Springwater Wedding

by Linda Lael Miller

  It had been one hell of a night, and the day that followed was a long one. J.T. checked the area where he’d seen the rider—sure enough, the tracks were gone—then did ranch work most of the day. He spent the late afternoon and part of the evening going through the ancient file cabinets in the storeroom off his study and, eventually, his efforts were rewarded. He found a dusty old address book, the entries inside neatly penned in his aunt’s hand. Feeling a variety of emotions—he’d loved his father’s sister, after all, and he hadn’t been around when she needed him most—he flipped to the Js.

  His eye went immediately to Jenson, Steve. The address that followed was the federal penitentiary over in Walla Walla, Washington. J.T. sighed. He hadn’t remembered the name when he and Purvis discussed Clive’s next of kin, but he knew this was the man they were looking for.

  He reached for the telephone, realized it was past closing time for most federal offices, including that of the warden at Walla Walla, and headed for his computer, instead. In five minutes he had all the information he expected to find. Steve Jenson had been released a year before, after serving seven-to-ten for a string of armed robberies in Spokane and Seattle. He’d skipped out on his parole right away, and a warrant for rearrest had been issued, but never served. No sense in trying to contact Jenson regarding his father’s death, since he was still on the run.

  J.T. made a few notes, including the name and number of the parole officer assigned to the case, and put in a call to Purvis. No answer at the office, at home, or on the cell phone. Frowning, J.T. printed out Steve Jenson’s mug shot, fuzzy as it was, got up from his desk to find the truck keys, and set out for town. He’d show the picture to Purvis, when he found him, and to some of the boys who hung out down at the Brimstone Saloon.

  He found Purvis at the Stagecoach CafÈ, having dinner with Nelly Underwood, the woman who’d been with him the night he and J.T. met at Pete Doubletree’s ranch, after the cattle were poisoned. Although they invited him to sit down, J.T. declined, figuring he’d interrupted enough as it was.

  He proceeded to the Brimstone Saloon, where the usual crowd of pool-playing beer drinkers had gathered to pass a constructive evening. After coming up dry with every one of them, J.T. headed for the bar. He vaguely remembered the bartender and, fortunately, the man was wearing a plastic name tag.

  “Evening, Charlie,” he said.

  Charlie nodded and even smiled, though his eyes looked a little squinty. “J.T.,” he replied. Apparently, his memory was better than J.T.’s own. “What’ll you have?”

  J.T. ordered a beer, since technically he wasn’t on duty. “This your usual crew?” he asked, indicating the clientele with a slight nod of his head.

  “Pretty much,” Charlie said, sighing. Maybe he aspired to better things than swabbing the bar in Springwater’s historic saloon, old Charlie. And maybe not. “Randy Hough and Travis DuPres usually stop in. Haven’t seen them tonight.” The bartender eyed J.T. narrowly again. “Not that Randy drinks anything but soda when he’s in here.”

  J.T. let the comment pass. He laid the printout on the bar. “You seen this guy lately?”

  To his credit, Charlie really studied the mug shot. “No,” he said, at considerable length.

  J.T. enjoyed a sip of his beer. “Ever?”

  Charlie cleared his throat. “Maybe. There’s something familiar about him. But you’ve got to admit, J.T.—it’s hard to identify somebody from a picture like this.”

  “Yeah,” J.T. admitted. He wasn’t sure he’d recognize himself from a bad mug shot, let alone some yahoo he didn’t know. And this one was fuzzy, old, and somewhat generic, like so many of its type.

  “Why?” Charlie prompted, when J.T. didn’t volunteer anything.

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  “You probably heard that Clive was killed last night. This is his son. Somebody has to let him know what happened.”

  “Oh,” Charlie said. A tiny muscle twitched under his left eye.

  “Name’s Steve,” J.T. supplied. “Steve Jenson. He might be calling himself something else these days, though.”

  “If I see him,” Charlie said, with a swallow, “I’ll let you know.”

