Taken by the Cowboy

by Julianne MacLean

  When Truman and Jessica trotted into the yard, the curtains were drawn. The door was shut.

  There was a goat tied to a post out front, complaining with a noisy bawl.

  Truman dismounted and helped Jessica down. "Maybe we missed him. He's probably at the office by now."

  They climbed the steps to the small, covered porch and walked to the front window. "Try knocking, Jessica."

  She raised a fist and pounded on the door. "Mr. Gordon? Are you home?"

  Only insistent complaints from the unhappy goat filled the silence.

  "He must have left for work," Jessica remarked.

  "Looks like it."

  "And we wasted all this time coming out here."

  Just then, the front door ripped open. Mr. Gordon reached out, grabbed Jessica by the wrist, and hauled her inside.

  Truman drew his gun and was aiming by the time she whirled around in the open doorway to face him. But Gordon was shielded behind her, holding a gun to her head.

  "Drop your gun, Wade, or I'll shoot her!” he shouted. “I swear on my life! I'm scared enough to do it!"

  Truman was only four feet away, but in Jessica’s eyes, from where he stood, it seemed more like a mile.

  Her heart was pounding so fast, she could barely breathe.

  Truman gave her that apologetic look. His voice was low and dangerous. "Drop it, Gordon."

  "No, you drop it, or I'll kill her!"

  Truman shut one eye to look down the long barrel of his Colt .45. "Drop it, I said."

  Jessica felt Henry begin to hyperventilate behind her. "I'm gonna shoot her!” he said. “I swear! I can’t take it anymore. I'm gonna shoot her!"

  "No! Please!" Jessica screamed. "He'll do it, Truman!"

  The little man flicked his gun around. "You heard her! Drop your weapon."

  Jessica met Truman’s gaze. She saw helplessness in his eyes—a look she'd never seen before.

  It spooked her.

  Like death.

  His forehead creased with silent rage, then slowly, he lowered his six shooter.

  No one said a word for a full ten seconds.

  Henry nodded his head. "That's better. Now drop it and kick it behind you, down the stairs."

  ‘I don't give up my gun,’ Truman had once said.

  Jessica’s breath caught like a stone in her throat.

  Then slowly…carefully…Truman bent down and set his weapon on the porch floor.

  Jessica felt her hopes sink as he kicked it away. It clattered down the steps and landed not far from the goat.

  "Let her go, Gordon," Truman said.

  "Not yet."

  Truman raised his hands. "What do you want? We can talk about it."

  Jessica suspected this was the first time Truman had ever tried to handle a situation like this, without shooting first.

  He was doing just fine.

  Henry's arm tightened around her neck.

  Jessica struggled to breathe.

  Suddenly, another gun cocked. Jessica's gaze darted toward the sound, as Rosalie came around the side of the house aiming a rifle.

  "What a sight,” she purred. “Sheriff Truman Wade with his hands in the air. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

  “What are you doing here, Rosie?” he asked.

  She scoffed. “What does it matter? It's me you want to talk to, not Henry. That’s all you need to know."

  Jessica squirmed in Henry's arms, but he pressed the revolver tighter against her temple.

  "Is that really necessary?" she protested.

  Rosalie laughed. "Truman, that lady of yours likes to complain. I don't know what you see in her."

  "What do you want, Rosie?" His voice was deep and controlled—a clear sign that he was angry enough to do serious damage.

  "I want you, Truman,” she flirtatiously replied. “I always have. You know that."

  "Rosie?" Henry whimpered. "What do you mean? I thought—"

  "Shut up, Henry," she snapped.

  An edgy grumble escaped him, but Jessica was the only one to hear it.

  Rosalie kept her eyes locked on Truman's. "I just wasn't good enough for you, was I? I was beginning to think you weren't even a real man, until Miss Junebug came to town." She glanced over at Jessica. "How'd you do it, anyway? How'd you get him to wake up finally?"

  Jessica didn't respond, but deep down, she could feel her anger kicking and bucking, as if it had a personal, dangerous aim of vengeance all its own.

