It was late afternoon when Kit rode into town.
She hadn’t told Johnny the real reason for the unscheduled trip to Chaney. She didn’t want him to get his hopes up only to have them dashed. With any luck she’d be home before Johnny’s bedtime. But if she wasn’t, she knew Charlie and Ethan would take care of him.
She directed her horse to Freda’s and dismounted.
Freda opened the door as Kit approached and motioned her into the house. “Heard about Jake, did you?”
Puzzled, Kit stopped in the foyer. “What about him?”
“For two days he has been in that saloon,” Freda replied disgustedly. “Tried to get him out, Patrick did, but Jake would not leave. Now that you are here, he will listen to you.”
Kit absorbed the shocking news. “Why do you think I can get him out?”
Freda narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. Despite her diminutive stature, she appeared as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar. “Respects and likes you, he does.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“He bothers me with questions about you and Johnny.”
Kit stiffened. “What kind of questions?”
Freda shrugged. “Why you hide yourself with men’s clothing; why you never married Johnny’s father—”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I do not know.” She narrowed her perceptive gaze. “What I think, I do not tell him.”
“And what do you think?”
“ Johnny is his son.”
Kit’s composure slipped. “Why would you think that?”
“A feeling.” Her voice softened. “I will keep your secret.”
Kit’s heart thumped against her breast. First Charlie, now Freda had guessed the truth. She couldn’t deny it and lie to her friend. “I promise to tell you the whole story sometime, but now I should go see if I can talk some sense into Jake.” She sighed. “I had hoped the incident when he first arrived in Chaney was the exception. It’s beginning to look like it might be the rule.”
“This I do not tell you so you will feel sorry for me, but because it is something you should know,” Freda began in a low voice. “My Hans, he was a good man, unless he drank; then he would become mean. Toward the end, he was drunk more than he was not. Coming back from the saloon one night, he was so drunk he fell off his horse and broke his neck. That is how my Hans died.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, new strength in their depths. “So you get Jake before he becomes like my Hans.”
Empathy filled Kit, and she squeezed Freda’s hand. “I’ll try, but Jake may not want to listen.”
Freda studied Kit a moment. “Maybe if you tell him of his son.”
Kit shook her head. “No! I won’t risk losing Johnny. He’s all I have.”
Stifling silence cast a pall over the parlor. “Which saloon is he at?” Kit asked.
“The Red Bird.”
Kit nodded. “Hopefully, I’ll be back soon. With Jake.”
Freda followed Kit to the front door, then stopped her before she left. “Turn out, it will. You will see.”
Kit tried to smile, but failed. Hunching her shoulders under her coat, she trudged across the rutted street. She paused outside the Red Bird’s closed door as uneasy doubts pursued her. It wasn’t too late. She could still turn around and go back to the ranch. Then the image of Jake all alone assailed her. Had her novels contributed to his drinking? Did she owe him for turning his life into something like a P.T. Barnum sideshow?
Forcing aside her reluctance and swallowing her anxiety, she entered the salon. Ribbons of smoke curled upward from kerosene lamps, cigars, and cigarettes, and her nostrils twitched from the thick odor. Bluish-gray clouds drifted close to the lights to form wispy shadows, adding to the oppressive atmosphere of the low-ceilinged room. A few poker games were in progress, and many of the players glanced up at Kit curiously.
Where was Jake?
The knights of the green tables studied Jake Cordell, noting his tied-down holster and the danger in his hawk eyes. Those men who gambled their lives away knew that even their biggest game could never match the stakes Cordell played for. He played the odds with death every day, betting his own life against a pot filled with murderers and all those opposed to justice.
Kit shook aside her thoughts. She finally spotted Jake sitting in a corner, his back to the wall, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in the middle of the table. A scantily clad saloon gal was perched on Jake’s lap, one arm draped around his neck. He whispered something in her ear, and she giggled like a lovesick schoolgirl.
Jealous despair struck Kit like a lightning bolt, but she squared her shoulders and approached them. “Hello, Jake,” she greeted him in a husky voice.
