Jake Walker's Wife (13 page)

"By the looks of your old man, you've done a fine job of keepin' the wolf from the door, Bess," hollered one of the hands.

Micah chuckled and patted his ample belly. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, Sammy, or I'll eat your share of the birthday cake!" he teased good-naturedly. "Why," he continued, "we'd have worn dirty, tattered rags. Would've been forced to kick our way through rubbish and debris just to get from one side of the house to the other!"

Again, the laughter of the Beckley's friends filled the cozy, people-crowded room.

"Most of you knew my dear, sweet Mary, and couldn't help but love her. She was a wonderful, giving woman." Micah stopped speaking for a moment. Took a deep breath, then swallowed hard. "I loved Mary more than life itself. For awhile there after she died, I believed she took the best part of me with her."

He gestured for Bess and the boys to join him. Draping an arm over each twin's shoulder, he smiled fondly at his daughter. "A good friend helped me to see that, in reality, she left the best part of me, right here." He tugged his boys closer.

Micah held up a hand to silence the heartfelt awws and ahs that filtered around the room, then lay that same hand upon Bess's cheek. "Your mother was a wonderful woman, my darlin' girl, but life was easy for her. From the moment Mary was born, she never had a worry in the world. You, on the other hand have lived a hard life. A life that's--"

"Pa," Bess interrupted, blinking back hot tears, "hush now, why don't you?"

Micah thrust out his chest in defiance. "I'll not hush!" he insisted, loosening his black string tie. "I've been doing a lot of thinking these past months, about something my good friend, Jake Walker back there, said." Micah nodded toward the front door, and focused on his daughter again. "He helped me see that you pretty much single-handedly saved our bacon."

Paternal love glowed in Micah's damp eyes. He coughed and cleared his throat. "The Bible tells us that to do a good deed in secret is to secure ourselves a place in Paradise. Well, Bess, my darlin', there's not a doubt in my mind you'll have a h
ome up there someday, because you've devoted your life to giving us a taste of heaven, right here on earth."

The tears she'd been trying to blink back now rolled freely down her cheeks. Very few of their guests' eyes were dry, either. Matt and Mark stared at Bess, obvious adulation glowing on their fresh young faces. The Widow Reddick nodded her head in agreement. Pastor and Mrs. Higgins smiled approvingly. But Bess didn't see them, not because of the tears that blurred her vision, but because she only had eyes for one person...the tall, muscular man in the back of the room who leaned against the door jamb, casually maneuvering a blade of grass from one corner of his mouth to the other. Lord help her, she loved that man!

Almost from the first moment he walked into her kitchen with his quietly flirtatious attitude, he'd stolen her heart. He'd befriended her brothers. Taught them to be proper farmers. Why, thanks to Jake, the boys could now hold their own on a Texas cattle ranch if they had a mind to! she admitted. He'd saved Matt's life and, unbeknownst to her, had been Micah's sounding board and confidant. Bess didn't know for certain if he'd committed a murder or not, but she knew for certain that Jake was a thief...for he'd stolen her heart.

She had no idea what gift Micah had hidden beneath the white sheet. She didn't know what might be in the boxes her friends had tied up with bright ribbons and big bows. But it didn't matter, because the best gift had already been presented: She had her father back!

She saw in Micah's gray eyes the once-familiar loving smile, and on his bearded face, a serene expression. The way he stood there, tall and strong and proud, told Bess that her prayers had finally been answered. Her father had at long last set aside his grief over losing his beloved wife, and decided to start living,
really living
again.

He'd said flat out that
Jake had been responsible for the magnificent change. Bess didn't think she'd live long enough to receive such a more meaningful gift, and she had Jake to thank for it.

Her heart throbbed at the mere sight of him. She wanted to run across the room, throw her arms around his neck and kiss him soundly. She wanted to tell him what she ought to have told him on the way home from Baltimore, when he'd said he would hug her and kiss her until she agreed to be his girl:
I
am
your girl!

