Wildwood

“Yes’m, it was.”

“You were there, Jeremiah? But why? Surely you could have gone back to your home on the plantation?”

“I stayed,” Jeremiah replied quietly. “The colonel, he tried to get me to leave him when he saw the Yankee boys comin’ over the hill at Vicksburg. I wouldn’t budge, though. So, in the end they took us both.”

“Oh, Jeremiah! How courageous that was!”

The deputy flushed under his tan. “’Tweren’t no such thing, Miss Jessamyn. Ben and me been friends from the cradle, you might say. We grew up together, fishin’ and ridin’—even some schoolin’ afore his pappy sent him off to the academy. Besides, I promised Miss Lorena I’d watch out for him. A body couldn’t refuse Miss Lorena nothin’, so I stuck with him.”

“Miss Lorena?” The question slipped out before Jessamyn could stop herself.

“Good thing, too,” Jeremiah continued, purposely ignoring her query. “After the surgeon cut Ben’s chest open, he like to bled to death till I poulticed him like my momma taught me.”

Jessamyn found her hand shaking so violently she couldn’t hold her fork steady. She laid it down on the desk. “No wonder he’s so brusque,” she said half to herself. “He must hate all Northerners.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Jeremiah offered with a chuckle. “Not just Northerners. Part of him hates most everybody, ‘cept your pappy—Mr. Whittaker—and me. And sometimes I think he even—”

Something in the man’s raspy voice struck a nerve. Sometimes, she supposed, the sheriff acted as if he even hated his faithful companion, Jeremiah. A resonant chord of understanding tolled in her heart. She knew from her own experience how devastating it was to be abandoned. She also knew how healing it could be to find a friend.

She had nothing in common with Sheriff Ben Kearney. He was a rich Southern plantation owner, she a poor Northern working girl. Ben Kearney was a man of few words, a loner, unfathomable and unyielding as an iron strongbox. Jessamyn relished every waking moment of watching the fascinating parade of people that made up day-to-day life.

No, sir, she had nothing in common with Sheriff Ben Kearney. But she shared an unspoken bond with thoughtful, soft-spoken Jeremiah. Then and there she resolved she would be the deputy’s friend.

“Come on, Jeremiah,” Jessamyn announced. “Let’s have some of Cora’s applesauce cake, then get back to work!”

She unwrapped the square of cinnamon-scented cake, cut it in two pieces with the paring knife Cora had provided, and handed one to Jeremiah. Just as she opened her mouth to take a bite, the door banged open.

Sheriff Ben Kearney leaned his tall form against the door frame, the rowels on his spurs chinging. With slow, deliberate motions he pushed his hat up off his forehead and crossed one black boot over the other.

“Evening,” he said, his voice lazy.

The look in his hard gray-blue eyes sent Jessamyn’s heart skittering into her throat.

“Smells like a Carolina stump whiskey still in here,” the sheriff remarked, his voice ominously soft.

Jessamyn bristled. “We were—I was cleaning my printing press, Sheriff.”

“With whiskey?”

“Yes, with whiskey. The mercantile had no kerosene. Your deputy here—” She glanced toward Jeremiah and gasped. The solidly built man had vanished out the back door.

“Jeremiah came to my aid at the Red Fox,” she finished lamely.

Ben’s dark eyebrows rose. “The Red Fox,” he echoed. “A saloon is no place for a woman. Miss Whittaker. I thought I made that clear yesterday.” Flinty blue eyes bored into hers as he waited, arms folded across his chest, for her response.

“You did. But, you see, without kerosene, I had no choice but—”

“You had a choice,” the sheriff said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “A choice that didn’t involve my deputy in your difficulties. No doubt Jeremiah ‘came to your aid,’ as you naively put it, because he’s an intelligent man and he saw that your presence at the Red Fox spelled trouble. In the future—”

“Now, just one minute, Sheriff,” Jessamyn interrupted. “You don’t own this town. You’ve no right to come barging in here and tell me how to live my life!”

“I’ve got the right,” Ben said. His tone hardened. “You’re a damn menace traipsing into a saloon in your petticoats and lace. When you Yankees mess with things you know nothing about, mistakes come easy. It’s a wonder you didn’t start a hell-fired hullabaloo.”

A heated silence fell. Jessamyn felt her cheeks flame. She rose to her feet, twitched her apron into place with short, jerky movements and turned her back on the man lounging in her doorway.