  "Well, look at that. She’s shy,” Rosalie teased, while she flashed a bitter look at Truman. "Not that it matters, because I'm gonna shoot her anyway. After we’re finished."

  Jessica struggled in Henry’s tight grip. "If you kill me,” she said, “he'll hate you more than ever."

  Truman held his hand up to hush her. "It's not about me, is it, Rosie?"

  Rosalie smiled maliciously. "You're smart, Truman. That's why I always liked you."

  "If you're looking for the bank combination,” he said, “she doesn't have it."

  Rosalie smirked. "I know she doesn't have it, Truman, because I have it. It's safely hidden in my corset, and has been all along. You're welcome to come search for it, though. I won't mind. In fact, I’d quite enjoy it."

  Jessica clenched her fists in an effort to control her rage.

  "What are you doin' out here anyway?" Rosalie asked. "This wasn't in the plan, but you made things a lot easier by coming. Saved us from breaking into the jailhouse."

  Truman said nothing, and Jessica knew he was studying Rosalie's grip on that rifle.

  "You don't get it, do you?" she said to Jessica. "Henry and I have been planning this ever since you came to town. I killed Lou. I wanted that safe combination, so I shot him. And when people thought you did it, the idea came to me. That's when Henry suddenly became real attractive.” Rosalie looked at Truman. “I had him write those stories to keep folks thinkin' she was an outlaw. So naturally, when the bank gets robbed tomorrow, and the sheriff's found dead with a bullet between his eyes, folks won't be lookin' for me. They'll be lookin' for the notorious Junebug Jess. But unfortunately," Rosalie added, "they won't find her, because she'll be six feet under."

  "What about Virgil?" Truman asked. "Why'd you kill him?"

  "Everybody knew she didn't like him. They all saw what happened that day, and when folks started to forget about her reputation, I wanted to freshen up their memories. It worked didn't it? They want to hang her."

  "You won't get away with this, Rosie."

  "Won't I? Who's gonna stop me?"

  All at once, Truman whirled around and grabbed the revolver out of Henry's hand.

  Henry fell backwards against the house. Jessica screamed and ducked. A shot rang out, echoing off the barnyard buildings.

  "I'm hit!" Rosalie yelled. "God help me, I'm hit!"

  Everything was quiet except for the ring of a gunshot fading into the distance. When Jessica opened her eyes, Henry Gordon was standing over her, pointing. "Uh..." he stuttered.

  "Truman!" Jessica fought for breath. He was halfway down the stairs, sprawled on his back with his hand on his chest. The front of his black shirt was drenched in blood, which was seeping through his fingers.

  Jessica skidded down the stairs to his side and lifted his head onto her lap. "Oh my God, what happened?" she asked, realizing with horror that both guns had gone off at once.

  His breath came in short gasps. "Dammit," he whispered, struggling to sit up.

  Rosalie was lying on the ground at the bottom of the steps, moaning. "Truman? I...I didn't mean it!"

  "Don’t even speak to him!" Jessica screamed. She cradled his head, pushed the hair away from his face. He tried again to get up, but she held him down. "Lie still."

  She hoped he didn't hear the fear in her voice as it cracked hideously on the last word. Tears flooded her eyes as she opened his shirt and examined the wound – a bullet hole in the chest, not far from his heart, bleeding profusely. She tugged her skirt up to cover the wou
nd and staunch the flow of blood.

  She thought of her brother, Gregory…

  "Jessica...my pocket."

  "What?" She could barely speak.

  "My shirt p-pocket." He was panting now.

  She lifted the flap and reached inside, where she found something that belonged to her. The diamond necklace.

  "You need it to get home," he whispered.

  "I won't leave you."

  "I'm sorry," he said, coughing and panting.

  His blood was all over her hands now and staining her skirt. Tears rained down her cheeks.

  "Please, don’t go," she sobbed, cradling his head in her arms.

  "You can go back to your family now," he said.

  "I don't want to go back." She bent forward and kissed him on the mouth.

