Outlaw Hearts (35 page)

He heard the whore scream with delight in the back room and he thought how ugly and used she looked compared to Miranda. He had never ached so badly for a woman in his life, but there were none here or anywhere else that he wanted. There was a time when women like the one in the back room would have been enough for him, but not anymore. Memories of Miranda's firm but supple naked body pressed against his own haunted him at night when he bedded down alone, usually on the cold ground.

God, how he missed her! He felt tortured with the need to touch her, hold her, feel her arms around him in return. He needed to know that she was all right, yet for her own safety he could not go back to her or even make contact with her. Being away from her was only made worse by being separated from his little boy. He felt real pain at the thought that Lloyd would probably forget him in time, that he would never know his second child. It had been ten months now since he'd left California. The baby should have been born at least four months ago. He could only hope Miranda had gotten through the birth with no problems.

He finished his cigarette, lit another one, drank another shot of whiskey. It was early summer now. A harsh winter had pretty much kept him holed up here at Robber's Roost, but soon it would be time to make up his mind what the hell he was going to do. Miranda would run out of money eventually, and if he decided not to send for her, he at least had to find a way to send her money and to tell her he was not coming for her. She had to know. He couldn't leave her dangling forever, never knowing what had happened to him.

Whether he returned to his family or not, he sure as hell wasn't going to let them starve. He knew he could get money easily enough if he wanted to use his guns to get it. Just to the east were the gold towns of Colorado, more up north in Montana, or south in Arizona. Gold towns meant payroll runs, banks, people riding stagecoaches with money in their pockets. To the north was the Union Pacific Railroad. Only wealthier people could afford to ride the train, people who carried money and gold watches and wore diamonds.

Yes, it would be easy, but something kept him from that life now. That something was a woman whose face he could see as vividly as if she were sitting right in front of him. She looked at him with those scolding gray-blue eyes and told him that if he returned to a life of crime, her faith in him and her love for him would be destroyed. He could see the disappointment in her eyes, and even if he never went back to her, he knew that look would haunt him forever. Damn woman! That was the hell of it. He couldn't get her out of his mind or his heart or his blood. He felt torn between two worlds now, belonging to neither.

He glanced at the swinging doors then when someone new entered the tavern. The man looked familiar to him, and when the newcomer took his own inventory of those inside, his eyes lingered on Jake for a moment, as though he, too, realized maybe he should know him. The man nodded to him, but Jake made no sign of recognition. He took a deep drag on the cigarette, watched the man step up to the bar, which Bates had built out of wooden planks laid over barrels. The man ordered a beer, paid for his drink, and turned to face Jake again.

Jake stayed put, squinting his eyes to study the man, searching his memory. The man looked friendly enough, but Jake was always wary. If this man did know him and remembered how good he was with his guns, he might turn out to be another fool stupid enough to challenge him. To his surprise the man smiled, then headed toward his table. Jake guessed him to be about the same age as he was, and cleaner in clothes and appearance than most men in these parts, about ninety-five percent of whom were in bad need of a bath and a shave, himself included. This man was downright good-looking, his blue eyes friendly as he approached the table.

“By God, it
is
you, Jake!” the man exclaimed, a strong southern accent to the words. He set down his beer. “I heard you were makin' your way through these parts. I've been trackin' you all the way from northern Arizona. Saw Charlie Tate down there. He's the one who told me you were hangin' around here somewhere.” He put out his hand. “It's been a long time!”

Jake's eyes narrowed in puzzlement. He glanced down at the extended hand and noticed there was a thumb missing. It was then he remembered. “Jess! Jess York,” he said, grasping the hand and shaking it. “You rebel bastard, what are you doing out here?”

“I could ask the same of you. First I hear you're wanted back in Missouri. Next thing I know, some asshole by the name of Bill Kennedy and a rough bunch of no-goods is hangin' around places like this askin' about you and lookin' ready to cut you up and feed you to the wolves.”