“Excuse me, Sheriff. I have work to do.” She snatched up her rag and the bottle of Child’s.

A hand closed like an iron band about her upper arm. “Put that down and listen to me.” He gave her a little shake and pulled her about to face him. The whiskey sloshed back and forth in the container.

Jessamyn sucked in a breath.

His mouth thinned into a fine, straight line with no hint of a smile. “Put that down,” he repeated. “Now.”

His voice, Jessamyn thought irrationally, became oddly quiet when he was angry. The timbre of it sent a current of unease dancing up her spine.

She lowered the bottle to the floor, dipping her knees to settle it with care on the plank surface. “Take your hands off me,” she said evenly, keeping her eyes on his.

A flicker of pain surfaced in the smoky depths of his gaze, masked at once by a careful shuttering. Jessamyn cringed at the unfathomable expression in his eyes.

He lifted his hands, dropped them to his sides. For a long minute their gazes locked.

Across the street the piano plunked out a ragged snatch of “The Blue Tail Fly.” A moth batted against the windowpane, and the slow tick-tock-tick of her father’s clock on the wall contrasted with her heart’s erratic beating beneath the starched white waist.

Ben breathed in, out, in again, the air pulling raggedly through his nostrils. Jessamyn blanched at the carefully expressionless face of the man before her. It was plain as day he was furious at her. She had challenged his professional judgment as sheriff.

When, she moaned inwardly, will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut? What was he thinking? Worse, what was he going to do?

At last his low, quiet voice broke the stillness.

“Let me explain something about life out here in the West, Miss Whittaker.” He held her attention riveted to his face by the sheer force of his steady blue eyes and menacing tone. He enunciated his words in quiet, deliberate syllables, with no outward rancor, yet Jessamyn sensed a volcano of fury just beneath the surface. His demeanor frightened her.

“We live by a code here in Wildwood Valley,” he continued. “Any lady who is a lady stays at home in the evening. She doesn’t come into town after dark unless it’s to attend a dance or a social, and even then she doesn’t go about alone.”

His voice dropped even lower. “And she certainly does not work, alone, late at night, smelling of whiskey and—” he sniffed the air “—some flowery-smelling perfume, even if she owns the whole building! Now, go—”

“I wasn’t alone!” Jessamyn blurted. “Jeremiah was here, helping—”

“Of course he was, you damn fool. Jeremiah’s a good man. He wasn’t going to leave you to your own devices here at night, all by yourself. He did what any deputy worth half his salt would do—he stood guard over a rattlepated woman who doesn’t know which end of the horse to mount.”

Stung, Jessamyn raised her chin and straightened her spine. “This ‘rattlepated woman,’ as you so quaintly put it, is now the owner and publisher of the Wildwood Times. As such, I expect to work late, and alone, many nights. That’s what printing a newspaper requires—hard days gathering information and long nights writing stories and setting type. As a taxpaying citizen—” she bit her tongue at the exaggeration “—I expect support, not criticism. So, if you have nothing constructive to offer, Sheriff Kearney, I will bid you good-night.”

Ben sighed. Arguing wasn’t going to solve the problem. Someone as stubborn as Thad Whittaker’s daughter would have to be shown. God almighty, he’d give his right arm if she’d just climb back on the morning stage and go back to Boston where she belonged.

Ben took a step forward and studied her. To think Jeremiah had wasted an entire evening with this prickly, overstarched Northerner. He must be ready to chew nails by now. His deputy had hit the truth for sure; women were definitely troublous creatures.

He shook his head. “Troublous” didn’t half describe Jessamyn Whittaker. He’d have to find Jeremiah and buy him a drink at the Red Fox. Inflicting this bullheaded Yankee lady on anyone, even for a few hours, was sure to raise a thirst.

“Miss Whittaker, pack up your things,” Ben ordered softly. “I’ll see you home.”

“Thank you, but I’d prefer—”

“Now,” he added in a rough whisper. He snagged the Child’s bottle off the floor, set it on the cabinet against the wall. Folding up the handles of the wicker picnic basket, he lifted it from the desk and bent to blow out the lamp.

“Best take off your apron and get your shawl.” He puffed once, and the room was enveloped in inky blackness.

