Sterling's Way (Lawmen & Outlaws) (11 page)

A bee in my bonnet. That’s what Granny would say is troubling me.

The previous afternoon he witnessed that preacher’s grandson keeping company with Kristen on the front porch of the boardinghouse. Jack was glad he hadn’t rushed right over, demanded an explanation and, once again, left his breeding and manners in the dust. No, he’d leaned against a tree, the shade of its slender branches effectively hiding him from view. He had seen the entire exchange, and even though he hadn’t been able to hear a word, he got a pretty clear indication of what happened.

Jack shook his head, a grin crossing his face. The warm glow of satisfaction built inside him, and he chuckled.

It’s just too bad, isn’t it, that “Poor Patrick” got the boot. A crying shame…

They both wanted the same thing, and only one man could get the prize.

Why should he feel sorry for the other man? Even a child could tell after seeing yesterday’s exchange that Kristen wasn’t attracted to him. Oh, sure, it was possible she was playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game, but Jack didn’t think it was the case. It didn’t seem likely that a woman with as much intelligence as Kristen would stoop to taking part in nonsensical romantic amusements.

The Battle of Beecher’s Island, back in the fall of ’68, hadn’t felt this strategic. Back then, he’d taken orders and done his best with them. When Colonel Forsyth said to take his Spencer Carbine and advance, he’d made certain he had nine shots in the rifle and moved forward with the rest of his contingent.

There had been a plan, of sorts, and a clear-cut view of the enemy. Hundreds of Cheyenne and Sioux warriors had stormed them, but they’d held their ground and won the battle. It had been no stretch of the imagination, knowing what to do and when to act. Instinct had been his best friend, his gut the compass by which he found direction. His rifle had saved his life. His wits had kept him alive until reinforcements arrived on the tiny spit of land. And his instinct had been to never, ever put himself in such peril again—not if he wanted to live to see old age.

Since meeting Kristen, he’d broken his own rule more than once. If he wasn’t putting himself between her and danger, he was contemplating doing so. And if he wasn’t thinking about her, he was consumed by yearning for the sight, sound—even the lavender scent—of her.

Jack had fallen hard for the sweet vixen, and he hated himself for it.

Theirs was a relationship doomed to failure before it even got its start. He knew that, but still his heart ignored logic.

Maybe it would be better to hand Kristen the ear bobs, thank her for her friendship and then just walk away from her. The coward’s way out, but his heart, and probably his dignity, might remain intact.

Who was he trying to kid? Kristen Marsh hadn’t even forgiven him for his childish behavior, and here he pondered how best to rid himself of his affliction for her?

Jack huffed a disgusted breath. Thank God, no one could read his mind.

Pulling himself from the trappings of his subconscious, he lengthened his stride. He had no idea where he was headed, but maybe if he walked with some sense of purpose his woman-softened brain might stop venturing into the realm of ridiculousness.

Then again, he might, with purpose, mind, walk right on over to that boardinghouse and see what Miss Kristen Marsh had planned for this afternoon.

Jack turned on his boot heel and switched directions. The idea of an afternoon stroll with Kristen appealed to him. He was, after all, human. And a man.

“Kristen, do you mind helping me just a mite with this stitching? I’ve been at it like a hound dog on a soup bone but I just ain’t—ah, aren’t?—” Julia sucked her lower lip between her teeth. She frowned, obviously at a loss.

So far she had only given one elocution and grammar lesson, but its effect was apparent.

“‘I’m not having success’…” she prompted.

Julia stopped worrying her lip, and smiled. “That’s it! I’m not having no success—”

Kristen interrupted gently. “
Any
success.”

“Oh, right. I’m not having any success with this here…ah, with this stitching.” She held her embroidery hoop out. Threads dangled from the fabric, waving like kite tails in a soft breeze. “See?”

Smiling, Kristen took the handwork. If the hanging threads were any hint at the condition of the sampler, it was going to take more than a “mite” of assistance to untangle!

Julia had completely missed the idea of creating tiny, almost hidden, knots to secure her stitches. The piece in the hoop was riddled with clumsy knots, uneven stitching and, when she turned it over to examine the backside, Kristen saw the thread dragged over large patches of bare fabric.

