With a sigh, she found a sheet of paper, then sat down and wrote a long letter to Creed, telling him that she had lied when she promised to forget him, that she loved him, would always love him. She told him all about Rose and how her sister had stolen the money he had left her and run off to San Francisco with Coulter. She told him about her job at the boardinghouse, making light of the hard work, assuring him that she was doing fine, that she was saving her money for a trip to Canon City so she could visit him.
She touched the choker at her throat, and then, feeling shy, she poured out her heart, telling him how she treasured the things she had found in his saddlebags, that she wore his beaded choker every day, that she slept on the pillow she had stolen from his hotel room.
In closing, she told him she had written to Judge Parker again, and then she begged him not to give up hope, telling him she was sure that he would be acquitted.
She signed her name and sealed the letter before she had a chance to change her mind.
*
Creed stared at the guard, unable to believe his ears.
“For me?” he asked. “You’re sure?”
“It’s addressed to Creed Maddigan,” the guard replied, fanning himself with the envelope. “But if you don’t want it, just say so.”
Creed held out his hand, his gaze fixed on the envelope. “I want it.”
“Hope it’s good news,” the guard remarked. Slipping the letter through the bars, he moved on down the cellblock.
Creed stared at the envelope for a long time, his thumb caressing Jassy’s name. Bless the girl, he thought, and sitting on the edge of his cot, he opened the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of white paper.
Dear Creed. Please don’t be angry with me. I know I promised to leave town, to forget you and start a new life, but I can’t. I think about you every day, wonder how you are. It must be awful, to be locked up. What do you do all day? Is the food terrible?
Creed grunted softly. The food was the least of his problems.
He frowned when he came to the part about her working at Wellington’s Boardinghouse, cussed long and loud when he read that Rose had stolen his money and run off to San Francisco with Ray Coulter. Coulter. Creed couldn’t explain it, but he knew, deep in his gut, that it had been Coulter’s idea to take the money. He’d met men like Coulter in every town west of the Missouri. Sweet-talkin’ men who could charm the birds out of the trees and fleece a woman out of a fortune before the sheets were cold. Rose would be lucky if she ever saw San Francisco.
He read the letter three times, his thoughts chaotic.
I love you…
I haven’t forgotten you…
Rose stole the money and left town…
I’m working at Wellington’s Boardinghouse…saving my money so I can come to Canon City…wear your choker every day…sleep on your pillow at night…
She loved him. He bolted off the cot and began to pace the floor. How could she love him? She didn’t even know him, didn’t know anything about him.
She hadn’t forgotten him. Lord knew, he hadn’t forgotten her. She had been in his thoughts every day, in his dreams every night, his beautiful child/woman with hair as red as fire and eyes as warm and brown as sun-kissed earth. Even now, just thinking about her made him ache in ways he didn’t understand, made him yearn for things he knew he’d never have.
Jassy. She had looked at him as if he was something more than just a half-breed gunfighter with a bad reputation and no future.
He thought about her wearing the beaded choker that his Lakota grandmother had made for him. Okoka had given it to Creed shortly before she passed away, a gift of love so that he would always remember her.
As if he could ever forget her. He had known little kindness from his mother while they lived with the Lakota. She had been too wrapped up in her own misery, too bitter about her captivity, to have much thought or feeling for a child she had never wanted. But his grandmother, bless her, had had time enough and love enough to spare. And now Jassy wore the choker.
And slept on his pillow. He closed his eyes and an image of Jassy curled up in bed, her rich red hair spread across his pillow, jumped to the forefront of his mind.
Creed groaned low in his throat as heat spiraled through him. Muttering an oath, he opened his eyes and stared at the letter in his hand. Her writing was small and neat, blurred in places, as if the ink had gotten wet before it dried. And he knew, with heart-rending certainty, that it had been Jassy’s tears that smudged the words.
“Jassy.” Murmuring her name, he dragged a hand through his hair, his gut clenching when he thought about Rose making off with his money, leaving Jassy to fend for herself.
Damn! He knew she’d made light of working in the boardinghouse, that she’d purposefully neglected to mention the long hours, the backbreaking work, the low pay, if she was getting paid at all.
He stared down at his hands, picturing them around Rose McCloud’s throat. One of these days, he thought, one of these days, he would make her pay for that lie she’d told on the stand, for stealing Jassy’s money, for…
He swore under his breath. Who was he kidding? Rose was long gone, and he wasn’t going anywhere for another nineteen years, eight months, and thirteen days.
*
Another month passed and Creed grew more and more restless. His temper flared at the slightest provocation. He spent three days in solitary for fighting with one of the other prisoners.
He’d never realized how much he hated small places, how much he’d prized what little freedom he had until it was gone.
When he was returned to his cell, he vowed to keep his temper in check, but it was easier said than done. He was constantly on edge, his thoughts churning with images of Jassy being forced to work because Rose had stolen his money. He read her letter until it was almost illegible, warmed by her words of love, enraged at the thought that her own sister had gone off and left her alone.
He had to get out. He had to know for himself that Jassy was all right.