Oh, my, Jessamyn thought. She’d gone too far. She needed the sheriff’s help, not just to operate the newspaper, but to find her father’s murderer. Much as she disliked Ben Kearney, she couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him. Not yet, anyway. Not until he’d arrested her father’s killer.

In the dark she untied her apron with fumbling fingers, felt around on the desk chair for her blue paisley shawl.

Without a word, Ben moved to her side. He made no sound, but she sensed him draw near in the pitch-black room, felt the warmth radiate from his body. She breathed in his scent, heavy with horses and tobacco smoke. The faint smell of mint lingered on his breath.

Jessamyn choked back a nervous hiccup. She must smell of—what was it he’d said?—stump whiskey and flowery perfume? Without thinking, she reached out to steady herself. Her fingers closed over his bare forearm.

He swore under his breath. His voice was so raw Jessamyn jumped.

“I—I’m sorry,” she blurted. “It’s so dark in here I can’t see.”

“Wait a minute, then. Your eyes will adjust.”

My eyes, Jessamyn thought, will never adjust to the picture presented by an angry Ben Kearney. How could a man be so fine-looking and so unnerving at the same time?

“Maybe you’re thinking you’d be better off back in Boston,” he said close to her ear.

“I was not!”

His hand touched her elbow. “The floorboards are uneven. Don’t stumble.”

“I won’t,” she breathed. Acutely aware of his warm fingers on her skin, she took a tentative step forward. Pulling her shawl tight about her shoulders, Jessamyn let him guide her to the doorway.

“And, Miss Whittaker,” he murmured at the threshold, “I trust you won’t come here alone at night again?”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” she lied.

The door opened on a street bathed in silvery moonlight. Jessamyn stalked out onto the boardwalk and gazed down the street at the painted sign above Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. Laughter drifted on the warm night air, punctuated by the metallic sounds of the piano and a man’s clear tenor singing an Irish ballad. Ladies who weren’t ladies—soiled doves, the sheriff called them—were probably drinking spirits and dancing with the ranch hands.

Jessamyn sighed. Ladies who were ladies weren’t supposed to have that kind of fun.

She studied the spill of golden light through the saloon’s swinging entrance door. She’d risked everything, coming out West. She’d left her position at the Boston Herald, abandoned her comfortable, refined life in the East.

Had it been worth it?

The answer came in an instant. Yes! Every single, frightening, fascinating moment of her first day—and night—in Wildwood Valley had been worth it. After what she had experienced so far, she thought with a little catch of excitement in her chest, just being alive in this rough, dusty town was going to be exhilarating. And fun.

Tomorrow she’d ignore the sheriff and his silly warnings and put her next plan into action. She could hardly wait.

Chapter Five

“Jes’ like yer pa,” Cora sniffed as she bustled out the news office door. “Rather fuss over that newspaper than eat proper.”

Nodding her agreement, Jessamyn bit into the ham sandwich the housekeeper had brought over for her lunch. She massaged her stiff neck muscles and continued her study of the morgue of old Wildwood Times editions her father had meticulously collected. Just a few more issues to skim and she’d be caught up.

So far, she’d found nothing extraordinary. Ohio Ratifies 14th Constitutional Amendment. Nebraska Admitted to Union. Impeachment Resolution Again Introduced in Washington.

In Douglas County Frieder’s Mercantile’s shipment from Chicago was again delayed by a blizzard. Rancher Silas Appleby reported twenty head of cattle missing; Klamath River Indians were suspected. Lizzie Bartel, the doctor’s wife, delivered her second set of twins in five years, on Valentine’s Day. Coos Bay wagon road was surveyed as a possible railroad route to the coast..

Jessamyn shook her head. Still nothing out of the ordinary for an Oregon frontier town—except perhaps having two sets of twins in one family. Mrs. Bartel would be far too busy to receive callers now; Jessamyn would tender her congratulations to the doctor, whose office she’d finally discovered just three doors down the street. Next to the undertaker, she noted. How convenient.

As soon as she could, she intended to visit all the townspeople, introduce herself and solicit ads for the newspaper. Then she’d sell each of them a yearly subscription for a dollar.

She swallowed the last of her sandwich and closed the cabinet drawer. Now, to plan her first issue. She munched on a crisp Red June apple as she laid out the first page in her mind. This afternoon she’d make the rounds, gathering the local Wildwood Valley news. Tomorrow she’d hire a buggy and drive over to Little River where the express riders brought the mail and wire service bulletins up from Steamboat Landing. And then…

Then she would dip her pen into a fresh bottle of ink and start her feature story on Ben Kearney and her father’s murder. Surely the sheriff wouldn’t object to her choice of topic? After all, it was news. She drew in a deep breath and stretched her arms over her head.

