Jake Walker's Wife (27 page)

Standing beside him, Bess hugged Matt a little tighter. Ever since that afternoon on the Baltimore docks, she'd known this day
could dawn at any time. The presence of these two angry men explained Jake's agitation earlier that morning. She didn't care
what
they threatened. No one at Foggy Bottom would help them slip a noose around Jake's neck. Not if she had anything to say about it! Lifting her chin and raising her left brow, she said, "Will one of you...
gentlemen
...please explain why you're on Beckley property, making threats?"

"Didn't mean no harm, ma'am," said the first. With his thumb, he shoved his hat farther to the back of his head. "Name's Carter. Chuck Carter, and I'm the sheriff in Lubbock, Texas."

Her whole body stiffened at the mention of the town. She could only hope the sheriff hadn't noticed her reaction.

"I'm here to collect a prisoner," he continued, elbow resting on the
saddle horn. "Ever hear-tell of a man by name of W.C. Atwood, ma'am?"

She frowned. "No, the name isn't at all familiar, I'm afraid." Bess brightened a bit to add, "There's a family down the road a piece," she said, pointing east, "whose name is Atkins. Maybe you've got your names mixed up."

The sheriff grinned and shook his head. "No ma'am," was his patronizing reply, "there ain’t no mix-up."

Bess aimed a glare at the
other man. She would have recognized him anywhere. He was the filthy sailor who'd picked a fight with Jake that day on the docks. "I suppose you're looking for this Atkins fellow, too?"

"His name's Atwood. W.C. Atwood. And ye
ah, I'm huntin' him, too."

"Why?" Matt wanted to know. "What's he done?"

"Killed a man with his bare hands," said the man in the saddle. “Broke his neck and stole his watch.”

Under her hand, Matt's shoulder tensed. "In Lubbock?"

"That's right," the sheriff said. "He was about to pay for his crime when he escaped."

"P-pay
for it?"

"Another hour or so, he'd-a been lookin' up a limb. Ain't that right, Sheriff?"

Carter stared hard at him. "Shut up, Yonker," he grated, "can't you see you're scarin' these nice folks?" He poked around in his shirt pocket for a second or two, then withdrew a many-folded sheet of paper. Leaning forward, he handed it to Bess. "That there's the feller we're lookin' for, miss," he said. "He look familiar to you?"

She held in her hands a wanted poster exactly like the one hidden in beneath the desk blotter in her room. Matt peered over her shoulder
. Surely, the striking likeness to Jake wouldn't escape his scrutiny. Her voice was thin as she said, "I'm sorry, but I've never seen this man before in my life."

Bess quickly summoned the strength to aim a carefree, friendly smile in their direction. Just as quickly, she realized it had been an exercise in futility, for their visitors no longer had any interest in anything she had to say.

Sheriff Carter had turned slightly in the saddle to face north, a steely, determined expression on a face shaded by a wide-brimmed hat. What had so completely captured his attention? she’d wondered, following his gaze.

In the fleeting moment that ticked by, she saw what Carter had seen...the silhouette of a horse and rider. She guessed the distance to be a
miler more, yet she'd have recognized the way he sat a saddle anywhere.
Run, Jake
! was her silent warning.
Run as fast and as far as you can
!

Somehow, she must distract them, and give him the head start he needed. But
how
?

"Here's your wanted poster, Sheriff," she said, holding it out to him.

Her words seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, for Carter had wheeled his horse around, gripping the reins so tightly that the leather squealed against the snaffle rings. The hackamore bridle tightened as his horse responded by rearing back its mighty head, ready and willing to obey his master's next instruction.

In an eyeblink,
he was bulleting toward the shadowy figure on the horizon. "You ain't goin' nowhere without me, Carter!" Yonker shouted, pressing his own horse into action. "I aim to get my fair share of that polecat!"

She and Matt huddled in stunned silence, blinking into the gritty fog kicked up by the horses' hooves.

"I always wondered why Jake kept to himself so much," Matt said when the dust cleared. He nodded at the wanted poster Bess still clutched in her hands. "Now I know...."

"He didn't kill that man in Lubbock."

Matt only shook his head. "I never said he did." He gave the poster one last worried glance, then jammed his hat onto his head. "I promised Jake I'd clean the barn this morning," he said, and headed out.

"Where's Mark?" she asked as he crossed the yard.

"Mixin' feed for the horses, like Jake told him to," he hollered over his shoulder. When the boy reached the barn, he slid open the wide double doors and faced the house. "Hey, Bess...."

One hand on the door frame, the other over her hammering heart, she looked his way.

"You think he'll be all right out there?"

The hammering beneath her hand escalated. For the first time since Mary's death, she felt no inclination to lie to protect her younger sibling. "I hope so," she'd said to Matt.

God in heaven,
she prayed now,
I hope so....

***

After supper, as Bess was scouring the skillet she'd fried their chicken in, Micah joined her in the kitchen. "Hey, Pa," she said without looking up, "there's hot coffee on the stove."

He crossed the room
and slid a heavy pottery mug from the open cupboard shelf. "Matt told me what happened this morning."

The last time she'd heard him speak in that gritty, glum tone of voice had been on the day they'd buried her mother. Bess set the pan aside and dried her hands on her apron.
Relieving him of the mug, she filled it with coffee, poured a cup for herself, and followed him to the table.

With thumb and forefinger, he repeatedly stroked his bearded jaw and shook his head. "Guess it was just a matter of time 'til they came for him."

