Jake Walker's Wife (11 page)

She sat quietly beside him on the wagon seat, fiddling with the drawstring on her purse, wishing he'd fill the uncomfortable stillness between them with
some
explanation of what she'd seen and heard....

Bess didn't like rumors. An individual's privacy, she'd always insisted, must be respected. On more than one occasion, she'd scolded acquaintances
—young females, usually—for passing along tidbits of information they'd acquired. It mattered not to Bess whether the news came by way of deliberate eavesdropping or mere happenstance. Even as a child, upon joining a bevy of babbling girls, Bess would put an immediate halt to their gossiping. The practice earned her quite a reputation in the little white schoolhouse on the hill, and cost her more than a few friendships. "Here comes Miss Fuddy Duddy," the girls would whisper behind their hands. "There goes Miss Stuffy Pants," they'd taunt. She'd ignored their sharp tongues and the girls themselves, telling herself she preferred solitude to participating in their mud-slinging campaigns.

But the look on
Jake's face when confronted by that awful man....

Telling her father and brothers wouldn't be gossip. In fact, didn't she owe it to everyone at Foggy Bottom to let them know that a dangerous man could be living among them, a man who may very well be a convicted murderer?

Bess shook her head. It was ridiculous enough to be laughable. He'd been so gentle with Matt. So gentle with
her.
Could a man like that be capable of such violence?

No!
she insisted.
It can't be true!

Then that
look
of his came to mind again...that rough-tough expression that lifted his mouth in a vicious snarl and turned his blue-eyed gaze hard and mean and....

If it's true,
she told herself,
surely he had a good reason to kill the man....

Her heart and her head went to war:

And what reason would that be? her analytical mind wanted to know.

Self-defense? Defending a woman's honor? He interrupted a robbery?
answered her heart.

Well, maybe....

Because he's a good man. Decent and honorable and—

How do you know these things? asked her mind.

And her heart said,
I see them in his
eyes.

Then h
er mind conjured that venomous glare, the deadly stance that gave him the appearance, at least, of a man who was capable of savagery....

She felt the hard hammering of her heart and the rush of blood pounding at every pulse point. Biting down on her lower lip, Bess fought the thoughts that flit through her brain: Why not just
ask
him!

As if on cue,
Jake cleared his throat. Startled, Bess chanced a peek in his direction. The sun, dappling through birch and willow branches that umbrella'd Oakland Road, slanted across his face. Her stomach fluttered with an odd mix of fear and fondness, and she forced herself to look instead at the wild roses growing alongside the road.

But neither the delicate scent nor the velvety petals could distract her from his presence, for in that quick glance, she'd seen far more than his worry-rumpled brow and tension-clenched jaw. She'd also taken note of shining waves that poked out from under his wide-brimmed hat. The manly curve of his aquiline nose. Lush black lashes and high, angular cheekbones.

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, causing the fabric of his blue cotton shirt to tighten over his bulging biceps, one powerful hand coming to rest on his meaty thigh as the other casually held the reins that controlled big, creaking wagon. That same hand that had gently brushed the hair back from her forehead after Doc left that night, and tenderly pressed her own hand to his cheek, as if sensing that her tears would not be quieted or comforted with mere words.

Those were the hands that had built a makeshift litter for Matthew. She could almost picture him, gently laying her little brother onto it, and just as gently draping a blanket over the boy.

And those were the hands that had hovered so near the Texan's throat just hours ago on the Baltimore dock.

Could those
be the hands of a
murderer?

Now she heard him sigh, a long, lingering inhalation that wrapped round her like the hauntingly sad notes of the whippoorwill's song. Bess glanced over just in time to see him run the tip of his tongue over his full, almost-pouting lips.

Those same soft lips had touched hers that night, fanning the flickering flame that had sparked the moment she'd first seen him. Bess closed her eyes, hoping to shut out the memory of the sensations that had bubbled inside her as she'd stood, wrapped in the protective circle of his embrace, accepting his kisses...and returning them.

She'd been held by a man before, had been kissed a time or two. But not like
that
. A girl was supposed to remember her first kiss with ultimate clarity, wasn't she? Wasn't her first experience with such intimacy
supposed
to stand out from all others like a mountain? It was Bess who sighed now, because, try as she might, she could not remember a single moment with any man that could even begin to compare to—

You're behaving like a silly schoolgirl
, she chided,
thinking about a kiss when you could be sitting beside a cold-blooded killer!

Bess took a deep breath, gave a little nod of her head.
Well,
she admitted,
the kiss is a far more pleasant memory than that scene on the dock!

Exhaling slowly, Bess slipped off her gloves, one white-cottoned finger at a time, and stuffed them into her purse. She removed her hat, too, and tucked it under the wagon seat. She should have taken more care to put it in a safe corner, folding the broad satin ribbon inside the bonnet to prevent wrinkles. But her mind couldn't have been further from proper headwear care....

She rubbed her eyes, hoping to destroy the image of him, standing there on the dock, fists clenched, facing his opponent. Nothing
but
murderous thoughts could have turned his warm blue eyes cold as ice. Nothing
but
deadly deeds could have changed his cool, detached grin into an vile and vicious scowl.

Immediately, Bess blinked away the ugly sight. In its place, she got another picture...one that was disturbing in a very different way....

He'd lifted her chin on a bent forefinger, forcing her to meet his eyes. The message he'd sent on the invisible thread connecting them had been clear: He would not take advantage of her.

