“Come on, Jen,” Hank said eagerly. “I want to show you our house.”
A home of her own. The idea excited Jenny and she put her hand on Hank’s arm as he led her out of the store and helped her into a rather elegant black carriage with a fringed top and bright red wheels. Her heart was pounding with excitement as she settled back against the soft leather seat. At last, she was going home.
Jenny gasped when Hank pulled up before a large two-story house. It was like a palace, she thought. Bigger than any of the other houses on the shady street, it boasted a wide veranda, a large flower garden, a neatly manicured lawn and a fresh coat of sparkling white paint.
“This is home, Mrs. Braedon,” Hank said as he lifted Jenny from the buggy.
Taking her hand, he led her up the stairs.
“Oh Hank,” Jenny murmured as he opened the front door and escorted her inside. “It’s lovely. Just lovely.”
The rooms that Hank showed her were spacious and sunlit, decorated in gleaming mahogany and lustrous oak. The settee in the parlor was of dark-blue damask, the chairs a rich blue print. Expensive paintings hung on the walls, costly rugs muted her footsteps, crystal chandeliers and Tiffany lamps provided light.
Her head spinning, Jenny followed Hank from room to room, unable to grasp it all. The house seemed overwhelming, almost garish, after the years she’d spent in Kayitah’s rude wickiup.
“The store must be doing very well,” she mused aloud as she followed Hank up the carpeted stairway.
“Yes,” Hank replied after a slight pause. “Very well.”
He cleared his throat as he opened a large oak-paneled door. “This is my…our room.”
The bedroom was as large as the parlor downstairs. An oversized bed dominated the room. The dark mahogany furniture was massive, the carpet fully two inches thick, the drapes were of deep green velvet. Green and white striped paper covered the walls.
Jenny sighed as she let her hand drift over the plush bedspread, wondering if she would ever get used to such luxury.
“I’m glad you’re here, Jen,” Hank said. He put his arms around her waist and gave her a squeeze. “I’ve been lonely without you.”
“I missed you too.”
“Was it awful, living with those savages?”
“Yes.”
“Did they…did anyone…?”
She knew immediately what he was thinking. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
A muscle worked in Hank’s jaw as he realized what Jenny wouldn’t say. She’d been with a man. Jealousy raged through him. But she was his wife. He’d be the envy of every man in town when they saw Jenny on his arm.
Ryder Fallon was scowling when he left Braedon’s General Store. Meeting Jenny’s husband had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he angled down the street toward the Double Eagle Saloon, hoping a good stiff drink would make him feel better.
He paused briefly at the saloon entrance, surveying the crowd inside before making his way to the bar. The Double Eagle wasn’t fancy. There were no lavish trimmings here, no plush chairs or gilt-edged mirrors, but Fallon knew the whiskey was uncut and the cards came off the top of the deck.
As was his wont, he took a place at the end of the bar where he could keep an eye on the door, and where no one could creep up behind him unawares.
“Ryder? Tarnation, it is you!” The bartender’s face lit up as he pumped Fallon’s hand. “I hardly recognized you without your chin hair.”
“Hi, Red. Still selling firewater to Indians?”
“To a select few now and then,” the bartender replied, chuckling. He pulled a bottle and a glass out from under the counter. “What brings you to town after such a long absence?”
“Just passing through,” Fallon answered. “What do you know about Hank Braedon?”
“Hank?” Red rubbed a thoughtful hand across his jaw. “He came to town a little over two years ago and went into business with his brother, Charlie. There was some talk that Charlie made a killing running guns to the Indians and that he was using the store as a front.” Red shrugged. “No one could ever prove anything, and then Charlie up and left town and no one’s seen him since.”
“Charlie Braedon.” Fallon’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard that name.”
“Yeah, he earned himself quite a rep as a fast gun while he was here. Hank’s good too.”
“Hank? He wasn’t packing any iron when I saw him at the store.”