  "Yes, you do. I'm sorry. I wanted more time with you."

  "Please hold on." She looked up at Henry. "Don't just stand there!" she shouted. "Get a doctor!" Henry took off down the stairs toward the barn.

  "It's too late," Truman whispered.

  "No, it's not. Try and hold on.”

  "I can't."

  She kissed him on the forehead. "I love you," she told him. "I love you."

  "Forever," he whispered.

  His eyes fell closed.

  Jessica’s whole body shook uncontrollably with grief and rage. "Oh, no. Please wake up, Truman. Don't leave me."

  Rosalie rolled over, clutching her leg. "Someone help me. I’m hurt."

  Jessica ignored her. It can't be true. You aren't dead. You said everything would be all right.

  She laid her hand on his chest where his shirt was soaked with blood. Please, let there be a heartbeat.

  There was nothing.

  Jessica bowed her head and wept. Shivering, she buried her face in Truman's shoulder. His hand fell limply off his stomach onto the step, but Jessica reached for it and drew it to her cheek.

  Holding it there against her skin, she let one knee slip down a step so she could lie beside him.

  “I love you, Truman.” Forever.

  Clouds moved in front of the sun, and a gust of wind blew across the prairie.

  From that moment, time stopped completely for Jessica. There was no difference between past and future. She didn’t care whether she went home or stayed in the past. Nothing mattered outside of her grief.

  And yet, her heart continued to beat, and blood still moved through her veins….

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Two weeks later

  "Baby? Can you hear me?"

  Yes, she could hear things – the steady beeping of a heart monitor, voices in the corridor, water running from a tap—but her body simply wouldn’t respond. All she could do was lay there, paralyzed, listening to that familiar voice.

  "Jessica…you're safe now. You're in the hospital. Please wake up."

  At last, she managed to open her eyes. "Mom?"

  "Yes, I'm here. William! Come quick! She's awake."

  Jessica squeezed her mother's hand as her father stepped into view.

  "Oh, thank God,” he said.

  A terrible grief ripped through her heart, but she didn’t really understand it. She couldn’t seem to remember much of anything. What was she doing here?

  Her mother leaned forward and hugged her. "We were so worried about you, but we never gave up."

  Jessica looked around groggily, while intense but ambiguous emotions clouded her thinking. Everything was foggy. "What happened to me?"

  "You had a car accident."

  "A car accident," she repeated in confusion. "Am I okay?"

  "You're fine, but you had us very worried."

  Whispers of memories flashed in her mind—images of wide-open prairies, horses and wagons....

  It was all so vague. She shut her eyes and fought to remember. She felt dizzy and nauseous as she grasped for a clear image of something, anything, but her stomach churned violently, and the faint smell of food from a wheeled cart in the hall made her want to wretch.

  Jessica touched her throat. "My necklace. Where's my necklace?"

  "Don't panic. The nurses had to remove it. I have it in my purse."

  "And my watch?" She didn't know why these items mattered so much to her, but the need to ensure their existence seemed imperative.

  "I have that, too."

  Jessica needed to lie back. Her mother fluffed the pillow, while her father went to the corner table to turn on a little transistor radio. As he adjusted the tuning, static blared on and off until he found music.

  Oh, Susanna. Don't you cry for me...

  Jessica bolted upright. "That song."

  "What about it?" Her mother frowned with concern.

  "I remember it was playing in my car when I crashed." Fleeting images of rain and mud and Junebugs flashed before her eyes, and she rubbed hard at them while the music seemed to overlap into some other world, some other existence that tore at her heart and filled her with grief and despair. What was going on?

  "Sweetheart, do you remember what happened?" her mother asked. "We need to know."

  Her father moved closer. "Martha, give her time to recover. We can ask her later."

  "Ask me what?"

  Her parents regarded each other warily. They hesitated for a long moment before her mother finally spoke. "Jessica, where were you?"

  Her heart began to beat faster, and her father glanced with concern at the monitor.

