Jed (The Rock Creek Six Book 4)

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “Eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves.”

  “I wasn’t interested in hearing anything about myself. Just Nate.”

  “If Cash knows where he is, make Cash bring him home.”

  “Make Cash?” Jo snorted. “Why don’t you?”

  Mary appeared doubtful, an expression not usually associated with Mary. “I could have James do it.”

  “If anyone can make Cash do anything, that someone would be James Reese, but don’t bother. From what I overheard between the two of them, Nate wanted to be left alone. Cash isn’t going to disturb him, and neither will any of the rest.”

  “Disturb him from what? The next bottle? Or the next whore?”

  Jo flinched—but inside, where no one knew but her. “I have no idea, but it’s a rule, according to Cash. Not only do they come when one of them calls, but they go when one of them asks.”

  “Men,” Mary muttered.

  “Yeah.”

  For a moment they remained silent, contemplating the vagaries of the male species.

  “So, as you can see, I’m elected to drag him home.” Jo crossed to her bureau and removed what money she had left. Wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Besides, she’d give her last cent gladly to get to Nate. The Lord would provide beyond that. He always had before, though rarely in the way she expected.

  “Jo, really. You cannot get on a horse and traipse about Texas.”

  “Of course I can. I got on a horse and traipsed about Indian Territory. That was a lot more dangerous.”

  “Nate can take care of himself.”

  “No, he can’t.”

  “Maybe it’s time he did. You don’t have to save the entire world.”

  “I don’t plan to. Just him.”

  “And what if he doesn’t want to be saved? The boys have been trying for years.”

  “No one tries like I do.”

  “Well, that’s true enough.”

  Mary took a large breath and Jo braced herself for another onslaught. Mary didn’t give up easily, which was lucky for Rock Creek. Five years back, the place had nearly become a ghost town, subjected to random attack by the bandit El Diablo and his horde.

  The latter believed there was gold hidden in town, though no one had ever found any proof that the legend was anything other than a myth. Mary’s stubbornness and ability to manage the unmanageable had saved the town as effectively as the six men she’d hired to do so.

  “Please,” Mary whispered. “You’re my dearest friend. You only got back a few months ago. Georgie will be so disappointed that you’ve gone. She adores you.”

  Mary and Reese’s daughter, Georgia, was an angel. Jo loved children—any children, all children—perhaps because she was coming to understand she would never have a child of her own.

  “I’ll be back,” she said. “With Nate.”

  “Wait a week. What harm can a week do? I’m sure he’ll be back from... where is he anyway?”

  “Soledad.”

  “Mexico?” Mary’s voice squeaked.

  “Last I heard.”

  “Absolutely not! I forbid you to go over the border.”

  “When, exactly, did you get the idea that you could tell me what to do?” Hurt filled Mary’s eyes as remorse filled Jo’s heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re right. I’m just so used to—”

  “Managing things,” Jo finished.

  Mary shrugged. Truth was truth, and Jo knew her as well as anyone.

  “I’ve been on my own most of my life,” Jo said. “I can take care of myself and whoever else comes along. Nate needs taking care of more than anyone I’ve ever met, and it isn’t in me to turn my back on him.”

  “Nate’s soul was lost a long time ago.”

  “Funny thing about souls, they can be saved.”

  “Only if they want to be. Nate’s never struck me as a man interested in being saved.”

  “He’s better when he’s with me.”

  Mary hesitated, her gaze growing more concerned. “None of us knows what haunts him, why he stopped being a preacher and turned to the gun, but I’m sure what he’s hiding is pretty bad. I don’t think he’ll ever be truly better. If he keeps drinking the way he does, he’ll die—if not from the bottle, then from a bullet he’s too slow to dodge. Then what, Jo?”

  “Then I’ll bury him.”

  “And then? Will you find another lost soul to occupy your life?”

  Jo cut a quick glance at Mary’s face, shadowed by the late afternoon light slanting through Jo’s only window. The woman was too shrewd by half. “There’s always another.”