“Never does, not when he’s working.” Red poured Fallon another drink. “Bad for business. Makes the ladies nervous, you know. But he keeps a loaded shotgun under the counter. He’s good, Ryder. Damn good.”
“Think I should go into hiding?” Fallon asked dryly.
Red chuckled. “Oh I reckon you can still handle yourself okay. I manage to keep up with your exploits. Hell, I heard Ben Ladera hired you to clean up Parksville, and now the place is quiet as a church.”
“Yeah,” Ryder admitted, grinning. “That’s why I left.”
Jenny sat across the table from her husband, listening as he told her about the store and the people in town. He’d made a place for himself in the community, she thought with pride, but she couldn’t help worrying about what people would think once they learned she’d spent the last four years living with Indians. Would they accept her? Or shun her?
And how would she adjust to living in a house again, to having people wait on her? Hank had a housekeeper and a cook, both of whom Jenny had met earlier that day.
“Where’s Charlie?” Jenny asked during a lull in the conversation.
“He, uh, left town almost a year ago.”
“Really? Why?”
Hank shrugged. “Wanted to move on, I guess.”
“But the reason you wanted to come west was to go into business with him.”
“We are in business.”
Hank stared into his coffee cup, wondering how much to tell Jenny, wondering how she’d feel if she knew that her brother-in-law had been selling guns to the Apache. It had been profitable, there was no doubt about that. It had provided Charlie with the means to buy the store and the house, but after a while there had been rumors and a lot of ugly talk about traitors and a hanging. In the end, Hank had convinced Charlie to leave town before it was too late. And for once, Charlie had shown some good sense and skedaddled, leaving Hank in charge of the store. Every couple of months, Hank went over the books, divided the profits and sent Charlie’s half to a bank in West Texas.
Hank sipped his coffee. He had made a good life for himself in Widow Ridge. Everyone in town knew that his wife had been killed by Indians. The women had done their best to comfort him. As time went on, a few of the unmarried ones had flirted with him openly, but he’d never paid them any mind. They still fussed over him, inviting him to dinner, to socials, nodding with supposed understanding when he refused their invitations. They thought he was still in mourning, and everyone said how devoted he was to stay faithful to his wife’s memory after all this time. If they only knew, he thought bitterly. If they only knew.
And now Jenny was back, but she had changed somehow. She was still beautiful, even more beautiful than he remembered, but she had changed. He supposed that was only natural after all she’d been through, but there was something about her, something that went deeper than pain.
She’d been with a man. He knew it, and the knowledge was almost unbearable. She had been with a man, a whole man. He would lose her now, he thought bleakly. Now that she knew what a farce their marriage had been, she would leave him for a man who could be a husband in the true sense of the word, a man who could give her children.
She’d been with a man, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Jenny was exhausted when she retired to bed later that night. The pillowcase was cool against her cheek as she closed her eyes and waited for Hank to come to bed, praying that they could resume their former closeness, that they could recapture the warmth and friendship they had once shared.
She felt herself ten
se as he slid into bed beside her, and then she reminded herself that this was Hank, and she had nothing to fear. He wouldn’t force himself on her. Once, this had been her favorite time of day, a time when they had talked about the day’s events and made plans for the future.
“Jenny, I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, but I need to know.”
“Please, Hank…”
He slipped his arm around her in an unconscious gesture of possession. “Was there another man?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
She felt his arm tighten around her shoulder. “Who was it?”
“His name was Kayitah. He was the chief of the tribe, and he made me his second wife. I hated it, Hank, and I hated him, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right, Jen. I’m sorry.”
He felt a surge of relief so sweet it was almost painful. Perhaps he wouldn’t lose her after all. And then he recalled the way Jenny had looked at Ryder Fallon, and the way Fallon had looked at Jenny. He had to know. No matter how much it hurt, he had to know.
“What about Fallon?”
“What about him?”
“Did he…was he…?”
“He was a prisoner, just like me, that’s all. Please, Hank, I just want to forget about it.”
“I won’t mention it again, Jen, I promise. Good night.”
Jenny remained awake, staring into the darkness, long after Hank had fallen asleep. She was home, where she’d dreamed of being for so long, but nothing was the same. She’d been a girl when she left Philadelphia, innocent in the ways of men, untouched by life, by desire.
But she wasn’t a naive young girl anymore. She was a woman now. She’d known pain and grief. She’d seen death and vengeance firsthand. She’d lived with hunger and fear. She’d been a wife, she’d borne a child and felt it suckle at her breast. She had felt the first stirrings of desire in Ryder Fallon’s arms…
Fallon. Where was he now? She tried to push his memory from her thoughts, but his swarthy image remained, his midnight-blue eyes haunting her. Damn him! Why had he come into her life? He had shown her what passion was, had given her a hint of what love could be like between a man and a woman. She had never craved a man’s touch until he had kissed her, had never known what passion was, or realized what she had been missing with Hank.
I hate him. I hate him. She repeated the words in her mind, wishing she had never met him.
But for Ryder Fallon, she would have remained untouched by passion, by desire.
But for Ryder Fallon, she never would have left Kayitah. She would never have lost her son.
Suddenly, her arms ached to hold her child. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked into the future and saw nothing there but loneliness.
She would never see her child again, and she would never have another.
There would be no desire to warm her nights, no afterglow of passion to carry through the coming days, only Hank’s chaste affection.
There would be no children to fill her house with laughter, no grandchildren to bring her joy and comfort in her old age.
Choking back a sob, she stared out the window into the darkness of the night, into blackness as deep as the pain in her heart, as empty as her arms. And wished that she had let Ryder Fallon make love to her just once.
Chapter Nineteen
Fallon spent a restless night. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Jenny in her husband’s arms, kissing him, loving him, pleasuring him as only she would know how.
The thought drove him crazy, and he finally gave up all hope of sleep and left the hotel. He paced the dark street for twenty minutes before he turned down the road that led to the house that Red had described as belonging to Hank Braedon.
He whistled under his breath when he saw the big white house. The place was as big as some of the mansions he’d seen back East, well cared for, expensive.
With a rueful shake of his head, he turned away and headed back to Main Street. Even if he’d been able to persuade Jenny to leave her husband, he’d never be able to give her a place like that. Hell, he couldn’t afford to buy one room of a place like that, let alone the whole shebang. It was a moot point anyway, he mused as he stepped into Red’s saloon. Jenny was in love with her husband, and she was never going to forgive him for what he’d done.
Sunday morning found Ryder Fallon lounging idly on the steps of the Double Eagle Saloon, bleary eyed after another sleepless night.
As the courthouse clock chimed ten, the townspeople began to wend their way toward the tidy white church that dominated the south end of town.
One family in particular caught Fallon’s eye. The father and mother walked ahead of their brood, looking somber and straitlaced. Behind them, slim and lovely in blue dresses with crisp white sashes, came their twin daughters. Trailing the girls were three boys, their well-scrubbed faces marred by frowns of displeasure that grew steadily deeper as they neared the church.
Fallon grinned, knowing the boys would rather be out hunting or fishing than suited up for Sunday school. Well, he could sympathize with them. He had never been able to find Usen inside the four square walls of a white man’s church either.
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as Hank and Jenny Braedon rounded the corner of Main Street. Hank looked prosperous in a dark-gray suit and neatly tied cravat. Expensive black boots, polished to a high shine, reflected the early morning sun. He smiled expansively at several elderly ladies rocking sedately on the porch of the Regency Hotel.
But it was Jenny who held Ryder’s gaze. She looked stunning in a pale pink dress of watered silk. Her long golden hair was partially hidden beneath a perky straw bonnet bedecked with pink satin roses and gaily colored streamers.
