The Angel and the Outlaw (25 page)

“What’s a basketball?”

“It’s a big brown ball used to play games with.”

J.T. grunted softly. There were so many things about her time he didn’t know, would never know. So few days left to spend with her, to hold her, touch her, hear her voice, the sound of her laughter, his name on her lips.

“Brandy…”

“What?”

“I need you,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Now.”

She smiled up at him and batted her lashes. “Have I ever denied you anything?”

“I’m serious,” he growled.

“So am I,” Brandy replied softly, and taking him by the hand, she led him into the house, up the stairs, to their room.

After closing the curtains, she drew back the blankets on the bed, then began to unbutton J.T.’s shirt. Tossing the garment aside, she let her hands roam freely over his chest and shoulders. Such a nice chest, she mused, running her fingers through the light sprinkling of dark curly hair that arrowed down to his waist and disappeared beneath his trousers.

J.T. groaned softly as she removed his belt and began to unfasten his pants. He didn’t wear anything underneath.

“Here, let me take my boots off,” he said.

With a grin, she stepped away from the bed and he sat down on the edge of the mattress and pulled off his boots and socks, then removed his trousers.

“Don’t you feel a little over-dressed?” he asked, grinning up at her.

“No, I just feel fat.”

“Come here.”

She went to him willingly, running her hands over his broad shoulders as he drew her down beside him and began to undress her.

Her skin was warm and smooth, like satin kissed by the sun. Her hair was as black as ink, soft beneath his cheek. Her breasts were heavy in his hands, sweet to his lips as he kissed one and then the other, trying to imagine what it would be like to watch his son nurse at her breast. He ran his hands over the hard mound of her belly, felt the pressure of a tiny, exploring foot.

Only forty-five days left…

The words seemed to echo in his mind like a death knell as he caressed her with his hands and his lips until, at last, he joined his flesh with hers.

He kissed her then, felt the dampness of tears on her cheeks, and wondered if they were hers, or his.

Brandy stood at the window, watching J.T. paint the picket fence that surrounded the boardinghouse.

Their days had settled into a pleasant routine, with J.T. working during the day while she sewed baby clothes. Often, Leona Thomason joined her. Together, they had made a blue and pink quilt for the baby.

Sometimes, she went shopping with Leona. Their landlady’s gruff exterior disguised a heart as soft as butter and after the first week, she had handed J.T. an envelope, declaring that he deserved to be paid for his hard work. She had lowered their rent, as well, her cheeks flushing when she admitted that she only charged her other boarder four bits a day.

Often, in the evening, J.T. took her for a stroll through town. One Sunday morning, he even took her to church. Brandy smiled with the memory. He had looked downright uncomfortable when the preacher started talking about the wages of sin, but she’d seen a look of hope in his eyes when the reverend went on to talk about forgiveness.

With a sigh, she pressed a hand to her back. Sometimes she forgot that they weren’t here to stay, that J.T. had a date with destiny. What would she do without him? It wasn’t fair, she thought hopelessly. It just wasn’t fair. Time was going by so fast, she wished she could rope it and make it stand still. Another three months, and the baby would be born. She contemplated the event with mixed emotions. She could hardly wait to see J.T.’s son, and yet, by the time her child was born, J.T. would be gone.

She felt the tears well in her eyes and blinked them back. She’d have plenty of time to cry later.

“You feelin’ all right?”

Brandy glanced over her shoulder and smiled at Leona Thomason. “Fine. My back hurts now and then.”

Leona Thomason nodded. “I remember. Come here and sit down, and I’ll rub it for you.”

“Oh, no,” Brandy said. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

Leona Thomason made a gesture of dismissal with her hand. “Don’t argue with me, girl.”

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, Brandy sat down on a footstool, her head bent forward, while the older woman rubbed her back and shoulders.

“Hmmm,” Brandy said, “that does feel good.”

“I remember my Henry doing this for me. We had four young’uns. Three girls and a boy.”

“What a nice family,” Brandy remarked. “Do you see them often?”

“No. My girls all got married and moved away. My boy died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. My little Henry Junior was the prettiest baby you ever did see. He died of the pneumonia when he was just three. Ain’t nothing like having a baby. Holdin’ that little child in your arms, knowing you’re the most important thing in its life.”

“Is it…does it hurt very much, having a baby?”

“Well, now, that depends. Some women don’t seem to have any trouble at all, while others labor for days. I don’t reckon you’ll have too much trouble. You got nice hips for child-bearin’.”