Julia reached out, as if to snatch the offensive piece of fabric back, but Kristen kept a firm grip on the hoop. She put her arm down by her side, and hid the handwork in the folds of her navy blue skirt.

She took a deep, cleansing breath and put one arm around her pupil’s shoulders. “We can fix this. There are a couple of steps I may not have been clear enough on, so I’m going to clarify a few things for you. Then, we will remove some of your stitches and I’ll show you how to redo them. I’m sure you’ll have the techniques down in no time.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do,” she replied with more conviction than she felt. The hoop felt heavy in her hand, a scrap of fabric filled with examples of all the things she had said not to do. If Kristen had wanted to create a hands-on rendering of just what she hoped her pupils would avoid, it would look exactly like the piece she held.

“I feel like I’m all thumbs with a needle and thread,” Julia confessed. She held out her right thumb for inspection. It was pinpricked all over, with tiny scabs on the top of some of the marks. The woman had bled over her handwork.

Kristen recognized the look of the thumb, having seen it on other handwork pupils. She had never struggled with stitching when she had been learning, at an age far younger than Julia’s, but she remembered other girls whose thumbs bore scars from the sharp tip of a stitching needle.

“There’s no shame in having difficulty learning a new craft, Julia. In fact, I love it that you’re asking for some extra help.”

“I’m willing to pay you for this,” Julia said quickly. “I don’t want you to work for nothing.”

“You mean, ‘Work without compensation.’”

“Right—without compensation.” When Julia smiled, her dimples showed. “Compensation sounds fancier than nothing, doesn’t it? Anyway, like I was saying, I don’t want you to think I want this special attention for—without compensating you. I don’t make it my business to dance for free, and that’s an awful lot easier to do than this stitching, so I sure don’t expect you to teach me on the side for—oh, without compensation.”

“I understand. But I don’t mind helping unravel your stitching, and the compensation will be watching you master the stitches. Now, let’s get to it.”

Leading Julia toward the empty parlor, Kristen put the thought of the walk she had been hoping to take out of her mind. For the next hour or so, Julia and her embroidery should take priority over her own wishes. Maybe afterward, though, there might still be time for a short stroll. She hoped so; there was someone she looked forward to—if she was fortunate—“accidentally” bumping into. It had happened before, it might happen again!

But first, Julia’s embroidery.

Chapter Twelve

“You’re just the man I was looking for.”

As much as Jack wanted his family’s deed back, and to quickly conclude his business with Brown, he wished the man hadn’t found what he was looking for. Leastways, not at this precise moment. Couldn’t the land grabber have waited for a better time?

Slowly, Jack turned toward the bank where Brown stood smiling from the front step.

“Is that so?” He took his time walking back to Brown. The banker must have seen Jack pass, probably through the glass window in his office, and come after him.

You weren’t here when I came by a second ago.
Must’ve crawled out from under your rock and into the sunshine.

His granny would have smacked him had she been privy to his unkind thoughts. But she wasn’t, so he was free to think what he wanted, when he wanted to think it. And now, dislike as thick as tar covered his feelings—and thoughts—regarding the frontier banker.

“It is.” Brown wore no overcoat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. The tanned forearms and wrists once again seemed out of place. How could a man so obviously accustomed to being outdoors stand to be cooped inside a musty old bank all day long? No amount of money could entice Jack to the job—especially when it involved swindling honest people.

He reminded himself why he had come to this middle-of-nowhere town. Randall Brown was a crook—and it irked Jack that the land thief stood smiling smugly down at him.

They couldn’t talk this way, not out in the open on the street like a pair of gunslingers. And standing ten inches lower than his opponent was out of the question.

Jack nodded toward the bank’s empty lot.

“How about we discuss matters beneath that…” He cast a dubious eye on the scraggly, forlorn elm tree. “…ah, that sorry little tree? I think it might throw enough shade for us to both stand out of the sun. Then again, maybe not.”

Without waiting to see if he was being followed, Jack walked to the tree. He removed his hat, ran his fingers through his damp curls, then placed the Stetson firmly back onto his head. If he had been back at his office at the mill, and about to begin a business conversation, he would have straightened his tie and shot his sleeves inside his jacket. But here, adjusting his hair and hat was as good as it got.

