushed. She couldn’t put off telling him the truth for another moment. “Mr. Cavanagh, I—”
“Holt,” he broke in, with a weary smile.
“Holt,” she said, accommodatingly. “Before I agree to this, there’s something I have to tell you.” She drew a deep breath, let it out in a rush, with her hasty confession. “I did something terrible last night, at the Triple M. I told Jeb I might—I might—”
“Might what?” he prompted.
“Marry you,” Chloe blurted, and waited for the explosion.
To her utter surprise, he laughed. “Why?”
“Because he’s so all-fired sure of himself, I guess,” Chloe said lamely.
Holt was grinning, shaking his head, maybe at her audacity. “All right,” he said.
She looked at him in amazement. “All right?”
He laughed again, though something serious glittered in his eyes. “I’ll go along with the story,” he said. “For a while, anyhow.”
“Why?” Chloe asked, marveling.
“The hell of it, I guess,” Holt answered. “Truth is, I’m starting to like my little brother, but he is a mite on the cocky side. Now, are you going to look after Lizzie’s schooling, or not?”
“I’ll be ready and waiting next Friday afternoon, after school lets out,” she said, with wonder.
Holt looked profoundly relieved, and when he smiled yet again, the few doubts Chloe had skittered into the shadows, like mice fleeing the light. Jeb was bound to hear of the arrangement, and he could draw whatever conclusions he liked.
“Thank you, Miss Wakefield,” Holt said. “I’ll make this well worth your time. Lizzie’s a bright girl, if a bit headstrong, and she’ll be a fine student.”
“I have no doubt that she will,” Chloe said. If it wouldn’t have been too familiar a gesture, she would have patted his arm to let him know she liked and trusted him. Not that she didn’t intend to bring her derringer along, just in case she was wrong. “How well does Lizzie read? Do you know how far she’s gotten with her arithmetic?”
The smile faded. “I didn’t think to ask her either of those things,” he said.
Chloe suspected there were a great many things Holt Cavanagh had yet to ask his daughter, but since it was none of her business, she didn’t comment. If he cared enough to engage a teacher, even for just two days out of the week, he had the makings of a good father. And he wasn’t going to hold her up for a liar, even though he’d be perfectly justified in doing precisely that.
“I’ll find out when Lizzie and I sit down to our lessons next Saturday morning,” she decided.
He stood, his business almost complete, and put his hat back on. “I’d best get back to the ranch,” he told her. “Is there anything I need to have on hand? Textbooks and the like?”
“I’ll bring what’s necessary to start out,” Chloe said, still planted on the step. “We’ll take it from there.”
“Thank you,” he said, and headed for the gate. She walked that far with him, saw that a team and buckboard waited across the road, with a tired-looking cowboy at the reins.
Chloe watched as Holt crossed the road, climbed up into the wagon box, and elbowed the cowboy aside to take over the horses. He lifted his hat to her and drove off.
She sat a while, thinking, then went back into the cottage to pour tea. She’d be busy, between conducting classes in the schoolhouse all week and seeing to Lizzie’s education the rest of the time, but diligent enterprise would surely keep her mind off Jeb McKettrick.
Sh
e hoped.
29
Chloe’s fine intentions served her well, until she went to the Arizona Hotel for dinner that night, just after seven, and found Jeb in the dining room, having a cup of coffee with Becky and Sam Fee. There were other diners present, cowboys, mostly, but they all congealed into a murmuring blur.
Hungry as she was, Chloe would have turned right around and gone home if Jeb hadn’t looked up and seen her. She froze like a squirrel facing a rattler when their eyes met, her nerves raising a sweet panic inside her, and he pushed back his chair, stood up, and ambled toward her.
He was all spruced up, she noticed helplessly, sporting Sunday clothes and polished boots. His hair was neatly brushed, and even though he wore his gun belt, he looked more like a Sacramento lawyer than a rancher.
“I was beginning to think I’d have to come looking for you,” he said, just as if she hadn’t presented him with divorce papers and told him she might marry his brother.
Heat spread into every part of her; she couldn’t help remembering the way he’d held her, touched her, driven her crazy, the night he’d come to the cottage. “Why are you here?” she asked. “I expressly told you not—”
“It’s a free country,” he said easily, though there was an edge to his voice and a challenge in his eyes. He tilted his head toward her; she felt his breath on her face. Mercy, but it was warm for October. “Relax, Chloe,” he teased, in an undertone as effective as a caress. “All I want to do is have supper with you. A sort of farewell dinner. Best we part friends, don’t you think?”
Her temper, sometimes her downfall, sometimes her salvation, flared. “If you think for one minute that I’m going to let you back into that cottage,” she whispered, “you’ve gone stark, raving mad.”
He laughed. “I could always sing,” he said.
“That won’t work twice,” Chloe shot back.
“Then I’ll just have to think of something else,” he answered glibly. He put out his arm. “Now, smooth your feathers and come have supper, before folks get the idea there’s a scandal brewing.”
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