"You've been the only music in our lives for eight long years," Micah was saying. "So the boys and I decided it was high time we put some music into yours." With that, he stepped aside and whipped the sheet from the box. "Hand me that crowbar, Matthew," he instructed, grinning.

Board by board, the box was dismantled, and bit by bit, the lovely instrument appeared.

Bess ran her fingertips lightly over the smooth ivory and ebony keys, stroked the polished mahogany of the upright piano. Her voice trembled when she whispered, "Oh, Pa, it's...it's so
beautiful."

"Not half as beautiful as the lady who'll play it," said a deep voice from the back of the room.

All heads turned to see who'd issued the compliment.

Bess knew without even looking up who'd spoken. She'd have recognized that wonderful
, wholly masculine voice anywhere. Much to her disappointment, when she turned toward the place where she'd last seen him, Jake was gone.

***

For a brief moment, he'd clung to the hope that Bess had fooled the ex-deputy, and he could live at Foggy Bottom with her forever. But reality set in as he watched the birthday festivities, and he couldn't bear to stand there a moment longer, looking at the woman he wanted...but couldn't have.

Jake
turned slowly and headed from the house, and though he walked at a slow, steady pace, he was running away. Again.

It seemed he'd been
on the run from one thing or another most of his life...Sheriff Carter and his deputies, Texas Rangers, U.S. Marshals, bounty hunters, the hangman, and now his love for Bess.

During those
lonesome years, he'd been shot at, kicked, punched, survived cattle stampedes and border wars between ranchers. He'd seen death and dying more times than he cared to remember, and felt the scrape of the Grim Reaper's scythe a time or two, himself. But none of what he'd lived scared him half as much as what he felt for Bess.

One short month from now, his job at Foggy Bottom would be done. The corn and soy crops would have been harvested. The fences would have been mended. The outbuildings would shine under fresh coats of white paint.
Jake knew if he wanted it, he'd have a position here at Foggy Bottom for the rest of his life. And the Good Lord knew he wanted it....

But sadly, he couldn't
accept it.

The Texan had
told the constable that he'd made a mistake by identifying Jake as a wanted man. But Jake heard beyond the words, saw the shrewdness in the man's eyes. He'd return, and when he did, he'd bring trouble with him. Trouble Jake could not afford to expose Bess and her family to.

Neither feeble explanation nor fine words
would satisfy the greed and bloodlust of these lawmen-turned-bounty hunters. Men determined enough to travel fifteen hundred miles through wilderness and over hard-scrabble roads to hunt him down wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d pocketed their thirty pieces of silver.

The thought made his heart ache. Leaving here, in his mind, could be compared to a slow, torturous death. Even the hangman's way was more humane than that. He
’d stay and face the music and hope for the best…if he could predict the outcome. But the scuffle that was sure to take place when the Texan came back to claim “his man” would likely require loaded guns. Only a shoot-out would buy Jake his freedom, but at what cost? He would not put Bess and everyone else at Beckley’s Hollow in the line of fire, not even to save himself. These people had been good to him. Had invited him, open-armed, into their family.

Yes, soon his job here would be done. And when it was, he'd pack his meager possessions, saddle his horse, and quietly go.

If only there was a way to prove he hadn't killed Horace Pickett! At least then, he’d have a glimmer of hope that he could live free again. Free of the hangman. Free to love Bess. Free to spend the rest of his life, happy beside her. But the only witness who came forward to testify about the murder had been his uncle.

Jake
had been in Lubbock that fateful day, running errands for his Aunt Polly, when Horace Pickett stormed into the general store. "Francine," he'd bellowed, "just the little lady I want to see."

Francine Miller had lost her young husband a year earlier, and had been struggling ever since to keep up with the payments on their fifty acre spread. But the banker, greedy and demanding,
had snapped continuously and mercilessly at her heels. Horace didn't seem to care that in the year since her Billy's death, Francine had worked so long and so hard that she looked sixty instead of thirty. Didn't seem to care, either, that she had three young children to feed and clothe, or that she had no kin to turn to for help.

