Dawn Comes Early (45 page)

For the first time in her life, she knew how it felt to be protected and cared for, and it scared the life out of her. The only permanent thing she'd ever known was death and abandonment. Through the years she'd lost everyone and everything she'd ever cared about. Anything good that happened to her was discounted as only temporary.

“I came to say good-bye, Mama.” She leaned against the wind to lay a stem of winterberries on the concrete slab. No flowers could be found at this time of year and she was lucky to find a branch covered with red berries—red for forgiveness.

She straightened, and in so doing, she felt a heavy weight lift from her shoulders. She wasn't ready to forgive—not yet—but if acceptance was the first step, then she was well on her way.

“You were wrong, Mama,” she said. “Good things do happen to people like us.” And maybe, just maybe, some things did last forever, even love.

Ruckus certainly thought so, and if he were there now, he'd probably recite scripture with words to that effect. Thoughts of Ruckus brought a smile to her face.

She shoved her hands in her muff and gazed at a steamer sitting in the frigid waters of the distant harbor. The icy wind blew off the bay, whipping her hair around her head and snapping at her skirt. She inhaled until her lungs felt ready to explode. She then walked into the wind and followed the path down the hill—as bravely as a woman in love.

Chapter 38

With a grim laugh the bushwhacker wrapped his cloak around him. “No one will ever get the best of me.”

Miss Hattie bounded forward and pulled off the man's false beard. “This man is an imposter!” she cried.

E
actus Paaaaaaaaaatch!”

Kate rose from her seat and rushed down the aisle even before the train had come to a complete stop. The moment the door opened she sprang past the dark-skinned porter and raced down the steps to the platform. There she stopped, clutching a small package in her hand. Not only did the reality of the full desert sun hit her but also the enormity of what she was about to do.

It had been raining when she left Boston, and after months of gloomy skies and bone-chilling temperatures, she welcomed the desert warmth. She took a deep breath, relishing the fragrance of sunbaked sand.

Feet firmly planted upon the platform, she felt her knees tremble. It was all she could do to keep from getting back on the train. But she had come too far to turn back now.

Had it not been for the success of her new book, she could not have afforded the trip back to Arizona. The early reviews had been glowing, and Boston's Corner Bookstore had sold out all copies the very first day.

The best news was that her book was recommended reading for truant boys, and she knew at least two youths who vowed to follow the straight and narrow after reading the sad but true story of Cactus Joe and his wicked ways.

Behind her came the thud of her trunk on the platform, but she didn't bother to retrieve it. Nothing in her trunk mattered as much as what was in her heart. Besides, there was no time to waste.

She'd finally figured out what the circles on Cactus Joe's calendar meant, and the closed telegraph office confirmed her suspicions.

She picked up her skirt and ran so fast that she almost stumbled over her feet. Sweat poured down her face and still she ran.

She stopped when she reached the outermost edge of the town. The street was deserted. Not a soul was in sight, but she wasn't fooled.

“Cactus Joe! I know you're here.”

Nothing.

She ambled forward, cautious at first, but gradually picking up speed. She passed the barber, newspaper, and assay office. “Cactus Joe!”

At last a dark form stepped from the batwing doors of the Silver Moon Saloon, stopping her in her tracks. Her heart thudded and her mouth went dry, but she held her ground. This time she had a secret weapon.

Cactus Joe stood legs apart, gun in one hand and what looked like a sock in the other, probably holding stolen loot. As usual he was dressed in black with a patch over one eye and a pencil-thin mustache she now knew was false.

“Looky who's here,” he drawled. “The writer who got away. Now you're gonna help
me
get away. Escaping is a whole lot harder now that there's a reward for my capture.”

“I thought you'd be pleased,” she said. “All that attention.”

“Rewards don't make legends,” he said. “Once I'm captured I'll be yesterday's news.” He tilted his head. “I'm curious. How did you know you'd find me here?”

“Jesse James,” she said. “I read a book about him. That's when I realized that the dates circled on your calendar corresponded to his robberies and other events in his life.”

Cactus Joe frowned. “Go on.”

“I first came to town on March twentieth. It just so happened that on that very same day in 1869, Jesse James stole fourteen thousand dollars from a bank in Kentucky. I can't remember the exact dates of your other holdups, but I'm willing to bet they match Jesse's.”

“Very good,” he said. “And today?”

“Today is April third,” she said. “Jesse James died fourteen years ago today. I didn't think you'd let the day pass without doing something in remembrance.”

“I'm impressed,” Cactus Joe said.

“Thank you.”

“It's all your fault, you know. Had you completed my book, I would have given up my life of crime for good.”

“It's never too late.” She held up her hand so he could see the package. “I have something for you.”

She tossed the package through the air and it landed at his feet, stirring up a small cloud of dust.

