Sweetwater (43 page)

“Get your hands off my woman, brother.” Trell held out his hand to Jenny and she went to him. “Honey, I want you to meet Marshal Cleve Stark and Dillon Tallman.”

“How do you do, gentlemen?” She extended her hand. “Welcome to Stoney Creek.”

Trell held her hand tightly and gave it a little squeeze because he knew what he was going to say would be a shock.

“The marshal tells me that Havelshell’s house burned down last night. They believe that he died in the fire.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. She looked searchingly into his eyes for a long moment. Her face was a mask of uncertainty. Finally she spoke in raspy whisper.

“Oh … Trell, how can they think that—”

“Sit down.” He tugged on her hand and she sat down beside him. “They found a couple things in the ashes that make Cleve think he died in the fire.”

“Have you—?”

“No.”

“I couldn’t bear it if something happened to—”

“We can let it ride if you want.”

“What should we do?”

“You must decide.”

“We’d be taking a chance.”

“Not as much as you think, sweetheart.”

It was deathly quiet in the room. The three men watched the two seated on the bed and listened to their whispered conversation. Something serious was being discussed by the two who seemed to be thinking with one mind.

“I thought we’d decided—” Jenny said and leaned her forehead against his upper arm.

“Things are changed now. Cleve is a reasonable man.”

“Shouldn’t I ask Whit first?”

“He’s proud and will deny nothing.”

“I know. I wanted to say I did it,” Jenny whispered, then looked up at the marshal, her eyes swimming in tears.

“Mr. Havelshell didn’t die in the fire. He died here, this morning. He had me on the ground, tied up, and was attempting to carry me off. A young Indian boy killed him.” Now that the words were out she wished that she could take them back.

“Well, now—” Cleve sat down in a chair. Travor and Dillon squatted on their heels. Holding tightly to Trell’s hand, Jenny batted the tears from her eyes, lifted her chin and began to talk.

“When I reached the school, it had just started to rain—”

She spoke quietly, blaming herself for being so gullible as to allow the agent to entice her into the woods where he said that he would give her papers proving the Reverend Longfellow was stealing from the Indians. She told of his asking her to go away with him and how, at her refusal, he had thrown her to the ground, tied her up, and begun to beat her.

“I was beginning to black out when Whit ran out of the woods and jumped on his back. Mr. Havelshell would have killed me. He would have killed Whit if he could. Whit is just a boy. A proud, intelligent Indian boy. He risked his life to save mine.” Jenny’s eyes were free of tears now; and when she looked at the marshal, they were bright with resolve. “I will use every dollar I have. I will call on every person of influence I know. I will go the Supreme Court if necessary to keep that boy from being punished for what he did.”

“Well now,” Cleve said again. He looked out the door and rubbed his chin. “There’s no need a that. But the boy bein’ a Indian—”

“—His father was Mr. Walt Whitaker who owned this ranch. Mr. Havelshell would not let him off the reservation even to come here to the home where he was born. I have reported that to the Indian Bureau in Washington.”

“Some folks would think that reason enough to kill the agent.”

“Some folks have such a low opinion of themselves they have to have someone to step on in order to elevate themselves,” Jenny said heatedly, and waited for the marshal to say what he intended to do.

“Without a body, there’s not much use in draggin’ this out in the open. I’m thinkin’ the boy knows where to put it so it won’t be found.”

“Ike—?” Jenny turned to speak to the old man squatting with his back to the wall.

Ike snorted. “It’d be like lookin’ for a flea on a buffalo.”

“Well, now—” Cleve said for the third time. “Folks think Havelshell burned up in the fire. I’ve not seen anything to make me think different.”

It was quiet for half a minute, then Jenny let out a little cry.

“Thank you. Oh, thank you!”

“Don’t need to be thankin’ me, ma’am. At times ya have to call ’em as ya see ’em. I can’t see draggin’ the boy before a judge.”

“It’s called frontier justice, honey,” Trell said. “Folks out here in the West use what we call horse sense in handling things. Cleve is going to look over the papers in Havelshell’s satchel—and see how Longfellow fits into all this.”

Hopping on one foot and with the help of Travor and Dillon, Trell came to the supper table. Jenny met him at the door with smiles of welcome. She had planned to change into something soft and pretty but decided not to when she saw that Colleen had put on the rather shabby, faded dress she had worn the day they went to town.

Travor’s face lit up like a full moon when he saw her. Her suntanned face reddened when he continued to look at her.

“Did ya ever see a prettier gal, Dillon?”

“Can’t say as I have. Ma’am, ya got this fish caught hook, line and sinker.” Dillon’s boyish good looks and his cheerful disposition had not been lost on Cassandra. She watched him with interest.

Thanks to Walt Whitaker who had purchased the large table long ago, they were all able to sit down at once. Granny fried the catfish and even bragged about Ike by saying that he could fish even if he wasn’t good for anything else.

In the general conversation, Marshal Stark said he planned to ride over to the Agency headquarters the next morning. Now that the agent was gone, he was the only government official in the area. He would have to find someone to take charge until the Indian Bureau sent another agent.

“You go on out there, boss. I’ll stay here.” Dillon’s teasing eyes went from Jenny to Colleen.

“Take him with you, Cleve,” Trell said laughingly. “I might have to crack his head with my walkin’ stick.”

“You fellers have all the luck,” Dillon exclaimed. “Cleve, how’s it that we never can find us two sightly-lookin’ women with a granny that cooks vittles better’n any we’ve had at Delmonico’s?”

“What’s that, Granny?” Beatrice’s clear, childish voice filled the silence while Cleve was trying to think of something to say.

“A fancy restaurant,” Cassandra whispered, then turned her eyes to Dillon. “How come you’re not married, Dillon? You’re not bad-lookin’ and you’re old enough.”

Jenny looked at the ceiling. How would these men view her sister—calling them by their first names, asking personal questions? She needn’t have worried. Dillon was not in the least offended.

“Well, now, Miss Pretty Little Puss, I do thank ya for the ‘not bad-looking’ part. You see if I’d a picked just one gal outta the bunch I had to choose from, the rest of them would have jumped in the river. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.”

Cleve snorted and murmured. “The kid’s windy as a cyclone. Don’t get it from his pa or his ma, that’s sure.”

“Tell her, Cleve. Tell her about how ya got to carry that big old club to keep the girls off me when we go into a town.”

“Dillon! You’re as full of hockey as a young robin.”

“Cassandra!” Jenny was mortified.

Trell smiled broadly despite the soreness. Cleve’s weathered face broke into a grin. All around the table there were smiles.

“Don’t get in a snit, Virginia. Ike says that all the time, only he doesn’t say … hockey!”

Jenny glared at Ike. His nose was about three inches from his plate, and his shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

“Ike is going to get his mouth washed out with soap … along with yours,” Jenny said sternly.

“Makes sense to me,” Travor said, hoping to ease Jenny’s embarrassment. “Not about the soap. About the pretty girls. I had the same problem once when—Ouch! Who kicked me?”

The only thing that would have made Jenny happier would have been to have Whit with them. He had said that he wouldn’t be back today. As soon as he returned, she would bring him to meet the marshal. It was time Whit learned that there were many more good white men than there were bad.

Travor waited impatiently for Colleen, Jenny and Cassandra to clear the table and wash the dishes. The men moved to the end of the table and Colleen filled their coffee cups. He listened with only half an ear to the conversation, his eyes following Colleen’s every move.

As soon as the last dish was put away and the wet towels hung to dry, Travor went to Colleen. He looked over her head to Granny and lifted his brows. The old woman nodded, her eyes twinkling. He took Colleen’s arm and propelled her out the door.

“I ain’t knowin’ much about manners, Trav McCall, but I know ya ain’t usin’ any,” Colleen sputtered as soon as the door closed behind them. “Hmm—”

Travor’s mouth covered hers with a hunger that silenced her, forcing her lips to open beneath his. One hand moved up to hold her neck in a viselike grip, tilting her head so that she could not escape his passionate kiss.

“I … asked Granny.”

“Did not.” It was all she had time to say.

“I used every ounce of patience I had while I waited for this,” he murmured huskily when he moved his mouth a fraction from hers.

They strained together, hearts beating wildly, and kissed as lovers long separated. His hands roamed from her shoulders to her hips and up and under her hair to the nape of her neck.

“Darlin’, darlin’—” His lips moved over her cheeks. “I swear I don’t know what’s happenin’ to me.”