  You’re a bad liar, Charlie, J.T. thought, but he made sure his smile was cordial. “I’d appreciate that.” He laid his money on the bar and turned to leave. He’d run a check on the bartender, too, just for the heck of it.

  Purvis flagged him down as he was driving past the Stagecoach CafÈ. “What you got?” he asked, peering through the open truck window. For the first time it dawned on J.T. that Purvis Digg was a new man. He’d had his famous ponytail cut off, and he was wearing a uniform with the dry cleaning creases still in it. There was no sign of Nelly.

  J.T. told him about coming across Steve Jenson’s name in an old address book of his aunt’s, running a make on the ’net, and finding out that Clive’s next of kin had a prison record.

  “Good work,” Purvis said, grinning. “You reckon he’s around here someplace?”

  J.T. sighed. “No telling. I didn’t get much out of that crowd over at the Brimstone. I’d bet anything the bartender’s at least seen him, though.”

  Purvis looked rueful. “Charlie? He’d rather climb the tallest tree to tell a lie than stand flat-footed on the ground and tell the truth. Let me have another look at that paper.”

  J.T. handed it over, and Purvis studied it with the aid of the interior light J.T. flipped on for his benefit.

  “I’ve seen him someplace,” Purvis said with conviction, extending the picture.

  “Keep it,” J.T. said. He grinned. “Where’s your girl?”

  Purvis actually blushed. “You mean Nelly?”

  J.T. chuckled. “No,” he joked. “I meant Margaret Thatcher. Of course Nelly.”

  Purvis looked sheepish and smug, both at once. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “That she’s a little young for me.”

  “Never crossed my mind.”

  Purvis glanced from side to side, as though he thought somebody might be listening. “I like her,” he confided.

  J.T. smiled. “Does she like you back?”

  “I think so,” Purvis admitted, almost in a whisper. He sounded awed.

  “Good,” J.T. answered. “Then go for it.”

  “You want to come over to the office for a while? Brainstorm a little?”

  “Sure,” J.T. said, wondering if he would ever sleep again. “I’ll meet you there.”

  They drank coffee, went through old posters and bulletins, and pitched theories at each other until it was nearly 11 o’clock. Then, with a full day’s work awaiting him on the ranch the next day, J.T. decided he’d better head for home.

  The lights were on at Springwater Station, and he wanted to stop in and see Maggie, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He felt too raw, too exposed. Besides, he rationalized, by now, she’d be getting ready for bed, and he didn’t dare pursue that line of thought, not if he wanted to get any rest at all.

  He was playing the radio and whistling along when he rounded the first bend in his long driveway and saw the fire looming crimson against the night sky. His gut lurched painfully, and he shoved the gas pedal to the floor, swearing even as he fumbled to open his cell phone and dialed 911. The barn was ablaze, and maybe the house, too; from that distance, he couldn’t tell.

  He thought first of Billy and Cindy Raynor, perhaps roasting in their cracker box of a trailer, and then of the horses. He shouted into the phone, then flung it onto the seat and sped toward the homestead, leaping out of the truck when he reached the barnyard, leaving the motor running and the door agape.

  The house and trailer were untouched, as yet, but the barn was an inferno. J.T. bolted toward the stable doors, concentrating on getting the horses out. He’d groomed the pair and fed them earlier, and shut them up in their stalls personally. Now, they were trapped. A wall of heat and fire near
ly knocked him down when he hit the threshold; he put one forearm across his eyes and started inside.

  “J.T., wait!” somebody shouted, and looking back through the blistering smoke he saw Billy running across the yard. “The horses are safe—they’re down by the creek, with the cattle!”

  J.T. backed away from the barn just as the roof caved in, sending a spray of sparks and flaming brands sky-high. Billy grabbed J.T. by the arm—or was it the other way around?—and they ran. Both of them were burned in the rain of fire, though it would be much later before either of them were aware of the damage.

  J.T. grabbed a garden hose, hooked it up to a spigot in the yard, and drenched Billy, then himself, before starting to wet down the roof and walls of the house.

  “What the hell happened?” he yelled, not really expecting an answer.