  Her flippant tone must have convinced Mary that Nate’s soul was all she was after. What else could there be?

  “Just be careful. March is funny in Texas—you could get snow, floods, or scalding heat. I’m not even going to mention the Comanche.”

  “You know as well as I do most of them have been confined in the north for years.”

  “Which only means that any you see are renegades and trouble.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Quanah Parker’s still out there—somewhere.”

  “He’s been out there for years. But after a winter of hiding, running, and starving, I doubt he and his Antelope band will be in any condition to start a war.”

  “What if he is?”

  “Then I doubt he’ll want to start one with me.”

  Jo had been dealing with Indians for a long time now. She knew many of the tribes’ languages and customs. She had little to fear from that quarter. In truth, the white men were more savage than the savages had ever hoped to be.

  “I need one favor,” she said.

  Mary nodded, agreeing without even asking what the favor might be. She was the best friend Jo had ever had.

  “Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone or why.” From the look on Mary’s face, that was exactly what she’d been planning. “I mean it, Mary. The boys will try to stop me. And I’m not going to be stopped.”

  “I won’t lie, Jo.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Just don’t say anything until someone asks. Can you do that?”

  Mary sighed then took Jo’s hand. “All right. But Soledad is no more than a day’s ride from here, two if the trail is washed out. You should be back here in four days.”

  “Not necessarily. If Nate isn’t... um, well, up to riding, we might have to stay a day or so.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you a week. Then I’ll send out whatever boys I can grab.”

  “Agreed.” Jo squeezed Mary’s hand and smiled, but Mary did not smile back.

  “I just don’t want you hurt, Jo.”

  “You and me both.”

  * * *

  Night fell quickly in springtime, and the evenings were chilly. Jo guided her horse across a shallow section of the river then urged it up the incline. There she paused and gazed back at Rock Creek.

  Lights sparkled in so many windows she was reminded of the stars in the sky. The town had grown since she’d first arrived here with her father seven years ago. She’d hoped this new place, new life, new chance would bring them closer. But nothing ever had.

  Maurice Clancy had been a terrible minister, a neglectful father, and a dreadful human being. Jo hadn’t known the extent of his straying from the beliefs he had taught her, even as he broke every commandment, until she’d returned and heard all the gossip that had come out during the trial of his murderer, who had turned out to be innocent.

  She’d loved her father, nevertheless. He was her father, and she’d never given up hope she might save him too. But as Mary had said, some folks did not want to be saved.

  Music, laughter, singing drifted on a cool breeze. She closed her eyes and imagined what it must be like inside Three Queens. Johnny would be playing his precious piano, with Carrie at his side. Lily would be singing, and Rico would be watching her with that expression in his eyes that told everyone in the room exactly what he had planned for his wife as soon as they closed up for
the night.

  What would it feel like to have a man look at her the way Rico looked at Lily? Or the way Jed looked at Hannah, Sullivan looked at Eden, or Reese looked at Mary? Jo had no idea, but she would certainly like to find out.

  Unfortunately, few men stood in line to marry spinster missionaries hopelessly in love with someone they could never have.

  Jo clucked to her horse, and they headed southwest. Probably not the best of ideas to disappear in the night, but Jo wanted to be long gone if Mary changed her mind and returned at dawn to continue their argument. Besides, the darkness held no fear for Jo Clancy.

  She patted the rifle she’d learned to use before she’d gone to Indian Territory. Once there, she’d learned to use it even better. Little frightened Jo, except perhaps dying without ever having been loved, and there wasn’t much she could do about that.

  By the time dawn quivered behind her, Jo was halfway to Mexico. The only creatures she’d encountered were a coyote just after midnight and a hawk that started up in front of them and made the horse prance a bit. But Ruth, as Jo had named her mare—whither thou goest and all that—was accustomed to surprises, and she didn’t buck or run. Ruth was nearly as calm as Jo. That’s why they traveled together so well.