Colleen laughed, a sound that came out throaty and shaky.

“It can’t be that yo’re hungry. Ya packed away a heap of supper.”

“I
am
hungry, sweetheart. I’m so damned hungry for ya—I can’t hide it.” He moved her hand down briefly over his hardened sex.

“Trav, I know what yo’re hungry for. I know what goes on ’tween a man and a woman.” She tilted her head to look at him. “Papa used to say, ‘Run along, darlin’, and stay with Granny. Me and yore mama are goin’ to love each other.’” Her hand bracketed his jaws. “I don’t remember when it come to me what they were doin’. A youngun that likes animals … just knows.”

Travor’s eyes roved over her upturned face. He inhaled a deep, shaky breath.

“Are ya shocked? Granny says
nice
girls don’t know about such, and if they do they don’t talk about it.” She bit her bottom lip, her eyes anxious on his face.

“Thank God!” he said softly.

“Travor—” Her voice came shaky. “What’a ya mean?”

“Sweetheart, I was thankin’ God, I found ya. I’ve been around a lot of women. Some were brazen, some pretended to be so nasty nice, some so … dumb that they think they’ll get a baby if ya kiss ’em. None of them were as honest and sweet as you.”

“I’ve not ever … ever—Don’t think that!”

“I don’t think that, honey. I’m just so proud ya can talk to me about it. I want us to tell each other ever’thing.”

He lifted her arms up and over his shoulders so that she could wrap them around his neck. He devoured her mouth while his hands slid down to her buttocks, pressing their shifting muscles as he held her firmly against him until neither of them seemed able to strain close enough to the other.

The back door opened. Ike’s voice, thankin’ Granny for the supper, came to them. They moved as one around the corner of the house. Travor leaned against the wall, holding her firmly between his spread legs. His hand moved up to stroke her breast, his lips nuzzled her neck.

“There’s a preacher in Forest City. Trell asked Ike to go ask him to come here.”

“We don’t have to wait.” Her words were nearly unrecognizable, spoken as they were when he pressed his mouth again to hers.

His hands on her buttocks moved her hips in circles, pulling her tightly against his arousal and rocking her back and forth.

“I can … wait.” An almost pained sound came raspily from his throat as his mouth left hers and fastened on the soft skin on the side of her neck. “I
want
to wait until I can have you all night long, love you all night long, make it somethin’ for us to remember … when we’re old.”

He moved her away from him.

“Let’s walk, sweetheart. I want ya to tell me ever’thin’ ya’ve done ever’ day of yore life.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

The morning was bright and clear, but it went unnoticed by Pud and Linus as they stood on the porch of the store and watched the Reverend Longfellow’s buggy approach.

“What’s he back so soon for?” Linus growled.

“Arvella said he was bringin’ out a girl, but there ain’t nobody with him.”

“He’s got no rider with him, either. I’ll wait and take the buggy so ya can stay by Arvella. He’ll tear her up.”

“Bein’ loose from Alvin just this little while has give Arvella a little backbone. When I told her that her pa was coming, she just sat there. She didn’t even jump up and start cookin’ like she usually does.”

As the buggy approached, Pud could see that the horse pulling it was lathered. The misuse of a good horse riled him as much as cruelty to a man. A few yards from the porch, the tired animal was jerked to a stop so suddenly that the buggy rocked. The horse stood with bowed head, its sides heaving. The preacher bounced down.

“That horse isn’t worth the bullet it would take to blow its brains out. Get another horse and hitch it up. I won’t be here long.” He turned to walk up the steps to the porch.

“The horses here are hardly halter-broke,” Pud said. “We don’t have none that are broke to hitch.”

“Didn’t you bring that sorrel mare of yours out here? Hitch her up and be quick about it.”

“I ain’t doin’ that.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I won’t hitch my mare to your buggy.”

“Hitch her to my buggy or get the hell out of here.” Longfellow glowered at the defiant man, who looked steadily back at him, then stomped across the porch to the door.

Before he followed Longfellow into the store, Pud told Linus to walk the horse to cool it, then rub it down and water it sparingly. He had promised Arvella he would stay nearby while her father was there, and he intended to keep the promise.

“Get up, you fat cow,” Longfellow bellowed as soon as he entered the living quarters. “Get some things together. You’re goin’ back to town.”