When he was done, he turned. Randall Brown stood right behind him. They were close but there was no help for it. The canopy of sun-scorched leaves was barely big enough for one man. Two was a squeeze.

A pulse throbbed in the banker’s temple.

Jack wondered if his adversary was excited—or nervous, perhaps? He hoped it was a combination of both. Nervous excitement sometimes threw men off, and gave their opponents the upper hand. Jack never minded having the upper hand—in any game, particularly one where the stakes were so high.

“Well?” Jack knew his attitude was surly but he didn’t care. A man who stole from widows and honest families didn’t deserve courtesy. “What drew you out of your—” He stopped himself before he said “hole”. Taking a deep breath, he finished, “office?”

“I told you, I wanted to see you.” Brown rocked back on his heels. His spurs dug crescent-shaped depressions in the dust behind his feet. He shrugged. “When I saw you walk by, I figured it’s as good a time as any to have a word. It’s not as if I hunted you down with a posse, Sterling. You were in plain sight, you know.”

“So I was.”

Although the other man’s words were genial, without even the slightest undertone of malice, Jack still didn’t trust him. How could he? Somewhere inside that bank building, in the vault most likely, hid the deed to his Kansas home. Even with Brown acting chummy, there was no way in heaven or…well, there was just no way at all he was going to let his guard drop.

He’d have sooner turned his back on a hungry black bear than on a smiling banker. It was another of his grandfather’s lessons he’d learned early; trust those who seem to be seeking approval the hardest the least. They were the ones, Granddad had admonished, who most often had an ulterior motive.

“Now that you’ve waylaid me, what’s on your mind?”

Brown chuckled. He didn’t wear a hat, so his eyes were unshaded and, as such, it was clear how much he was amused by Jack’s manner.

Amusement? It was nearly an insult. The hair on the nape of Jack’s neck rose, and his trigger finger formed a curl around his holster fastening. He’d killed men for less during the War. Who was he kidding? During the War he had killed because he’d been ordered to do so, or he had feared for his own life or the lives of innocent people. But wartime was over, and in this day of reason and somewhat peaceful times, any man could show amusement without having his head blown off.

Jack relaxed his hand, and in particular his finger. He grit his teeth and waited for the other man’s answer.

A mule brayed in the distance. Further off, the sound of a train whistle, mournful against the mundane sounds of Main Street.

“When we last spoke, you promised you would get what was rightfully yours back. Now, I don’t ever mind a man keeping what’s his. Why, it’s the American way, don’t you think? We all work hard for what we’ve got. We’ve got a right to keep what’s rightfully ours. Don’t you agree?”

Disagreeing would have been ridiculous. Jack agreed with every word out of Brown’s mouth—so far—so he nodded.

“I thought you might be a reasonable man.”

“I’m reasonable all right. Reasonable enough to want what’s mine returned to me.”

The banker paused. He and Jack locked gazes, standing so still and silent they looked carved of stone.

“I can understand that.” Brown shrugged, as if the matter was settled. “But I don’t see how that concerns me. Not one bit.”

“You’ve got the deed to my family’s place. I want it back.” A muscle worked in Jack’s jaw. His teeth closed tightly around every word as he fought the anger swirling within him. “I mean to get it, one way or another. You’ve got something that’s mine, and I have no intention of letting you keep it.”

“Well, that’s where you and I take different forks in the road, I’m afraid. I don’t believe I’ve got anything that belongs to you, or your family.”

Jack swallowed hard. Bile rose in his throat.

It took a hard man to steal, and then smile at the person he had stolen from.

“You’re denying you’ve got the Carroll Junction deed to the Sterling homestead? Is that what you’re saying?”

Randall Brown shook his head, but he didn’t look away. He stared into Jack’s eyes and said, “I don’t deny that I do. In fact, I checked and I’ve got the Sterling deed, as well as several others. All located in and around Carroll’s Junction, Kansas.”

The audacity of the man! “You admit it, then?”

“Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I admit I’ve got them? They are, after all, mine.”