She refused to believe a man like that could have done anything so vile as what the Texan had accused him of.
If he'd done something that earned him a death sentence, there
had
to be a reason!

Someday
, she'd ask him what that reason was. She had a right, no, a duty, to get to the bottom of this mess, for her father's safety, her brothers', her own.

Without turning her head, she looked at him again. He sat tall and straight now, blond brows drawn together in a serious frown, the muscles of his broad jaw clenching and unclenching, the reins wrapped so tightly around his big hands that the leather seemed part of his bronzed skin.

Suddenly, Bess felt an incredible urge to cry—not tears of fear, for something deep inside told her Jake would never harm her—but tears of regret. She didn't want to believe he'd committed a crime, especially one so heinous as murder. But it went far deeper than that, far deeper: Bess didn't want to believe that falling in love with him had been a mistake.

It's your own fault that you feel this way,
she scolded herself.
If you'd stuck to your plan--never to fall in love, never to wish for marriage--you wouldn't be sitting her now feeling....

Exactly what
did
she feel?

A little angry, for one thing, that
Jake seemed to have no intention of telling her what the fight on the dock had been all about. They'd been on the buckboard for hours if Jake had intended to tell her, wouldn't he have done it by now? Hurt, too, that his silence meant he didn't trust her enough to tell her the truth about his past. And that evoked a sadness, an incredible, immeasurable sadness.

Mostly, though, she was afraid. About as afraid as she'd ever been in her life.

Because
if
the Texan hadn't been mistaken (or lying), and Jake had been convicted of the murder—and sentenced to hang for it—her dreams of a future with him would remain just that. And the mere thought of losing him, even for a reason like that, woke an ache inside her that she'd thought long buried, a pain as cutting and as deep as Mary's death had caused.

Almost immediately, grief became guilt. How could she sit there and compare what she felt about this man she barely knew with the feelings of loss she'd experienced when her
dear mother died!
Get hold of yourself, Bess, and do the right thing.

But what
was
the right thing?

Confront him, of course! Force him to explain what happened back there.

The huge box on the wagon bed shifted, groaning slightly as Jake guided the horses around a soft bend in the road. It reminded her how, even before he'd even climbed up onto the wagon seat beside her, she'd asked him what had been housed in the mammoth container. He'd said he didn't know what was in the box. But that hadn't been the truth; she could tell because his pupils had constricted and his lips had thinned, just the way Matt and Mark's always did when she caught them in a fib.

The knowledge that she'd be able to tell if he ever told her another fib...or an outright lie...lifted her sagging spirits a bit. She
would
confront him about what had gone on back there on the dock.
And while you're digging for information
, she grinned,
you may as well see if you can get him to tell you what's in that crate!

Several more moments passed in total silence before Bess took a deep
breath. The time was ripe. "We both know you owe me an explanation."

He'd just
chick-chicked
to quicken the horses' pace. Her question seemed to hit him like a bolt, and his hands froze in mid-air. Jake cocked his head and gave her a half-hearted grin. Raising one blond brow, he said, "About what?"

After another exasperated sigh, she said, "About what that awful man said, of course...."

She probably wouldn't have said 'spit and vomit' with as much disdain in her voice as she'd said 'that awful man.' Jake had only known her for three months, but in that short time, if he hadn't learned anything else about Bess, he'd learned this: for all her stubborn determination to appear in-charge and tough, she was more sensitive and tenderhearted than anyone he'd ever known. She hid her soft side well, he'd discovered, but for the lucky few who took the time to look, her warmth and compassion showed in her eyes...and in her voice. She was trying to sound casual, as though the almost-brawl hadn't upset her in the least. But it had troubled her, scared her, even.

"That man threatened you," she was saying. "He said
—“

"That man,"
Jake interrupted, "doesn't know what in Sam Hill he's talking about!" He said it with such ferocity that Bess drew back slightly. Immediately, he regretted his harshness. "He’s nothing but a drunken sailor."

She flexed her hands. Smoothed her skirt. Tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. "You don't really expect me to believe all that fuss and bother was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity...."

This woman could never play poker
, he thought,
because she doesn’t know the meaning of the word
subtle.

Bess ignored his quiet chuckle. What should have been a rapid-fire inquisition never happened. Bess sat back and stared straight ahead, one dainty finger tapping lightly on her knee. "So
I take your silence to mean he
was
mistaken, then? That he has you confused with some
other
fellow from Lubbock...one who killed a man and escaped before they could hang him for it, and just so happens to look like
you
."

Ordinarily, her straight-forward way of putting things was admirable. For a reason he couldn't explain, the way she'd put
that
rattled him.

As they'd left the docks,
Jake told himself if she didn't ask about what happened, he wouldn't volunteer any information. But a nagging voice inside him kept saying,
you know she will, Jake ole boy.
The only surprise, really, was that it had taken this long. He'd known full well that, as she sat there beside him, fidgeting with her purse and fiddling with her hat, she'd been reliving the scene, word for word. And he'd known why:

Bess didn't want to believe he'd done anything so contemptible as to take a man's life. It was part of her character to look for even the dimmest glimmer of good in every situation, in every person
. Her sighs, her shrugs, the nervous toe-tapping, Jake realized, were evidence that she was building a case, a defense of sorts, to excuse what he'd done...if indeed he'd done it.