She allowed a slow smile to settle across her mouth as an idea began to take shape. Inept the sheriff was certainly not, judging from the battlefield heroism described by his deputy. But his lackadaisical attitude seemed to fit right in to the town’s don’t-upset-the-ship philosophy. A mercantile with no kerosene, cracked and peeling paint on the undertaker’s and barbershop storefronts, saloons that stayed open all night long and on Sundays. Wildwood Valley could surely use some improvement.

To get things started, she’d light a fire under Sheriff Kearney. Why hadn’t he found her father’s killer yet? What was he waiting for? Surely he should be busy gathering evidence or clues or something? She exhaled in satisfaction. She’d give the good sheriff a roasting he’d never forget.

Already composing the lead sentence in her mind, Jessamyn attacked a second sandwich. Good ideas made her ravenous! As she chewed, she glanced idly out the front window.

A sorrel horse stepped daintily into view, an Indian girl perched on top, her back straight, her buckskin dress encrusted with shells and feathers arranged in an intricate design. The pride in her carriage riveted Jessamyn’s attention.

Townspeople stared, but the girl looked neither left nor right. Purposefully, she stepped the horse forward. As she drew closer, Jessamyn glimpsed a clear view of her face and gasped out loud.

The girl was beautiful! Straight black hair fell in a single shining braid down her back, and her slim, elegant body moved sinuously with the mare’s gait, almost as if she were dancing atop the horse. Fascinated, Jessamyn watched her come to a halt in front of the sheriffs office.

The girl swung her leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground, dropping the reins where the animal stood.

And then she took a single step. She positioned one small, moccasined foot and then, crablike, hauled her body forward, her hip twisting in an awkward, lurching rhythm.

Jessamyn’s heart caught. She was crippled! And she looked so young—no more than eighteen or twenty, her skin an unblemished, warm bronze, her face serene. The girl took another step, and another, laboriously working her way past the horse toward the board walkway at the edge of the street.

Two women crossing the street pulled their skirts aside in apparent distaste. The Indian girl paid no attention. When she reached the bottom step of the sidewalk the sheriff’s door opened, and Jeremiah emerged. Grasping her elbow with one giant hand, he half lifted her up the step onto the walkway.

Wide-eyed, Jessamyn watched the sheriff’s office door swing shut. Hoping for another glimpse of her, she waited by the window, nibbling the remains of her sandwich crusts.

Fifteen minutes dragged by. Jessamyn stepped away to refill her cup, then settled herself at the window again. She sipped the dark brew, her gaze swinging back and forth between the dingy office door across the street and her father’s wall clock.

All at once Jeremiah surged out of the sheriff’s office, followed by Ben Kearney with the Indian girl in his arms. Jessamyn lowered her cup. What in the world was he doing?

She peered out the window. Ben strode toward the sorrel as Jeremiah retrieved the reins and held the animal steady. She noticed that the deputy never took his eyes off the girl’s face.

With no apparent effort, the sheriff swung her up and settled her on the saddle blanket, then lifted the reins from his deputy’s hands and laid them across her palms. Removing his hat, he tipped his face up toward her. His lips moved.

The girl nodded, made a sign and nudged the horse forward. Ben raised his hand. She looked back, hesitated an instant and then smiled. She called out something, kicked the mare and stepped her horse on down the street. Jeremiah stared after her.

Who was she? Jessamyn burned to know. And what did she want with the sheriff? Or was it the other way around— one of them wanted something of her? From the way she smiled at them, Jessamyn would guess one of them could have just about anything he asked for. But which one?

A tiny arrow of unrest lodged in her belly. Was this girl the reason Ben Kearney seemed different from the other men in town? Could it be that the sheriff was courting an Indian girl? Worse, was he so preoccupied he’d forgotten about finding Thad Whittaker’s killer?

Well! She’d just see about that! Jessamyn plunked her cup down on the desk so hard the coffee sloshed over the edge. Hurriedly, she blotted it up with one corner of her work apron. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ben Kearney amble down the street in his lazy, loose-jointed gait.