All day, she'd been fighting tears, but staved them off by throwing herself into her work. Though the silver hadn't needed polishing, she'd shined it up anyway. Only two days earlier, she'd dragged every rug outside and hung it over the wire clothesline out back, but she'd done it again today, beating the carpet nap with every ounce of energy she had. She'd taken down the kitchen curtains and soaked them in a tub of lye, despite the fact that she'd done the exact same job just last week. Even tonight's planned menu—chicken pot pie and buttermilk biscuits—became a Sunday feast, complete with mashed potatoes and gravy, butter beans, and turnip greens.

Ever since Mary's death, Bess had been putting on whatever face her father and brothers needed her to wear, regardless of her own moods or feelings. Even now, as she watched Micah's worried frown, she wondered what she could do or say to comfort him, to ease his concern.

"He'll be fine, just fine," she said, forcing a cheeriness into her voice that she did not feel. "I'm sure he's found a good hiding place by now."

Micah sighed deeply. "Bess," he said, reaching into his coat pocket, "I have something for you." He held the envelope in his left hand, covered her right hand with his.

Blinking back hot tears, she stared at the envelope and folded her hands in her lap. "It's from Jake, isn't it?"

Micah nodded. "He gave it to me first thing this morning, and asked that I
—“

"Why didn't he talk to me himself?" she demanded as a sob
swelled in her throat. Fingers flexing nervously, she looked at the note. "Why did he feel he needed to say goodbye...
that
way!"

"
Told me he gave it a lot of thought,” her father said, “and figured this way would be least painful for you."

She thought of what they'd done that morning, remembering with crystal clarity the way he'd held her, breathed into her ear that he'd never loved a woman as he loved her. "You've given me something to live for, Bess," he had whispered. "I swear to God, I'd
die for you...."

Less painful
?
He was gone for good. How could
anything
make that less painful!

Glaring, she met Micah's eyes. "And you believed him? He decided to take the coward's way out, and you
let
him?" She stood so quickly that her chair tumbled backward and clattered to the floor. "What kind of father are you?" she demanded. "How could you let him just walk away, knowing what it would do to me, without—“

Micah calmly got to his feet and wrapped her in his arms. "I swear to you, Bess, I tried to stop him. But
Jake believes his leaving is best, and safest, for all of us." He tightened his hold. "Under the circumstances, I'm bound to agree with him."

Just a
s surging floodwaters slowly erode a dam, her careful control began to wear away. It started, a slight tremor in her fingertips that ebbed up and out, until every inch of her quivered with fright and dread. She was utterly helpless to bring Jake back, to prove him innocent, to make things right. Frustration pulsed inside her and flared from her heart, heating her cheeks and causing her ears to burn.

Bess gripped her father's shoulders, the scratchy wool of his jacket reminding her of
Jake's work-hardened hands. Would she ever feel his gentle touch, or hear his heartfelt proclamations, or see the lovelight glowing in his ice-blue eyes again?

Habit, more than anything else, warned her to get hold of herself. Habit
—and fear that once the floodgates opened—there’d be no stanching her tears. Hard as it was, she drew away from her father's embrace. It would have been better if he hadn't exhibited this moment of fatherly love and strength, for it only served to remind her of the man he'd been when her mother was alive. Self-pity had turned him weak and timid, blinding him to the needs of his children, whose loss had been every bit as painful as his own.

Bess would not allow that kind of selfishness to do to her what it had done to her father. And so she grit her teeth and squinted, and reached into that now-shallow well of self-determination for one last ounce of control. "Let me have the letter," she said, extending a trembling hand.

"I'm sorry, Bess," he said, giving it to her. "I wish there were something I could do to ease—“

"There
is," she said matter-of-factly, folding the envelope in half and tucking it into her apron pocket.

Micah stood near the door, waiting for Bess to spell it out.

She rolled up her sleeves and drove both hands into the sudsy water to tackle the skillet again. "You can find Matt and Mark, and help them understand why Jake had to leave...us." She hid the catch in her voice behind a tiny cough. She couldn't bring herself to hurt Micah with the truth, so in place of 'father', Bess chose the word ‘brother’. "It won't be easy for them, knowing he’s gone, because he’s been like an older brother to them."

"I expect I'll find th
em in the barn.”

She nodded."Yesterday, he taught them the proper way to groom a horse
. This morning, he told them to practice every chance they get."

One hand on the screen door, he said, "I'll be in my study later, reading...in case you want to talk...."

She dared not meet his eyes for fear she'd see evidence of pity there. It wouldn't take much to bring down the last of her self-control. Bess continued to attack the frying pan as though the answers to all her problems were hidden beneath the layer of crisp, cooked-on chicken fat. "Enjoy your book, Pa," was all she said as the back door closed with a muffled
thud
.

An hour later, after she'd swept the porch and scoured the table and chairs, the cookstove, the pine-planked floor, Bess wearily climbed the stairs and locked herself
inhere room. Covering her shoulders with the cream-colored crocheted shawl that had been her mother's, she took off her apron, settled into the nest of pillows Mary had long ago stuffed into the windowseat, and hugged it to her breast.

The stiff envelope crinkled between her hands and her heart. Sighing, she removed it from the right-hand pocket. In the silvery, shadowy light of the moon, she slowly lifted the flap and withdrew the single sheet of paper that had been folded
in thirds, from top to bottom, from bottom to top. Pressing it against her lap, she smoothed away the neat creases. Then, tilting the letter so that a shard of moonlight illuminated the bold, masculine handwriting, she read:

September 28, 1850

My dearest Bess,

It might seem this is the coward's way...leaving a note instead of facing you head-on. It isn't that I'm yellow, it's just I want your last memory of me to be a good one. You deserve a stronger man than me. (Maybe someday, the Good Lord will tell me what I did to deserve even a few months with you.)

I told them in Lubbock I never killed Horace Pickett. Even folks who knew me all my life didn't believe it. I don't rightly care what the rest of the world believes. You believe me. Nothing else matters.