A sudden warmth pulsed through Fallon at the mere sight of her, and he cursed his weakness for her even as he returned her smile.
Hank Braedon scowled as his wife’s steps slowed and then stopped, her gaze focused on the half-breed. Hank didn’t miss the flush that rose in her cheeks or the sudden sparkle in her eyes. It was a look he coveted for himself.
Fallon felt the force of Jenny’s gaze, and it drew him like a magnet.
Rising, he walked down the steps and crossed the street to Jenny’s side. “’Morning.”
Jenny nodded, the sound of Ryder’s voice flooding her with an emotion she dared not name. “Good morning.” Now that he was there, so close she could almost touch him, she didn’t know what to say. She was supposed to hate him, yet just seeing him made her feel alive for the first time in days.
“Good morning,” Hank said politely. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Thanks.”
“We’re on our way to church,” Braedon said. He took Jenny’s arm possessively. “Let’s go, Jen. We’ll be late.”
Jenny nodded. “Good day, Mr. Fallon.”
“Ma’am.”
He stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, as he watched Hank and Jenny walk away.
She’s his wife, he reminded himself. You’ve got no claim on her. None at all.
Turning on his heel, Fallon headed for the saloon. He needed a drink. Maybe two. And then he’d leave town before he made a complete fool of himself over another man’s wife.
Desert gave way to gently rolling hills as Ryder Fallon left the town of Widow Ridge far behind. A chill wind flattened the yellow prairie grass and caused the slender willows to bend in supplication to its power.
Hunched in his buffalo robe coat, Fallon rode warily, ever on the alert for Apaches, though it was doubtful they’d be raiding this far north.
The stallion snorted and shook its head against the wind’s wintry breath, and Fallon grinned, taking pleasure in the coiled power of the big black stud. The black was prancing now, its long neck arched, its muscles quivering with the urgent need to run after spending the last few days in a box stall.
Fallon gave the black its head, leaning low over its neck as the stallion lined out in a dead run.
Reveling
in the surging power of the horse and in the invigorating sting of the wind in his face, Fallon threw back his head and let loose with the Cheyenne war cry. The shrill, ululating cry spooked a jackrabbit from cover, and the frightened animal fled in panic before the stallion’s thundering hooves.
Guiding the horse with the pressure of his knees, Fallon pulled the Winchester from the saddle boot, sighted down the long barrel and squeezed the trigger.
It was a lucky shot, nothing more. The heavy slug caught the jackrabbit at the base of the skull, nearly severing its head from its body.
Grinning, Fallon brought the black to a halt, slid from the saddle to retrieve his kill.
“Well, that takes care of dinner,” he muttered. “All we need now is a place to bed down.”
Swinging into the saddle, he urged the black into a lope, scouting the terrain until he found a place that offered protection from the wind. There was good graze for the stallion and ample shelter for himself. After a dinner of roast rabbit and hardtack, Fallon squatted beside a thrifty fire and rolled a cigarette.
Watching the cigarette smoke spiral skyward, he kept a tight rein on his thoughts, refusing to let himself think of Jenny, of what might have been if he’d met her sooner, under other circumstances.
Grinding out the cigarette, he rolled into his blankets, one hand resting on the butt of the Winchester.
Picketed nearby, the stallion stood silhouetted against the gray sky, a dark outline that gradually merged with the gathering darkness as night spread her cloak across the empty land.
The next day dawned cold and wet. Fallon sought shelter in a cutbank arroyo and spent the day staring moodily at the cloud-darkened sky. Thunder rolled across the heavens, causing the earth to tremble. Great slashes of lightning lanced the clouds.
Lost in thoughts he could no longer hold at bay, Fallon was oblivious to the fury of the raging storm as Jenny’s image danced in his mind, her great green eyes now dark with concern as he endured Kayitah’s punishment, now glinting with anger when he threatened to leave her behind, now dark with loathing as he surrendered her son to Kayitah.
Apache Runaway Page 15