The painted woman stared at Kit as if she had two heads, and Kit met her gaze without flinching.
“Miss Thornton, nice of you to join us,” Jake slurred. “Let me introduce you to Louise.”
Kit sent her a stiff nod. “Hello, Louise.”
She batted blackened lashes. “So you’re Kit Thornton. You don’t act no different than all them other high-falutin’ women who think their privies don’t stink.”
Maggie had worked in a bar, too, but she didn’t harbor the spite that oozed from Louise.
Jake shook his head, a trace of impatience in the gesture. “Pull in your claws, Louise. Kit’s my friend.”
Kit was gratified to see the other woman glower at Jake and remove herself from his lap.
“Then I’ll leave you with your friend.” Louise’s sarcasm was sharp enough to skin a squirrel. She stomped away, her faded red satin skirt flouncing about her knees.
Kit lowered herself into the seat, shocked at Jake’s appearance. His brown eyes, usually so clear and steady, were now glassy and bloodshot. His cheeks held a three-day whisker growth and his shirt was spotted with stains.
“Sorry if I interrupted anything,” Kit said, without a hint of contrition.
The smile Jake gave her was anything but pleasant. “Louise’ll be back. She likes me.”
Kit’s anger rose to the surface. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
Jake reached for the bottle but missed and tried again, this time nearly spilling it before he clasped the neck.
“I am pouring myself some whiskey,” he enunciated carefully.
Kit leaned forward and wrapped her fingers around his hand. “I think you’ve had enough, Jake. Why are you doing this to yourself?”
With an effort, Jake focused on Kit and smiled inanely. “I’m not doin’ it, the whiskey is.”
Kit scowled. “Freda told me you haven’t stopped drinking in two days.”
“But I have. I can’t drink when I’m in the privy.” He wiggled his fingers. “Need these for other things.”
Kit ignored his coarse humor. “What do you think Johnny would think if he saw you like this?” she asked softly.
The question seemed to bring a moment of sober clarity to Jake. He sat up straight, grabbing hold of Kit’s wrist. “Don’t you let him see me. Don’t let him near me!”
She settled back in her chair, forcing nonchalance. “I was beginning to wonder if you cared about anyone or anything. C’mon, let’s go back to Freda’s.”
He shook his head slowly. “Nope. Don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“The dreams.”
Kit’s calm evaporated. “What dreams?”
“I keep seein’ them,” Jake explained.
Puzzled, Kit asked, “Who?”
His eyes clouded with nightmares. “Men I killed; men I brought in to be hanged.”
The anguish in Jake’s voice cut a ragged wound in Kit. “Listen to me, Jake. Those men were murderers and robbers and God knows what else. You were doing decent folks a favor by bringing them to justice.”
He took a deep breath and lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips, but Kit pulled it away before he could drink from it.
“You’ve had enough. It’s time to go,” s
he stated firmly.
Jake stared at the bottle for a full minute. “All right,” he finally said.
Kit went and put an arm around his shoulders, helping him to stand. She took most of his weight as his feet shuffled about, doing more to throw Kit off-balance than propel him forward. They finally managed to make it past the gawkers and Louise’s hostile glare, and out onto the boardwalk.
They were nearly to Freda’s when Jake tripped, taking Kit down with him. They ended up in an undignified heap with Jake on top of Kit.
A devilish smile claimed Jake’s lips. “This is kinda fun.”
Kit’s face grew hot as her body responded to Jake’s lean muscles pressed tightly against her. What was wrong with her? His breath reeked of whiskey, and his unwashed clothes were saturated with stale sweat and acrid smoke. She was disgusted by his drunkenness, yet she had no control over the searing desire that stole through her defenses.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
Kit recognized the voice, and humiliation and dread thrummed through her. She managed to get Jake to roll off her so she could scramble up to face Jameson. Glancing down at her ex-hero, who floundered about, trying to get to his feet, Kit felt a pang of sympathy.