She ran her hands over Brandy’s back one last time. “How’s that feel now?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“You been married long?”

“No. Less than a year.”

“That man treat you all right?”

“J.T.? Yes.”

Leona Thomason grunted softly. “I’ve got bread raisin’ in the kitchen. You sit there and put your feet up, and I’ll bring you a nice glass of lemonade.”

“Would you mind fixing a glass for Mr. Cutter?”

“No, I don’t mind. He’s a good worker.”

The words, “for an Injun” seemed to hover in the air. Mrs. Thomason made no bones of the fact that she didn’t have any use for Indians, but Brandy suspected the woman was growing fond of J.T. in spite of her continued gruffness.

She thanked Leona for the lemonade, then carried the glasses outside.

“Hey, there,” she called. “You ready for a break?”

J.T. put the paint brush down and wiped his hands on his trousers. “I hope one of those are for me.”

“Both, if you want,” Brandy said, handing him one of the drinks.

J.T. drained the glass in three long swallows, then put it aside. “Thanks.”

“Leona made it.”

J.T. grunted. “Mine’s probably poisoned.”

“I think she likes you, J.T..”

“Yeah? She’s got a funny way of showing it. Every time I go into the dining room, I expect her to hide the silver.”

“She rubbed my back for me today.”

“She did?”

“Uh-huh. Did you know she has three married daughters? And that she had a little boy who died when he was just three years old?”

“Sounds like you two are getting pretty friendly.”

“I think she’s lonesome.”

“Like you?”

“I’m not lonesome. I’ve got you.”

But for how long?
J.T. thought, and when he met Brandy’s gaze, he knew she was thinking the same thing.

Taking the empty glass from her hand, he put it next to his on the ground, then took her hand in his. Such a small hand, he mused. Her fingers were long and delicate. Graceful. Gentle.

He took a deep breath. “I think we should leave for Cedar Ridge next week.”

“So soon?”

“Yeah. I want to see you settled somewhere soon, before…” He cleared his throat. “Before it’s unsafe for you to travel.”

“We could stay here.”

“No. I’m taking you back to Cedar Ridge.”

“But…”

“No buts. That’s where this all started, and that’s where it’s gotta end. You know I’m right.”

She wanted to argue. She wanted to curse Fate. She wanted to beg J.T. to find a way to stay with her forever. But she knew that saying those things would only make him feel worse because she knew he wanted to stay. It wasn’t his fault that he had to leave her, that he had no control over his future.

With a sigh, she stepped into his arms and rested her head on his chest. “I’ll do whatever you think is best, J.T..”

“Next week, then, if the weather stays clear.”

“Next week,” Brandy repeated quietly, and knew it was the beginning of the end.

During the next week, Brandy turned every moment into a memory. She woke up in the middle of the night and memorized the way J.T. looked when he was asleep. She ran her hands over his body and through his hair, imprinting feelings and textures on her mind. She fervently wished for a camcorder so she could capture J.T.’s image on tape. What a wonderful gift that would have been for their son, to be able to see what his father had looked like, to be able to hear his voice!

Barring that, she found a piece of paper and wrote down J.T.’s description, noting the color of his hair and eyes, the scar on the back of his left hand. She wrote down how they had met, and everything she could remember about his mother and father and grandmother. She put the pretty little fox he had carved for her into a box, along with their Indian clothing and moccasins. And when that was done, she wrote about the time they had spent with the Crow and the Lakota.

J.T. walked in on her one afternoon when she was writing about Wicasa Tankala and Chatawinna.

“What are you doing?” he asked, peering over her shoulder.

“I’m writing a diary.”

“A diary? For what?”

“I want to write everything down while it’s fresh in my mind, so I don’t forget. I thought our son would like to have it someday.”

J.T. nodded. Going to the dresser, he opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the rattle his grandmother had given him.

“Here,” he said, “give this to my son when he’s old enough to understand what it means.”

Brandy held the rattle close to her heart, knowing how much it meant to J.T., how painful it must be for him to give it up. “I will.”

“We’re leaving in the morning,” he said.

Brandy nodded. She was going to miss this place. She was even going to miss their landlady. “I’ll be ready.”

Leona Thomason shook J.T.’s hand. “Take good care of that girl,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, I will.”

A faint smile curved Leona Thomason’s mouth. “You surprised me, John Shayne. When I took you in, I fully expected you to rob me blind.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know you did.”