Something ballooned in her chest as she watched him move. He reminded her of a big cat, a tiger she’d seen photographed once in a scientific magazine. She imagined its hunting prowess, the taut coiled strength ready to be unleashed in an instant. Ben’s movements had that same animal grace and economy of motion. It was frightening in some way.

Without a break in his slow, easy stride, the sheriff mounted the board walkway and disappeared into his office.

Jessamyn stared after him. Something about that languid, controlled body sent shivers sliding up her backbone.

Ben rubbed his hand over his eyes. His lids felt grainy, and a dull ache pounded at the base of his skull. All night he’d lain awake on the narrow bed in the back room, thinking about Thad Whittaker, trying to tie together the bits of information he’d uncovered. Nothing fit. It was like trying to work a puzzle with the key piece missing.

It hadn’t been a random shooting, that much he knew for certain. It had been too deliberate, too obvious. If his hunch was right, Thad had known something. The editor’s death was intended to not only silence the newspaper but serve as a warning of some sort. But a warning about what?

He’d have to search the Wildwood Times office again, sift through Thad’s private papers—every edition of the newspaper, every letter, even his account ledger. Maybe this time he’d find something he’d overlooked before, something that would tie things together.

He’d start tonight, after Jessamyn retired to Mrs. Boult’s for the evening. He’d let himself into the newspaper office and spend whatever time it took searching for that elusive nugget of information. At sunup tomorrow he’d do what Walks Dancing had asked—start for the mountains and Black Eagle’s hidden camp.

He wondered what the old chief wanted that was so important he’d send his daughter into town alone. Black Eagle wouldn’t risk sending one of his few remaining braves. The townspeople were convinced it was the Indians who were stealing cattle from valley ranchers, and feelings ran high. An Indian wouldn’t last ten minutes in town before he or Jeremiah would have to break up a lynching party.

Ben propped his boots on the desk, tipped his chair back on two legs. He closed his eyes, drew in another lungful of the warm June air and thought again about Thad Whittaker.

And Thad Whittaker’s daughter. Even without her bustle, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a smudge of grease on her nose, Jessamyn was still something to look at. Her backside rounded invitingly below the slim waist, and even when she held her spine straight as a Yankee ramrod, the curves of her top half filled out that ruffly blouse just right. He imagined the tips of her breasts brushing against the frothy white lace. He’d like to lay his hand there, feel her heart beating against his palm.

Sweat trickled under his hatband. He pushed it back with his forefinger just as the door burst open and Silas Appleby strode inside.

“Morning, Si.”

“Goddammit, Ben, it’s happened again! Twenty head just disappeared overnight.”

Ben’s chair thunked down on all four legs. “No trail?”

“Not a trace.” The tall, sunburned rancher swatted his dusty felt hat against his thigh so hard the silver conchas around the crown jingled. “Gotta be Indians, Ben. They’re holed up somewhere. Starving, I hear. I wouldn’t care if they took one or even two beeves now and again. Hell’s red feathers, I’d let ‘em have ‘em with my blessing. But twenty head? All told, I’ve lost more’n sixty cows in just the last two months.”

“Ranches on the east side of the river have been hit, too, Si. My brother Carleton’s lost over forty head. But I don’t think it’s Indians. At least, not Black Eagle’s band.”

“You don’t,” the rancher echoed, his tone indicating disbelief.

“I don’t.”

“Well, then, who the hell…”

Ben ground his boot heel into the plank floor. “Silas, when I find out, I’ll let you know. Until then, I’d suggest your boys spend their free time doing more night riding around your spread than poker playing in town.”

The tall man gave Ben an assessing look. “I’ve known you a long time, Ben. You never was one to sniff too long up the wrong tree, so I’ll have to trust you on this one. But I’m tellin’ you—”

“Save it, Si. We’ve been through it all before. Ranchers think Indians are responsible for everything that goes wrong. Indians think the same about the white man. You mind your herd and let me do my job. One of these days, whoever is stealing your cattle will make a mistake—leave a trail, a footprint, something I can go on. I’ll get him in the end. I always do.”

“Yeah,” the tall man grumbled. “You do. But waitin’ is costing me money!”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “And it’s costing me sleep at night There’s an old Indian saying, Si. ‘When in doubt, do nothing—the situation could get worse.’ Come fall, I’ll have this wound up and then you can get rich and I can get rested.”