Resolve filled her, and she placed herself between the men. “This isn’t any of your business, Will.”
Behind her, she could hear Jake struggling to rise.
Jameson sneered. “Some hero! Who would’ve thought the great Jake Cordell was a drunken bum!”
“He just had a little too much to drink.” Kit leaned down to help, but it took three attempts to get Jake in an upright position.
She looked up to find Jameson directly in their path. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she felt like she was ten years old again.
The lawless Jameson cornered the heroine, leaving her no escape. She pressed the back of her lily white hand to her smooth ivory forehead. “Please don’t hurt me. I beg you.”
“Unhand her, you evil brute,” Jake Cordell commanded.
The outlaw laughed, a harsh grating sound that left no doubt Jake would have to shoot him to save the innocent maiden. He eased his Colt 45 from its holster, and leveled it at the bad guy. “Don’t make me kill you, Jameson.”
The villain stared down death’s dark tunnel, then into the unyielding eyes of Jake Cordell. Jameson’s hand shook and his true colors emerged. “Please, Mr. Cordell, don’t shoot. I was only joshing.”
The cold air had begun to stir Jake out of his stupor, along with the harsh words between Kit and the police officer. He tried to straighten, and only partially succeeded. “I think the lady wants you to leave her alone.”
His words, slurred, didn’t come out as forcefully as he’d intended.
“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” Jameson taunted.
“Jake, leave it be,” Kit murmured.
“Jake Cordell, hiding behind a woman’s skirts.” Jameson snorted with derision. “Even if the woman doesn’t wear a skirt.”
Lucid enough to know his masculinity was being challenged, Jake took a wobbly gunman’s stance. “I don’t have to hide behind anyone.”
He focused on Jameson’s face, on the gray eyes that seemed as brittle as the cold evening. As he stared into them, Jameson’s features began to run like a wet painting, transforming into another face filled with merciless angles and shadows. His father’s murderer had returned!
Jake growled deep in his throat. “You bastard!”
He launched himself at the younger man, and the two of them rolled to the street below the boardwalk. Jake was able to dodge a few of Jameson’s blows and land a couple of his own, but too much liquor and not enough food had weakened him. The policeman got in an uppercut to his jaw and Jake fell back, shaking his head clear of the colored spots in his vision. Before he recovered, Jameson went on the offensive, sending another punch to his face. Warm, sticky moisture rolled across Jake’s lips and down his chin.
“That’s enough!” Sergeant O’Hara’s voice boomed out above them, and Jameson was jerked out of Jake’s line of sight. “What’s goin’ on here?”
“Cordell is drunk and disorderly. I was going to arrest him.”
“You liar,” Kit exclaimed.
Her angelic face, surrounded by a tangle of hair, swam into Jake’s view. Gentle hands eased him into a sitting position and he glanced down at his shirtfront, stained scarlet from the blood that flowed from his nose.
“Jake and I were going to Freda’s.” Kit’s sweet breath cascaded across his throbbing face.
“I’m believin’ the lass, Jameson. Go on with you, and leave Cordell and Miss Thornton be,” Patrick ordered with a wave of his hand.
Jameson glared at Jake, then mockingly tipped his hat at Kit and sauntered away.
Kit breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Patrick. Could you help me with Jake?”
He nodded and slipped a brawny arm around Jake’s waist, helping him up. Jake tried to escape the helping hands, but what little strength he had had disappeared.
“I see you have brought him home,” Freda commented, as she moved aside to allow them in the house. “Take him into the kitchen. We can clean him up there.”
They propped Jake in a chair by the table, while Freda poured water from the pot on the stove into a tin basin. Patrick got himself a cup of coffee with a familiarity that showed this wasn’t the first time he’d been in Freda’s kitchen.
Kit removed her jacket, then rolled up the sleeves of her wool shirt. Taking a cloth from Freda, she began the chore of cleaning up Jake’s face.
“What happened?” Freda asked.
“Will Jameson.” Disgust reflected in her tone. “You’d think he’d grow up some day.”