“They came here first?”

“Traveled all up and down the Trail askin' if anybody had seen a Jake Harkner or Jake Turner. You know how men in these parts feel about rats who go after their own kind. We chased them out but good.” The man pulled up a chair and turned it, straddling it backward. He looked Jake over. “You can be sure they never found you because of anything any of
us
told them. Hell, we didn't know where the hell you were anyway. I read in the newspapers down in El Paso that you shot the hell out of all of them out in California.” He grinned. “Man, I sure would have liked to have seen that.”

“El Paso! The news made it all the way there?”

York shrugged. “Hell, it ain't every day a man shoots it out one against seven and lives to tell about it.” He looked Jake over, thinking the man hadn't changed much since the war, still big and handsome as ever, but he needed a shave and a haircut. He didn't look like any family man, and York couldn't imagine he ever had been. “The article said you had a wife and a kid. That true?” He watched the pain darken Jake's eyes, and he knew he'd hit a sore spot.

“It's true.” Jake took another swallow of whiskey, and York said nothing for a moment. Jake knew it was out of respect. Men like himself and York shared personal triumphs and tragedies only when they felt like it, not because someone asked.

Jake had met Jess York during his gunrunning days. Jess had lost his wife and a little daughter to a group of brutal Yankee raiders who had burned his home and farm and raped his wife before killing her. The incident had turned him into a ruthless raider himself for several months, and after the war he had continued an outlaw life, caring about nothing but revenge and trying to deal with the bitter pain he suffered.

The two men had become good friends for a while, finding it easy to talk to each other. Both had suffered from brutal pasts, and they understood each other's motives for living the way they had. After the war, though, they had gone their separate ways, and Jake had taken up with Kennedy's gang.

Jake took another deep drag on the cigarette. “I know what you're wondering. Where's the wife and kid? By now there's two kids. My wife was carrying when I left California after the shoot-out.”

York took a swallow of his beer and licked at foam on his upper lip. “Left her for her own safety, I expect, if you don't mind my askin'.”

Jake sighed deeply, aching to taste Randy's mouth, to be inside her, to love and protect her, provide for her the way a husband should. “You've got it,” he answered. “I knew the shoot-out would draw every lawman and bounty hunter for miles. I couldn't expose my wife and son to that kind of danger. Fact is, she's got everybody in the little California town where we lived thinking I've left for good and she's divorcing me. That's the only way to keep reporters and bounty hunters off her back. She doesn't even know where I am, and that's the best way to protect her.”

“I expect. She
really
divorcin' you?”

Jake stared down at the cigarette in his hand. “If she had any sense, she would. But when it comes to me, she
doesn't
have much sense. Seems to think she still loves me and wants to be with me, no matter what.”

“Sounds like a hell of a woman. She know about your past before she married you?” York laughed lightly. “Come to think of it, how in hell did you find a woman like that in the first place? I sure never imagined you'd marry, let alone have a kid.”

Jake met his eyes. He used to trust this man, but now that he had a wife and children, he had to be careful. Still, he knew York was basically honest. He'd been a simple family man himself once, until the war destroyed everything that meant anything to him. “It's a long story,” he answered. “What about you? What have you been up to?”

“No good, mostly. I'm on my way to Colorado to see about a job. Lots of jobs in those mining towns, in Denver too, I'm told.”

“An
honest
job?”

York chuckled, showing clean teeth. “Hell, yes! I do still find ways to make money the easy way, but mostly I find honest work when I can. Now if I could find me another woman as good as the one I lost…” His smile faded.

Jake knew the man still suffered on the inside, still felt lost, a man with no direction in life, just as he had been before Miranda came along. “Maybe I'll go with you to Colorado,” he said aloud. “I'm getting tired of these hellholes, and I need to make some money. You want somebody to travel with?”

The man's eyes lit up, both men understanding the unspoken loneliness the other lived with. “Sure.” He grinned. “Hell, I'm glad I found you. When I heard you were roamin' these parts, I started checkin' out every settlement and hideout along this trail. It's good to see you again, Jake. It's been a lot of years.”

Jake nodded. “I've just been laying low here myself, biding my time till things die down. I've got to figure out what I'm going to do next, whether or not to send for my wife and kids.” He took one last drag on the cigarette and threw it down, stepping it out. “I just don't know what the hell to do, whether to get back into their lives or just end it.”

“End it?” York shook his head. “I'll tell you somethin', Jake.” He made a gesture toward Jake's bottle of whiskey. “One thing I remembered about you was out of all the hell-raisin' and shoot-ups and robberies and anything else you did, you never was much of a drinker. Maybe you don't remember I'm probably one of the few people you used to talk to about your pa, how much you hated him. You told me once heavy drinkin' reminded you of him, that you always hated it because of him and was scared whiskey would take control of you like it did him.”

Jake scowled, pouring himself another shot. “So what? How much I drink is nobody's business.”

“Hell, I know that. I'm just sayin' somethin' must be eatin' at you good to make you sit there with a whole bottle of whiskey in front of you. My guess is it's the woman and the kids. If your wife is willin' to forgive and wants to stay in your life, hell, grab what you can.” The man finished his beer in two gulps and leaned closer. “Shit, Jake, do you know what I'd give to have my wife and kid back? You could chop off both feet if it meant I could be with them again. I don't know the whole story, but it sounds to me like you've got a good thing waitin' for you back there in California. I wouldn't even
think
about not goin' back to it. Were you close to your kid?”

Jake looked at his whiskey glass. “I'd die for him. He means more to me than my own blood. Yeah, we were close.” He took a deep breath, twirling the glass against the table. “You sonofabitch. You always could cut right to it.”

He met Jess's eyes, and Jess was stunned by the tears brimming in the eyes of this man he remembered being mean as a snake at times. The pain in Jake's eyes almost startled him.

“I never thought I could learn to give a damn about anything,” Jake told him. “And I sure as hell never thought I'd like being a father, or that I could be any good at it, after the kind of childhood I had. Trouble is, I love the woman and the kid enough that I'm not sure it isn't better for them if I stay out of their lives for good.”

York took a cigar from his pocket and lit it.

“When are you leaving for Colorado?” Jake asked.

York took the hint. Jake was through talking about personal things. He shrugged. “Now that I've found my old friend, I'll go whenever you feel like going.”

Two men at a nearby gambling table began arguing over a hand, one accusing the other of cheating. The argument quickly became more heated, one of the men kicking the table over. Cards and drinks went flying. The other man pulled a gun on the first and shot him before he could draw. His body flew backward, landing near Jake. The man holding the gun glared at Jake, the sudden shooting making him feel brave.

The whole room hung silent for a moment. “Don't even think about it,” York told the man holding the gun, noticing the way he was looking at Jake. He rose slowly and moved his chair out of Jake's way. “I've seen this man in action, mister. You'd be best to put that gun back in its holster.”

Jake still sat with his chair tipped back, a cigarette in his mouth. “Mister, if you want to die today and join your friend on the floor here, that's your business,” he told the man.

The man watched him, breathing hard. “I know who you are. All I have to do is cock this thing and fire it, and I've shot Jake Harkner. You have to draw. You ain't got a chance.”

“I can draw faster than you can cock that gun. I guarantee it. Now I don't really feel like killing anybody today, so why don't you put that thing away?”

The man looked at him for a long time, and Jake did not take his eyes off him for one split second. The secret to these confrontations was watching the man's eyes, not his gun or his hand. Hesitation, that was his edge over these men. They always hesitated. That was their downfall. The man began to shake a little, then lowered his gun, slowly putting it back into its holster. He turned and left, and Jake just shook his head, looking up at York. “How about tomorrow morning?”