  She lost nearly a day finding her way across a creek that had swelled past its banks with spring rain and winter runoff. So even though she was tired, Jo didn’t stop, eating jerky in the saddle and drinking water from her canteen. Days without sleep were nothing new to her. In the territory when epidemics such as smallpox or typhoid would sweep a nation, sleep was not something she got very much of.

  Right now Jo was running on nerves and sweat. She’d had a bad feeling ever since she’d seen Cash ride into Rock Creek. There was only one reason Nate would have stayed behind in Mexico.

  He was planning to die alone.

  She planned to stop him.

  * * *

  Jo approached Soledad as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting red, orange, and gold fingers of fire across the barren landscape. The village, if one could call it that, consisted of several adobe cottages, thatched lean-tos for the animals, and quite a few pigs in the street.

  One of those adobes had to be a saloon, or Nate never would have remained. Jo allowed Ruth to snort at the pigs in her path. The animals snorted back, but they moved. The mare was not a beast to trifle with; she’d been known to kick a coyote or two that thought to make her a meal. Neither Ruth nor Jo had any patience for nonsense.

  An ancient woman sat outside stirring a pot over an open fire. She turned a dark, expressionless gaze on Jo. Perhaps Jo’s attire—that of a man, or a boy considering her small stature—confused her. Or perhaps Soledad didn’t get too many visitors.

  Jo’s gaze swept the muddy, piggy street. She could understand why.

  “Senora.” Jo inclined her head. “¿Donde esta el salon?”

  The woman didn’t appear surprised at Jo’s voice. Perhaps her disguise wasn’t that good after all.

  Jo glanced down. She was thin, with a small chest and narrow hips. Her loose cambric shirt disguised any shape she could lay claim to. During the last bout with lice in the Territory, she’d cut her hair all the way to her scalp. It was just beginning to grow again, stick straight and black. Even without her hat, she’d resemble an unkempt lad.

  It was much safer and easier to travel in trousers, and Jo didn’t care about any gasps of outrage she might encounter were she to run into a lady. Somehow, Jo didn’t think she’d have that problem in Soledad.

  The woman pointed across the street at a cottage that looked just like all the others. But now that Jo listened, she heard numerous male voices drifting through the holes in the walls that served as windows and out the wide-open door.

  “Gracias.” She pulled the brim of her hat. The senora returned her attention to the pot.

  Ground tying Ruth in front of the saloon, Jo’s fingers drifted over the rifle secure in the scabbard. She glanced at the gaping doorway, then back at the gun. Without further thought, Jo pulled the weapon free and held it loosely against her thigh. A pistol would be less conspicuous, but she’d never been able to hit much with one of those. She figured the only way Cash could be so accurate with his was through sheer magnitude of use.

  Uttering a short, fervent prayer that Nate was right inside the door and she wouldn’t have to use her gun tonight, Jo stepped into the saloon.

  No one paid her any mind, not even the man behind the bar, and Nate was nowhere to be found. If God planned on answering only one of her requests, she’d have made only one, and it wouldn’t have been the gun prayer. Jo should have learned by now that bargaining didn’t work. God answered every prayer—but his answer for the vast majority of hers, at any rate, was no.

  Jo had to step over two pigs and three dogs in order to reach the bar. There were more animals inside than people, although in the dim light it was hard to tell the difference except by the snorts and the woofs.

  “Senor,” she murmured, not wishing to draw attention to herself unless she had to.

  He grunted like one of the pigs—or maybe it was one of the pigs—and continued to stare at the floor.

  “Senor,” she tried again.

  “Si.”

  “Do you speak English?” Her Comanche was so much better than her Spanish.

  “Si.”

  Jo frowned. Did he speak English? Or was he just agreeing with everything she said?

  “I’m searching for a man.”

  “There are several scattered about, senorita.” Now he looked at her. Unfortunately the look was a leer. “Take any one you like.”

  Jo ignored that. Sometimes it was best. “I’m interested in a particular man. Nate Lang?”