She dabbed at Jake’s swelling nose.
“Damn it, that hurts,” he cussed, grabbing her wrist and halting her ministrations.
“Mr. Cordell, what have I said about swearing under my roof?” Freda reminded sternly.
“You’d best be listenin’ to her, Jake. You’d hate to be missin’ out on her apple pie,” Patrick added with a wink.
With a muttered oath, Jake released Kit. Her lips settled into a grim, disapproving line, but she carefully wiped the blood from his face. Her clean, soapy smell tantalized Jake, and her flushed cheeks tempted his fingers to touch her, to learn if her skin was as peachy soft as it looked. But it was her mouth, only inches from his, that held his rapt attention. What would her lips feel like? He imagined her soft compliance as he kissed her lush ripeness, and his groin tightened in response.
Settling the damp cloth on his nose, Kit said, “Lean back to stop the bleeding.”
He eased his head back until he gazed at the whitewashed ceiling.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” Kit said.
“It’s not,” Jake said. “I’ve had it broken a couple times, and it didn’t feel like this.”
“That’s reassuring,” Kit said dryly.
As he waited for the bleeding to cease, Jake tried to remember exactly what had happened. The fact that Jameson would’ve beaten him sent humiliation shafting through him. If he’d been sober, Jameson wouldn’t have been more bother than a mosquito. But because he’d indulged in a good case of self-pity, he hadn’t been able to protect Kit from the officer’s taunts. Some hero he was.
Slowly, Jake brought his head up, then closed his eyes as dizziness assailed him. Once the nausea passed, his eyelids flickered open and he found a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him.
And he and Kit were alone.
“Where’d they go?” he asked.
“Into the parlor.” Her curt reply did nothing to assuage his guilt.
Sighing heavily, he took a long swallow from the mug. He immediately slammed the cup down and swore, glad Freda had disappeared. “Did she boil it twice?”
Humor glinted in Kit’s eyes. “Three times. She figured you’d need it.”
Stubbornly, Jake drank the coffee, though this time he sipped i
t. He set the empty cup on the table. “There! I’m done.”
Kit stood and refilled the cup. “You haven’t even begun.”
Jake grumbled, but emptied the pot. By the time he was finished, he needed to make a trip to the privy. He felt more sober than he had in two days, and he pushed back his chair only to have the floor tilt beneath him. He threw out a hand, slapping the table to keep from falling flat on his face.
“Aren’t quite as sober as you thought, are you?” Kit asked softly.
Jake turned to find Kit within a few inches of him, and her arm curved around his waist. It was decidedly the only benefit of being so drunk he couldn’t stand on his own feet. Without his asking, she helped him down the muddy path.
“I’ll wait for you,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.
A minute later Jake emerged, carefully holding onto the door frame. Kit moved toward him, but he shook his head. “No, I’ll do it myself.”
Slowly, Jake returned to the house on legs that wobbled like a two-bit chair. He leaned against a counter, trying to regain his equilibrium. As he waited, he studied Kit’s stance, the arms crossed below her breasts, her booted feet planted twelve inches apart, and her expression curtained.
“What were you doing in town today?” he asked.
“Trying to talk some sense into that thick skull of yours.”
He frowned. “How did you know—?”
“I didn’t. Johnny was upset that you hadn’t shown up for his next riding lesson. I thought it might’ve been my fault.”
Shame clogged his throat. He imagined the sparkle in Johnny’s eyes disappearing, replaced by disenchantment, and his heart lurched. He hadn’t meant to disappoint the kid. “I forgot.”
“Damn it, Jake, I don’t want to see Johnny hurt. Either you keep your promises to him, or you keep away from him.” Kit’s eyes blazed with righteous anger. “It’s up to you.”
For years he hadn’t answered to anyone but himself, and he’d liked it that way. The boy, however, had stolen past Jake’s defenses. He found himself wanting to see Johnny again, to teach him not just how to ride, but the other things a boy should learn.
Maureen McKade Page 10