Six weeks after Creed received Jassy’s letter, he overheard Westerman and Gresham talking about an escape. He’d sought Westerman out the next day.
“Do you need an extra man?” he’d asked, keeping his voice hushed.
“Maybe.”
“I want in.”
“Can I trust you to keep your mouth shut?”
“Damn right.”
Westerman had looked him over, then nodded. “It’s set for tomorrow. Gresham will fill you in tonight, in the mess hall.”
Creed didn’t have much more than a nodding acquaintance with the seven prisoners who had concocted the plan. He knew the ring leader, George Westerman, had been convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Westerman was about twenty-four, heavily built, with a sandy complexion, curly brown hair and blue eyes. He had a brother on the outside who was in on the breakout.
Billy Gresham had drawn two years for robbery. The others were serving terms of eighteen months to ten years for a variety of other crimes. The last man, Ryan St. John, had only a few months left to go.
But that didn’t matter. They all wanted only one thing—to be free again.
As it turned out, the escape was so simple Creed wondered why they hadn’t tried it before.
At the appointed time, Gresham called for the night guard, stating that he was sick and in need of medication. When the guard was out of sight, Westerman and St. John, who had adjoining cells on the main floor, opened their cell doors using knives they’d stolen from the kitchen. They hid in the shadows until the guard returned, then jumped him. Westerman threw a blanket over his head and held him while St. John choked him until he was unconscious.
After stripping the guard of his revolver and taking his keys, they left him bound and gagged in Westerman’s cell.
Creed’s heart was pounding with excitement as Westerman unlocked his cell door. Grabbing Jassy’s letter, he followed the others into the clothing room where they changed out of their prison
garb, then made their exit from the prison compound by one of the windows on the north side. To Creed’s amazement, the guard they’d left in Westerman’s cell appeared to be the only guard on duty.
From the prison, they went into the office where they took six Spencer rifles, a couple of handguns, and several boxes of cartridges.
“We’re headin’ for Texas,” Westerman told Creed as he fed shells into a rifle. “Why don’t you come along?”
Creed shook his head. “Can’t. I’ve got a little unfinished business waiting for me back in Harrison.”
Westerman grunted. “Hope you find him.”
“Her,” Creed said, his hands clenching as he imagined his fingers locking around Rose McCloud’s throat.
“Even better,” Westerman said with a leer. He tossed Creed a holstered Peacemaker. “Good luck.”
“Yeah,” Creed said, buckling on the gunbelt. “Same to you.”
On silent feet, they made their way toward the gate. Westerman’s brother, Charlie, was waiting for them, a big grin on his face.
“Any trouble?” George asked.
Charlie jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Just him.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, but he’s gonna have a hell of a headache when he wakes up.”
George Westerman spared hardly a glance for the body sprawled facedown in the dirt. He was far more interested in looking over the horses his brother had brought. Taking up the reins of a rangy gray gelding, he climbed into the saddle and rode into the darkness, followed by Charlie and the others.
Swinging onto the back of a big blue roan, Creed took a deep breath, then headed West.
Damn, he thought bleakly, he was running. Again.
Chapter Thirteen
It was a little after midday when Jassy left the boardinghouse and walked down the dusty street to Gratton’s Mercantile.
She had been working for over two months now and slowly, gradually, the townspeople had started to accept her, seeing her as Jassy McCloud, a person in her own right, instead of just a whore’s daughter. She had never thought it would happen, never dreamed the people of Harrison would be able to overlook her past.
For the first time, she knew what respect was, what it meant to be able to walk down the street with her head held high. She went to church on Sundays, finding comfort in the hymns, in the Psalms.
She smiled at Kate Bradshaw, owner of the Harrison Tea Shoppe, exchanged greetings with Elizabeth Wills, who was standing on the boardwalk, sweeping. She was making friends. It was a good feeling.
Climbing the stairs of Gratton’s Mercantile, Jassy nodded at Mr. Thomas, feeling a strange catch in her heart as she realized the old man was sitting in the rocking chair that had been Creed’s favorite.
Mr. Gratton’s blue eyes were twinkling as he came around the counter. With his white hair and rosy cheeks, Jassy often thought he looked like Santa Claus.
“Good afternoon, miss,” he said cheerfully.
“Hello, Mr. Gratton. I don’t suppose…”
“It’s here,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron.
“It is?”
Gratton nodded. “A letter,” he said, beaming at her.
At last! She hurried after him as he made his way to the post office in the back of the store, her heart hammering in her breast as the storekeeper reached into a cubbyhole and withdrew a long brown envelope.
Her smile faded a little when she saw the return address. It wasn’t from Creed after all. She opened the envelope, her eyes flying over the words. It was a letter from the judge, asking her to write out what she had seen exactly as she remembered it, sign it, date it, and have it notarized by an attorney.
In the meantime, he would write to the warden at Canon City and ask that Creed write out his version of what had happened that night. If he felt there was a possibility that Creed had been wrongly convicted, he would consider a retrial.
“Good news?” Mr. Gratton asked.
“The best!” Jassy exclaimed, and hugging the letter close to her heart, she ran out of the store.
*
It was well after midnight when Creed reached Harrison. He sat on the outskirts of town for a long while, contemplating his next move. On the long ride to town, he’d come to the conclusion that the best thing, the smart thing, would be to get out of Colorado as fast as his horse could carry him, and to stay as far away from Jassy McCloud as possible.
Creed nodded to himself. He should just ride on. Sooner or later, Jassy had to learn to take care of herself. Sooner or later she’d meet some decent guy who could give her the kind of life she wanted, the kind of life she deserved.
There was no reason for him to see her, no reason at all. He’d go to Frisco, find Rose if she was there, get his money back, send it to Jassy, then get on with his own life, and let Jassy get on with hers.
He should just ride on, he thought again. It would be better for both of them. But he continued to sit there, watching the windows in town go dark until the Lazy Ace Saloon was the only place with lights still showing.
He’d ride on, he told himself, just as soon as he made sure Jassy was all right.
Knowing he was making a mistake, and yet unable to help himself, he headed for the alley behind Martha Wellington’s boardinghouse.
Dismounting, he tried the back door. It opened on well-oiled hinges, and he stepped into a large square kitchen illuminated by a single candle. He caught the lingering scent of fresh-baked bread, the sharp smell of lye soap.
He stood there for a long moment but heard nothing to indicate anyone in the house was awake.
He moved silently through the dark rooms and down the hall until he came to the room under the stairs that Jassy had written was hers.
His heart was racing like a runaway train as he put his hand on the knob and tried the door.
He was relieved to find it unlocked; relieved and angry. Relieved because he wouldn’t have to break the darn thing down; angry because anyone, including a no-account gunfighter, could walk in on her in the middle of the night.
Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him, his gaze intent on the narrow bed situated against the far wall.
Three long strides carried him across the room. For a moment, he stood beside the bed, watching her sleep. Her hair was spread like a flame across the snowy pillowslip. One hand rested beneath her cheek, her lips were slightly parted.
Drawn by a power he was helpless to resist, he brushed a wisp of hair from her brow. Lord, she looked so young lying there, so innocent. He had no right to be in her room, no right to want her.
“Jassy.” Kneeling beside the bed, he placed his hand over her mouth. “Jassy.”
She woke with a start, her eyelids fluttering open. In the dim light cast by the moon, he saw the fear that flickered in her eyes, a fear that was quickly replaced by disbelief, and then joy.
The happiness in her eyes brought a smile to his face. Removing his hand from her mouth, he replaced it with his lips.
She tasted clean and fresh, like sunshine on a summer morning.
“Creed.” She whispered his name when he came up for air. She pulled him down on the bed beside her, hugging him fiercely, and then drew back. “What are you doing here?”
“I broke out of prison.”
She blinked at him as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “You what?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh, Creed.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I heard from Judge Parker,” she said and quickly explained about the letter she’d written, about how the judge had promised to look into Creed’s case.
He swore under his breath. Hell and damnation, he’d only made things worse. Still, just because the judge said he’d look into things didn’t mean they’d find him innocent.
“Maybe you could turn yourself in,” Jassy suggested.
Creed looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “No. I’m not going back. Not ever.”
&nbs
p; “But…”
“No, Jassy.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I never should have come here,” he muttered, “but I had to make sure you were all right.”
His gaze moved over her face, memorizing every sweet line and curve, the dark sweep of her lashes, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the deep brown of her eyes.
He stood abruptly. “I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself.”
“No!” She grabbed his hand and held on to it tight. “I missed you.” She tugged on his hand, pulling him down beside her once more. “Don’t go. Not yet.”
She sat up, her arms reaching for him, her mouth seeking his. He couldn’t go, not now.
With a low groan, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. His hands roamed restlessly over her back and shoulders as he drew her body down on the floor and into his lap. She was hope and love, sustenance for a starving man, and he thought he might never let her go. She made little mewling sounds deep in her throat, like a satisfied kitten, as he rained kisses over her face and neck.
“Jassy.” Her name was a groan on his lips, a plea, a prayer.
“I’m here.” She locked her arms around him, holding him tight, the voice of budding feminine intuition telling her that he needed to be held.
“Oh, girl,” he murmured, and with a sigh, he pillowed his head on her breast, content, for the moment, to be held and petted.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of her voice as she murmured his name, telling him that she loved him, that she had missed him, that everything would be all right now.
She was so young, he thought. So innocent. And he wanted so badly to believe her. But he couldn’t stay in Harrison. He was on the run now, a wanted man with a price on his head. He’d go, he promised himself, in a minute he’d go.
Her hand was small and warm against his cheek, her lips incredibly soft as they brushed his forehead.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “I’m afraid it’s just another dream, and in a minute Mrs. Wellington will be knocking on my door, telling me it’s time to get up.”
“I’m here,” he assured her. I’m here, and I don’t want to leave. She felt so good in his arms. Warm and sleep-tousled, she smelled of soap and sunshine. Her skin was as soft and smooth as a baby’s, tempting his touch.
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