  The bartender shook his head. “No se. I don’t know.”

  “Big.” She lifted her free arm as high as it would go. “He wears pearl-handled pistols, but he doesn’t use them.”

  “No se pearl.” The man shrugged.

  “He shaves his head.” She made a cutting motion with her hand, near her head. “No hair?”

  “Ah! Muy drunk.”

  Jo sighed. “That would be him. Where is he?”

  The bartender nodded at the back door of the saloon.

  “Gracias.” Jo followed his direction. When one of the men grabbed at her arm, she brought the butt of her rifle down on his fingers and kept walking.

  As she reached the door, a rustle made Jo spin about, lifting her weapon to her shoulder. But everyone, including the pigs and the dogs, continued to stare at their drinks or the dirt. Nevertheless, she didn’t plan on being interrupted now that she was so near to her goal.

  “You can all just stay right here. I’ll take care of him and I don’t need any help. ¿Comprende?”

  “Senorita, we know better than to go near the hombre’s place. He wants no company while he dies.”

  Jo’s heart stuttered. She could not breathe. She’d feared dying was what Nate had planned, yet hearing someone say so made that fear far too real.

  “He has been crazy. He and his friend—the man with the eyes that show nothing?”

  Cash, Jo thought. The only time his eyes came alive was when he held four kings and an ace in his hand.

  “They fought terribly. We thought one of them would kill the other.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “No se. My English was not good enough for most of the words.”

  “I bet not.” Knowing those two, most of the words had been foul.

  “Then the smaller man rode off and the big one, he ordered whiskey by the bottle and keep them coming.” The bartender frowned. “Perhaps you should return to your home and let him be.”

  “I know how to handle him.”

  “If you say so.” The man pulled a full bottle from beneath the bar. “But take him another when you go.”

  Jo stared at the amber liquid, so pretty and so lethal. “I don’t think I will.”

  “His fury is on your head the
n.”

  “Ain’t it always?” Jo tipped her rifle against her shoulder and ducked out the door.

  To the rear was another adobe, the front of it directly opposite the back of the saloon. Trust Nate to find the most convenient resting place.

  “Nate?” she whispered. “You awake?”

  Squinting, she tried to discern any hint of movement within. The sound of a match being struck was followed by the flare of a flame. The wavering glow revealed a candle on the table. A hand appeared from the darkness and held the match to the wick.

  Flickering yellow light illuminated Nate sprawled in a chair. The pristine pistols he never used but always wore lay on the table as if waiting for something. His rifle was propped at an odd angle, facing him instead of the door. Jo frowned. That was hardly safe even if it was unloaded. She knew it wasn’t.

  “You came.”

  His voice was a raspy murmur that never failed to make her shiver; his light blue eyes glowed near feverish in the candlelight. He had not shaved in quite a while and black stubble liberally sprinkled with silver shaded both his head and his face.

  Just seeing him whole and alive made tears burn her eyes and crowd her throat. She must be more exhausted than she knew, because Jo Clancy rarely cried.

  “I’ve been waitin’ for you, angel face.”

  Angel face?

  Jo stepped into the room, moved into the light. “Nate, do you know who I am?”

  “Of course I know. Do I look drunk?”

  Jo tilted her head. He didn’t. But with Nate that didn’t mean he wasn’t. She’d seen him fight battles after drinking for days. In fact, Cash said that Nate drunk was a better shot by far than Nate sober. In Jo’s opinion that wasn’t a compliment, but tell it to a man.

  “You bring me a bottle?”

  “No. And I won’t either, so don’t ask. I’ve come to take you home, Nate.”

  As if that was what he expected, he nodded. “I knew you’d come when I needed you the most. You got here just in time.”

  His smile warmed her. How could a man who shaved his head and spent most days drinking be so darned handsome? Was it only because she loved him so?

  “I’ve been waiting forever, angel face. I was starting to think you didn’t want me to come home.”