  "What do you mean?” she replied. “You said I had a car accident."

  “Yes, and we found you at the crash site. But before that, you were missing."

  "Missing?"

  "Your accident happened more than a month ago. We found the car, totally flattened—there was no way you could have survived in it—but you were gone, as if you’d vanished into thin air."

  A tense silence weighed heavily in the room. Jessica tried to think, but her brain was in a stress-induced haze. "How did I end up here?"

  The last thing she remembered was hydroplaning on the road and spinning around and around in the car.

  But there was more. So much more.

  She'd been to a funeral. Memories began to clog her brain. She'd been sick, so sick...throwing up from the grief.

  A funeral. She'd lost him....

  "A driver spotted you this morning in the same place we found your car,” her mother said. “You were lying unconscious on the side of the road."

  "How can that be?"

  "Martha, stop,” her father said. “Are you all right, Jess? You look pale."

  Jessica stared blankly at him. "Could I have a glass of water?"

  "Of course." Her father went to the tiny bathroom and turned on the tap.

  "Do you remember anything at all?" her mother asked.

  Her father returned with a white paper cup and a straw. He helped her to sit up and take a drink. When she lay back down on the pillow, a man's image appeared in her mind as clearly as if he were standing at the foot of the bed.

  He wore a black hat and white shirt with a dark vest, and he was strikingly handsome with mesmerizing blue eyes.

  "Jessica?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you remember anything?"

  She began to tremble. Maybe she shouldn't have swallowed the water so fast. "No. I feel sick. I think I need to...."

  Her mother grabbed a silver pan, held it under Jessica’s chin, and she retched into it. When she finished, she sat back on the bed and tried to take deep breaths. “What’s wrong with me?”

  Her parents said nothing.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

  Her father broke in. "Martha...."

  Jessica's gaze shot toward him. His forehead crinkled with concern.

  "Mom, Dad, there’s something you're not telling me."

  "Just try to remember where you've been,” her father said. “It's very important."

  "Why?"

  Her mother lowered her gaze for a moment, then looked up again. "Jessica, I don't know how to
tell you this, but I suppose there is no right way to say it. You're pregnant."

  Good God.

  All at once, memories flooded her brain, and she burst into tears, sobbing and laughing at the same time.

  "Are you all right?"

  She covered her face with her hands, unable to explain why she was so distraught, so grief-stricken, and yet so happy at the same time – about a man whose identity was still a mystery to her.

  "Baby, what happened to you?" her father asked.

  She shook her head. “I can’t talk about it now. I need time to remember everything, and to understand it. It seems like a dream.”

  Her parents looked at each with alarm.

  "I just need to be alone for a while,” Jessica said. “I'm tired. I’ll tell you more later, I promise."

  They nodded reluctantly. "We’ll come back after dinner." Her parents gathered their raincoats and headed for the door.

  "Mom? Dad?" Jessica called, just before they left.

  "Yes?"

  "I love you."

  They both smiled. "We love you, too dear. We're so glad you're home." The door swung shut behind them.

  Jessica turned onto her side and stared at the radiator under the window. A bouquet of daisies and pink carnations were set in a vase on the sill, but they did little to elevate her spirits.

  She'd never see him again. The man in the black vest.

  His name was Truman.

  It was all so misty. If only she could remember more…

  She was carrying his child, and she would never be able to tell him.

  A lingering grief washed over her. Heaven help me.

  He died without knowing he was going to be a father.

  Jessica lifted her wrist, examined the plastic hospital bracelet with her name on it, then dropped her arm onto the white sheets. Rain pelted against the window and an ambulance siren wailed outside.

  For a long time, she lay alone in her hospital bed, longing for the sounds of wagons and the beating of hooves. Then slowly, more memories returned, until she was certain her heart was lost forever. Lost somewhere else in time.

  She knew this familiar world couldn’t replace what she’d found there. Her parents couldn’t cure the pain she felt.

  Where are you? If there’s a heaven, and you’re there, please wait for me.

  With that prayer, she drifted off.