"Francine," Horace had repeated, cornering the terrified young widow in the middle of the store, "you're three weeks late with your September payment."

"I know, Mr. Pickett, I know," she said, her voice quaking with quiet fear, "and I'm right sorry. But I'm about to harvest...." Francine wrung her hands pitifully. "I ran out of money and had to let my hired hand go last week, so the young’uns an' me, we're gonna have to do it by ourselves. It's gonna take a mite longer than I hoped, but it'll get done. I promise you that. And when I've sold the crops, you'll get your—“

"
Excuses. I've heard so many of your empty promises, I'm deaf to them. I've had it up to here," he'd barked, slicing a hand across his throat, "with your whining and whimpering. You owe a debt, and it's your responsibility to honor it." He curled his lip in disgust. "It's not my fault, is it, that your spineless husband didn't plan better for your future before the fever took him."

Francine was crying hard by then. She'd heard it all before.
Jake could tell that much by the way she nodded and mumbled "Yes, Mr. Pickett. I know. I'm so sorry, Mr. Pickett."

Other shopkeepers made allowances, knowing that eventually, she'd honor each and every debt, even if it meant that in addition to running the farm, Francine
had to take in laundry and ironing, and clean the hotel and wait tables to earn a few extra dollars. Why couldn't Horace cut her the same slack? Jake wondered. It wasn't as though her measly payment would make or break his beloved bank.

It had been during the finale to Horace's tirade that
Jake recalled a conversation he'd heard some weeks earlier. A Boston investor had come to town looking for suitable property on which to build a cannery. He'd visited Horace, knowing full well that the banker would have first-hand information regarding suitable properties for sale.

The Miller spread,
Jake reasoned, was perfect for the Bostonian's business. Not only would it provide an ample water supply, it also had easy access to and from town by way of the main road. Rumor had it the investor had said, "Money is no object."

Suddenly,
as he’d stood listening to Horace berate Francine, Jake realized that the banker's ranting and raving had one purpose: To intimidate Francine so badly she'd crumble. If she lost hope and the will to work night and day, she wouldn’t make any payments, and the farm would revert to his control.

"Why don't you take this conversation to a more private place?"
Jake had said, stepping between Francine and Horace.

"Why don't you mind your own business, boy?"
the banker shot back.

He may have only been eighteen
at the time, but thanks to his Uncle Josh, it had been a long, long time since he'd felt or behaved like a boy. Jake had narrowed his eyes. "There's nothin' worse than a bully, Horace. Exceptin' maybe a bully who'd attack a defenseless woman."

The man
doubled both fists. "I won't say it again, W.C.; mind your own business!"

Jake
crossed his arms over his chest. "Seems to me you're makin' it my business, makin' it
everybody's
business since you insist on bellowin' like a bull." He'd snickered. “Mooin' like a cow, I shoulda said, 'cause no
real
man would terrorize a helpless woman.”

Horace shook a fist under
Jake's nose. "Back off, man, or...."

Jake
took a calculated and confrontational step forward. "Or
what
," he’d demanded, his voice dangerously low.

In anticipation of a brawl, the store emptied. Even Francine slipped away from what was threatening to become a full-fledged fistfight. Later, she testified at
Jake's trial that she'd left the store to fetch the sheriff. "I didn't want Jake gettin' on Mr. Pickett's bad side on account of me. I been on his bad side long enough to know he kin make a body wanna lay down an' die...."

Though well-intended, Francine's testimony hurt
Jake more than it helped him, because in the end, the jury had focused on his anger and his threats instead of on Jake's attempt to protect her from the shame and anxiety induced by Horace's wrathful intimidation. Jake could only thank his lucky stars she hadn't been present to witness the meanest part of his dispute with Horace: