Patricia Potter (17 page)

“I don’t know. He just sorta comes and goes.”

“He didn’t say anything about who he is or where he’s working?”

“I told you his name is Jess,” Chad replied impatiently.

Brady wondered if he should tell the boy the truth. But Chad would never believe him or, if he did, he might want to be exactly like the gunfighter.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the whiskey had eaten into his brain. Maybe the man just reminded him of Lobo. God knew he was in no shape Saturday to make any kind of judgment.

He would wait and bide his time. He would make sure he was here next time “Jess” stopped by and find out exactly who and what the man was. His hand went to his gun, and he was ashamed to realize his fingers trembled. He saw Chad’s eyes follow the movements, and the shame deepened.

How could he face a gunfighter with a hand that shook?

But he must. He knew he must. Or he would lose the last vestige of humanity he had.

W
ILLOW SEARCHED THE
hills all the way from town for the tall figure on a pinto horse. But all she saw was parched land and a sun too bright. With a numbing sense of disappointment Willow drove the buckboard through what was left of the gate; most of it had been destroyed to repair the corral. She immediately saw Jupiter and Brady’s horse, and felt a sudden surge of relief.

She climbed down from the buckboard, leaving the twins to take care of the horses as they usually did. That particular task was something they enjoyed, filling them with a sense of pride and responsibility.

Brady was inside, looking like death warmed over, eating some bread and butter. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn at the time of the fire, since all of his other ones had been destroyed in the barn. They were filthy and torn, and still smelled of smoke as well as three days on the trail.

“Thank you for bringing Jupiter back,” she said.

He forced tortured eyes to look directly into her own. “It was the least I could do. If you want me to leave?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “You’ve helped us so much.”

He groaned at that. He knew he should leave, but he couldn’t, not now, when he suspected that their Jess could be Lobo. If she had asked him to leave, he would have stayed on the outskirts of the ranch and confronted the gunman there. He wouldn’t blame Willow one iota if she wanted him gone.

“I’m sorry about the barn, Willow. So damned sorry.”

Willow went over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s done, Brady. It’s over. There’s nothing we can do but rebuild it. There’s going to be a barn raising Saturday…if anyone comes. Alex apparently is warning everyone away. But Sullivan will be here, and Mr. MacIntyre and some others. We can use your help then.”

“And this Jess?”

Willow stiffened at the hostility in Brady’s voice.

“Chad told you he fixed the corral?”

Brady nodded.

“I—I offered him a job.”

“And…”

“He turned it down, said he wouldn’t be here very long, but I’m hoping…”

Don’t hope,
he wanted to tell her. But at the moment he had no more right being there than her Jess did. Even if Jess was indeed Lobo, he hadn’t done the damage that he, Brady, had inflicted on the ranch.

Yet.

“But don’t think he would replace you,” Willow hurried on, afraid he would misunderstand. “You’re part of the family.”

Brady thought of Estelle and himself. With the two of them, Willow sure didn’t need any more family, especially a renegade white man who’d lived with Indians and was now a notorious gunman. What in the hell did he want anyway? What game was he playing?

“I would like to meet this Jess,” he said cautiously. “Do you know where he might be?”

She shook her head.

“Or when he might return?”

“No,” she said softly. “But I think he will.”

Brady said nothing more. He would say nothing until he was sure of the man’s identity and intentions.

Even if the knowledge killed him.

10

M
arisa defiantly dressed in her riding skirts and ran down the steps.
She heard her father call her name, but she didn’t stop, although it hurt to hear the frustration in his voice. She continued out the door and to the barn.

They’d had the same argument all week, ever since she returned from the dance Saturday night, and the ranch foreman, Herb Edwards, told her father about the gunfight.

She was forbidden to go into town.

It was, she said, his own fault that the town was now dangerous. He was the one who started it all with his useless feud with Gar Morrow. And how could she respect him when he hired a gunslinger to run out a woman and children.

“She has no right to the place. I helped Jake keep it.”

“She has every right. Jake willed it to her.”

“He wasn’t in his right mind.”

Marisa sighed. “I visited him just before he died, and he was in as sound a mind as you…were.” She emphasized the last word, and saw the anger gathering in his eyes.

“Papa,” she whispered, “don’t do this. Don’t bloody this valley.”

“You would let your mother’s murderer go free and use land I helped settle.”

“Your quarrel is with Mr. Morrow, not Willow,” Marisa countered.

“And with anyone who gives him aid and comfort, and that includes that doctor you’ve been making eyes at. Well, don’t you think I’ll allow that either, young lady.”

Marisa glared at him. She only wished there was something between Sullivan and herself, but that, she feared, would never happen. He had never asked her out, had never spoken more than friendly words. She had longed for more for a long time now. There was a quiet strength in him that she admired immensely, and she respected the fact that he was one of the few men who didn’t kowtow to her father.

“You may not have anything to say about it,” she returned angrily, letting him think there was more afoot than there was.

“He’s helping that woman,” Alex bellowed in rage.

“And I’m going to help her too,” Marisa said. “She was the best teacher I’ve ever had, and she’s always been kind to me, and I’m going to do anything I can to help her. I even asked that…gunman of yours to go away.”

Alex stared at her in disbelief. “You did what?”

Marisa stuck her chin up. “I asked him to go away.”

“You rode out alone and met him?”

“Yes, and he was very rude.”

Alex swore, something he’d never done in front of his daughter before. “He didn’t…?”

“Ruin me?” Marisa’s voice was a taunt. “And if he had? You brought him here.”

“If he touched you…” The words ended in a choke as he tried to rise from the wheelchair.

“No, Papa,” she replied quickly, suddenly frightened for him. “He didn’t touch me. He just wouldn’t listen.”

Alex settled back in his chair. “Stay away from him.”

“Stay away from him. Stay away from Willow. Stay away from Dr. Barkley. Stay away from town. You can’t keep me a prisoner because of your own hatred.” She spun around and ran upstairs, leaving Alex staring at the spot where she’d been standing.

She’d done what he had asked for the next few days, hoping she could change his mind. But each empty day deepened her loneliness, and each day she’d felt more and more that he was wrong, that hate and sorrow had twisted him from the man he once was into a stranger she didn’t know and didn’t like.

Marisa had never known why her father blamed Morrow for the death of her mother. She did know that her mother died on her way back from Morrow’s ranch, killed by some renegade Indians. But it had always been Morrow whom her father blamed, not the Indians. She also knew her father was in a wheelchair because he forced a fight with Morrow not long after her mother’s death. But she had never known why, and when she’d asked her father, he tightened his lips and turned away from her.

Now she was ready to outwardly disobey him for the first time in her life. He had always been indulgent with her, and denied her few things, and this new rigid attitude caused both rebellion and sadness in her. He had always been bigger than life to her, even in the wheelchair, and she had always coveted his approval. He had loved her, and she loved him very much. She barely remembered her mother; there were only soft images, and she no longer knew which were real and which were created out of need and longing. Her father had been her only parent most of her life, and he’d always been there with affection and love.

But now he was wrong and she’d spent many restless nights trying to reconcile the father she loved with the avenging man who would hire a gunman to chase a woman and children from the only home they knew.

Marisa had found in Willow Taylor a woman to admire, a woman she would like to emulate. Marisa had been half wild at seventeen when Willow Taylor came to town. School had been a sporadic thing, what with the coming and going of teachers, and Marisa had not been overly enthusiastic about the new one. But almost immediately there had been something compelling about the new teacher who’d treated her as a person of value, not a spoiled brat, which, Marisa had to admit, she’d often been. Miss Taylor lured her pupils into wanting to learn, to know more, to explore the adventures of knowledge. For the first time, history became exciting, numbers fascinating, geography important, the classics captivating. Willow had a habit of ending each day with a story that would continue the next, and the next, until the pupils would no more think of missing an episode than missing a special holiday.

For Marisa, Willow Taylor became all that she imagined her mother would have been. She’d come to admire the teacher even more when she flouted town opinion to take in Chad, and then Estelle. She’d wished she had that much conviction about something.

And now she did. Marisa was determined to be as strong as Willow Taylor.

She hurried to the barn and asked one of the hands to saddle her horse, telling him only that she was going for a ride on the ranch. But she was really going into town to talk to Sullivan. She wanted to find out if he knew more about her father’s hatred toward Gar Morrow than she did, if there was anything either of them could do to stop the quarrel before it consumed everyone in Newton. And she wanted his calm, soothing presence. She wanted even more, but she doubted whether she could ever have it. Every time she looked into those gray eyes, she felt her legs grow weak, although Sullivan usually treated her more as a child than a woman—until the dance. His eyes had met hers when they danced, and there was warmth and longing in them. When he held her after the killing, she felt so safe and secure. She felt as though she belonged in his arms.

Her father was on the porch as she rode out, his hand gesturing to her to return, but she merely waved at him.

The main topic in town, she soon learned, was the barn raising at Miss Willow’s ranch. After the second “tell your pa we won’t be there,” Marisa’s blood started boiling.

“But I will,” she told them sweetly, sending even more reverberations up and down the usually sedate town. “I hope to see you there.”

She made her way down the street—to the dressmaker’s, the lumber store, the gun shop—telling them all the same thing. She would look for them at the barn raising.

Behind her, tongues wagged in confusion, and little groups of people knotted on the streets, trying to decide what the latest development meant. While Marisa had some devil in her, she had always supported and defended her father. Did this mean that Alex had changed his mind?

When she finally reached the doctor’s office, two townsmen, including Mayor August Stillwater, were already there, evidently consulting with Sullivan on the latest news. Their faces flushed when they saw her, and she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the barn raising.”

The mayor tipped his hat politely and nodded in a noncommittal way and escaped. So did his companion.

Sullivan leaned against his desk and grinned at her. “Starting a little trouble, Marisa?”

She raised innocent eyes to him. “I just want to help.”

“Your ‘help’ is throwing the town into turmoil.” He chuckled. “And I suspect you know that.”

“Another town meeting?” She giggled. Although she hadn’t attended any of the previous ones, she’d heard plenty, particularly how Dr. Sullivan Barkley had defied the entire town.

“Possibly,” he allowed, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Marisa thought how he had one of the nicest faces she’d ever seen. It wasn’t anything like the gunfighter’s face, which was too hard. Sullivan’s gray eyes were smoky and at times even mysterious, but they also twinkled with wry humor. His mouth was wide and smiled easily, and though she knew the lines in his face were probably caused by his malaria, they looked more like laugh lines. There was so much character in that face, so much integrity, and yet there was also a small-boy’s mischief. No one ever accused Sullivan of stuffiness, although they cursed his stubbornness.

She met his steady gaze, and she felt a flush climbing up her neck and spreading over her face. She longed to touch him, or have him touch her, but he seemed rooted where he was, one of his fists clenched in a tight ball.