He glanced down at it but made no move to pick it up. “Is this a trick?”

“Open it,” she said.

“It better not be a trick.” He stuffed the sock into his shirt but kept his hand on his six-shooter. He leaned over and picked up the package. He blew away the dust, and biting through the string with his teeth, he tore away the brown paper wrap.

He stared at the book in his hand with a wide grin. “Will you look at that?”

The title read
Cactus Joe: Master of Disguise
. She'd counted on his considerable ego to work in her favor and she wasn't disappointed. He was so enamored with the book he failed to notice the marshal sneaking up behind him.

“Drop the gun and put your hands over your head,” Marshal Morris said, jabbing the serious end of his Peacemaker into Cactus Joe's back.

Cactus Joe did as he was told. He dropped his weapon—but not the book.

Kate smiled. This was exactly how she wrote the scene at the end of the book. Fiction had turned into reality. “I spelled your name correctly,” she called. “Morris with two
r'
s.”

The marshal grinned. “Wait till the sheriff hears about this. Looks like I'll be gittin' a new assignment and you a handsome reward.”

She didn't need any reward and didn't feel right taking it. Maybe Aunt Bessie would know how to put the reward money to good use.

The marshal confiscated the bulging sock and gave Cactus Joe a shove. “Move!”

Cactus Joe's outlaw days were over, but judging by the big smile on his swarthy face, he was too captivated by his book to care.

“Listen to this,” he said and proceeded to read out loud. “‘No man has ever gotten the best of Cactus Joe, certainly no lawman.'” He nodded in approval, ignoring the irony. “‘All he needs is a peg leg and parrot and he could easily pass as Long John Silver.'”

He laughed. “Yes, yes,” he boomed. “Even Robert Louis Stevenson couldn't have said it better. I always wanted to be a pirate and rule the seven seas.”

“That's too bad,” the marshal said. “'Cause the only thing you're gonna rule is a seven-by-seven jail cell.”

Both prisoner and lawman disappeared into the marshal's office and the door slammed shut, cutting off the sound of Cactus Joe's guffaws.

Kate couldn't help but laugh herself. Now for the rest of her plan . . .

Luke set his bellows down. “What is it, boy? What do you want?”

Homer had been pacing back and forth for the last half hour or so. Now he scratched the floor by the door, cocked his head, and whimpered.

“You want to go out, eh? I guess that means it's safe.” The gunfire he'd heard earlier had brought back more painful memories. It was during one of Cactus Joe's robberies that Kate first came to town. Memories of her flashed through his mind. He recalled how she felt in his arms as he whirled her about the dance floor, the feel of her lips on his. It seemed like only yesterday that he had carried her to his workbench, yet it seemed like a million years ago.

They say time healed all wounds, but it had been eight months since she left and it still hurt. It didn't seem possible that anything could hurt so much without an actual wound. If anything, the pain in his chest had grown worse, not better. It was all he could do to get through each day, let alone the long, lonely nights. Going to Boston had been a mistake. It only gave him false hope.

He could take iron and pound it into any shape he desired, but changing a woman's heart—that he couldn't do. No matter how much he wanted to he couldn't make Kate come back. Couldn't make her love him like he loved her.

Homer gave an impatient bark and Luke pulled off his leather apron and tossed it aside. He knew from experience that any reprieve from his painful memories would be short-lived. Might as well enjoy it while he could.

He donned a shirt, wiped his hands on a towel, and mopped his forehead. His gaze fell on the dictionary Michael had given him, now dog-eared from use. Each morning Luke picked out a word to memorize, hoping beyond hope that if Kate ever did come back he would be ready.

Today's word was
interminable
, meaning never-ending. Like his loneliness. Like the love he felt for Kate. Like the awful hurt that wouldn't go away.

He opened the door a crack and, seeing Mr. Green across the way, walked outside.

“Any news?” Luke called.

“Cactus Joe is in jail,” Mr. Green called back.

That was a surprise. Maybe the marshal wasn't as incompetent as everyone thought. Or maybe the reward money had done what it was supposed to do. Luke glanced down at Homer. “You knew that, didn't you?”

Ears pricked, Homer cocked his head, tail sweeping back and forth.

“Come on, we'll take a walk. It'll do us both good.” He reached inside to pluck his hat from a hook and placed it on his head. The monsoon winds of summer were still a couple of months away, but a rain shower had passed through the night before. It was what Uncle Murphy called a six incher—one drop every six inches—but even a little moisture was better than none.

Luke started one way, but Homer refused to follow.

Luke turned and faced his dog, hands on his waist. “What's wrong with you?”

Homer walked a few steps in the other direction and sat, waiting for Luke to follow.

Luke scratched his head. “We always go this way. Why do you want to walk through town?”