  “I don’t know exactly!” Billy shouted back. “I heard a rig— that’s what woke me up—and I came running. I saw two men get into a truck and tear out of here.”

  J.T. hadn’t met anybody on the road out of town; even though he’d been mulling over Steve Jenson’s whereabouts, Clive’s murder, and what little he knew of either man’s past, he would have noticed. He was used to thinking along three or four different tracks at once. “Nobody you recognized?”

  “I was worried about getting to the horses,” Billy replied. “And it was dark.”

  J.T. nodded grimly. His aunt Janeen always had said that bad things happened in threes. First there was the poisoning out at Stonecreek Ranch, then Clive’s swan dive off the rusted water tower on the grounds of the old Jupiter and Zeus Silver Mine, and now this. It was hard not to turn superstitious.

  Glancing in the direction of the kids’ place, J.T.’s reeling brain kicked into gear. “Go get your wife, now!” he yelled to the boy, over the roar of the blaze. In the distance, he heard a fire siren. “If the propane tank catches a spark that trailer will go into orbit!”

  Billy’s eyes widened in his sooty face; he hesitated only a moment, then turned and sprinted toward the tin can where his young, pregnant wife was waiting, probably scared out of her skin.

  J.T.’s words proved prophetic. No sooner had Billy and Cindy fishtailed away in Billy’s truck, maybe ten minutes later, than the trailer exploded in four directions, and with a roar that left J.T.’s eardrums throbbing. The fire truck arrived from town, spilling volunteers while he was still staring at the wreckage. He might have been sick about then, if he’d had a moment to spare.

  The sun was coming up over the eastern hills, spilling pink and gold light into the valley, when they finally had the fire out for good. J.T. surveyed the ruins of his barn and the trailer, and the scorched side of his house, and shook his head as if to clear his vision of something he had only imagined. His eyes felt gritty with smoke and soot, his throat was parched, and his head swam.

  Billy had long since returned from taking Cindy to his mother’s house in town, and he stood at J.T.’s elbow, in the misty chill of early morning, looking as though he might break down and cry. “This is God awful,” he said.

  “Hey,” J.T. answered, working up a smile and slapping him lightly on the back. “We needed a new barn anyway.”

  Purvis, who had arrived a few minutes after the volunteers and fought the fire along with everyone else, crossed the yard to join Billy and J.T. He was looking pretty drawn by that time, and little wonder. He’d been through the wringer over Pete Doubletree’s dead cattle and the murder of Clive Jenson, and now there was a clear case of arson to contend with. “I promise you, J.T.,” he said, “I will find the son-of-a-bitch who did this.”

  J.T.’s take on the matter was simple. This was a case of malicious mischief that had gotten seriously out of hand. The men had meant to destroy the barn, all right, but he was pretty sure the trailer catching fire was an accident, and if the culprits had wanted to do him any real harm, they’d have set the house ablaze, too. With him in it.

  Billy told Purvis about the truck he’d glimpsed, and the two men. “They was just shadows, really,” he said. “I didn’t figure I could go after them and leave the stock to burn to death.”

  J.T. laid a hand on the kid’s shoulder. He was grateful that both the newlyweds were still alive, let alone the horses. “I appreciate what you did,” he said. “You’re a brave man, Billy. By the same token, if you ever take another risk like that on my account, I’ll personally skin you alive.”

  Even through all that grime, Billy’s face seemed to glow with embarrassed pleasure. “I was just doing my job,” he said modestly, in his own defense. Then he gazed sadly in the direction of the trailer, now twisted and blistered, its frame curled in upon itself like some strange and futuristic creature that had died in agony. A powerful shudder moved through the younger man as the full reality of what might have happened struck home at last.

  “You and Cindy can use the downstairs guest room for the time being,” J.T. said quietly. Purvis offered no comment, but he looked mighty sympathetic.

  Billy nodded, plainly distraught. “Thanks. Cindy’s at my mom’s place right now. I guess I’d better head for town after I bring the animals back up from the creek. Mom and Cindy will be worried if I don’t show up pretty soon.”