“Take care of yourself.” Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a small leather pouch. “Here, take this. You earned it.”

J.T. shook his head. “You’ve done enough already.”

“Don’t argue with me, young man. You’re gonna need a few dollars to tide you over until you get settled, so you just swallow your pride and take it.”

“I’m much obliged, Mrs. Thomason.”

“All I ask is that you let me know when the baby’s born.”

With a nod, J.T. stepped back so Brandy and Leona could say their goodbyes. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard to leave Copper Flats, or Leona Thomason. In the few short weeks since they’d been here, he had learned what his life could have been like. For the first time, he had lived in a town where he thought he might have been happy, where he might have been able to settle down and make a home for himself and Brandy. No one in Copper Flats seemed to hold his Indian blood against him. Some of the townspeople had eyed him warily at first, a few had snubbed him outright, but for the most part, the people had made him feel welcome. He wondered if the resentment, the fear, the derision he’d always felt in the past had been of his own making. He saw the tears in Brandy’s eyes as he lifted her onto the back of her horse, and he cussed himself for being the cause of those tears. No doubt she’d have reason to shed many more before he was out of her life for good.

Jaw clenched, he swung aboard his own horse and headed out of town. It was March twenty-first. He had twenty days left; twenty days to get Brandy to Cedar Ridge and get her settled into a room somewhere.

His hand curled over the leather pouch in his pocket. Twenty days to make a stake so she’d have enough money to live on until after the baby was born.

J.T. cursed softly. He knew two or three sure-fire ways to get his hands on a lot of money in a hurry, but he was damn sure Gideon wouldn’t approve of any of them.

* * * * *

They made camp that night in a small thicket near a quiet stream. After dinner, J.T. drew Brandy into his arms, his eyes closed as he let himself absorb her nearness, imprinting every detail in his mind, the way she felt in his arms, the way the firelight danced in her hair, the way she sighed, soft and contented, when he held her close.

“I’m going to miss Leona,” Brandy remarked after a while.

“Yeah,” J.T. replied. “Me, too. Tell me about your life in Cedar Ridge, Brandy. All this time we’ve been together, and I really don’t know much about you.”

“I teach school, like I told you. Third grade. I have a big old ranch-style house on the outskirts of town.” Brandy paused, wondering if her folks had sold her house and her truck, wondering what had become of her horse and the goat and the lamb, her two dogs, the chickens, the countless cats and kittens.

“What you do when you’re not teaching?”

Brandy shrugged. “Not much. I like to read and go to the movies. I like to go horseback riding. I have a pretty little Morgan mare named Athena. And a lamb named Mary, and a goat named Ichabod. And two dogs named Pat and Mike.”

“A real animal lover, hmmm?”

“Guilty as charged. I’ve got a bunch of chickens, too, and more cats than you can shake a stick at.”

“What do you do when you’re not teaching, and you’re not looking after a yard full of critters?”

“I started refinishing an antique chest of drawers. This summer I was going to see my folks during summer vacation…”

“Guess I sort of put a crimp in your plans.”

“I don’t mind.” She forced a smile. “I’ll just think of this as an extended vacation, sort of like a trip to a dude ranch.”

“A what?”

“A dude ranch. It’s a place where people go to pretend they’re cowboys.”

“Why would anyone want to do that? Being a cowhand is a rough life, and sure doesn’t pay much. Hell, a cowboy’s lucky if he makes a dollar a day.”

“Well, it’s been glamorized in the movies. Cowboys and gunfighters have become legendary. Hollywood used to make a lot of movies about Wild Bill Hickok and Jesse James and Wyatt Earp.”

“Yeah? I met Hickok once.”

“Really? When? Where?”

“Three, four years ago in Abilene.” J.T. frowned. “It was April or May, as I recall. He’d just been appointed marshal. I met Earp a couple of times, too, in different places.”

For the first time, it occurred to Brandy that these famous men were still alive, that if she didn’t make it back home, she could go to Dodge City or Abilene and watch history unfold.

Brow furrowed, she tried to recall what she knew of Wyatt Earp. In 1875, he’d been a lawman in Wichita, Kansas; the following year,
this
year, she thought with a shake of her head, he’d be a deputy sheriff in Dodge City, along with Bat Masterson.

“Wyatt Earp lived to be an old man,” Brandy said. “He died in Los Angeles in 1929.”