  “I’ll get the horses,” J.T. said. It was his place, after all, and his problem. “You go back to Springwater and get some rest.”

  Billy obeyed, and J.T. started toward the path leading down to the creek. Purvis came along, matching him stride for stride.

  “Is it just me, or is this whole damn county going to hell all of the sudden?” the older man asked.

  J.T. managed a bitter grin. “You’ve sure been earning your pay lately,” he responded. He didn’t mention his suspicion that the worst was yet to come; Purvis probably shared it.

  “I reckon you ought to go in and see Doc Parrish about those burns,” the lawman said.

  For the first time J.T. was aware of small, fierce patches of pain, sprinkled liberally over his back, shoulders, and arms. “I’m all right,” he said.

  “Stubborn, is what you are,” Purvis answered.

  “That too,” J.T. agreed, and grinned. He saw to the horses, found his way back to the house and up the stairs, and collapsed into bed without even bothering to undress. He slept a full fourteen hours.

  Kathleen McCaffrey stood back from her canvas, a large rendering of a misshapen artichoke lying on its side, and frowned as she wiped her hands on a paint rag. The screened sunporch was bright with the glow of a fragrant summer morning, and Maggie’s dog was curled on a rug near the outer door, eyes raised in wary speculation.

  “That’s pretty good, Mom.”

  Kathleen waved a scornful but loving hand in her son’s direction. “It’s a horror, Wesley, and you know it. I guess I’m not ready to graduate from pears.”

  Wes grinned. Although his coloring was fair, he resembled his father in many ways. All three of her children did, in fact—not a redhead in the bunch, although her youngest grandchildren, Jodi and Loren, had her green eyes and blaze of hair. Wes was leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, arms loosely folded. “What was it you always told me? ‘It takes time to master new things, Wesley.’ Wasn’t that it?”

  She waved him away again, though she didn’t really want him to go, and she was smiling. “How are Franny and the kids?”

  He grimaced. “Franny is probably on her knees in front of the toilet. I wouldn’t have left her this morning if her mother hadn’t been there. Jodi wants to start ballet, and Loren is learning to swear.”

  “Poor Franny! Have you spoken to Ellen Parrish?”

  Wes nodded. “She put her on medication for the morning sickness, but there isn’t much else she can do. Franny had the same problem with the twins, remember? And everything was all right.”

  Kathleen had forgotten her lopsided artichoke; she wiped her hands again and set the rag aside, frowning. Once she’d taken that everything’s-bound-to-be-all-right approach to life herself, but lately she’d learned that th
e very earth itself could turn to vapor beneath a person’s feet and leave her tumbling through space. “All the same,” she said, “I think you should call your brother and get his opinion.”

  Wes grinned in that lazy, lethal way peculiar to McCaffrey men. Kathleen had often wondered what she’d unleashed on the world, turning out a new generation of the rascals. She loved both her sons without reserve, and God knew she was proud of them, though she kept a special place in her heart for Maggie because she was the only girl. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll give him a ring and see what Simon says.”

  Kathleen rolled her eyes.

  “Is there any coffee?” Wesley asked, and that was when she realized he hadn’t simply stopped by. He was on some kind of mission.

  “Of course,” she answered, worried. “What is it, Wesley?” She passed him, heading into the spacious, sun-filled kitchen, and he followed.

  “There’s been some more excitement around Springwater,” he said.

  Kathleen turned to face him. “Yes,” she said. “I heard about that terrible murder.” She didn’t add that she didn’t consider Clive to be any great loss. It wouldn’t do to speak ill of the dead.

  “There’s more, I’m afraid.”

  “More?” Kathleen braced herself. She wondered what Springwater was coming to. It had always been such a peaceful little town. But then, there had been incidents, hadn’t there? Jack Wainwright had been shot dead on his own land years before, and no one had ever been arrested for the crime. She sank into a chair, one hand over her mouth.

  Wes drew up a chair of his own and sat. “Somebody set J.T.’s barn on fire last night. It burned to the ground, and though they got out in time, Billy and Cindy Raynor’s trailer was blown to bits.”