Jake Walker's Wife (21 page)

And there was no denying the impact
Jake had had on her own life. He'd never come right out and told her how capable and efficient he believed her to be, yet she knew it's what he thought, for he showed his approval with smiles and the genuine respect that glowed in his eyes. Until Jake, she'd resigned herself to being a spinster. Like Old Martha Willis, who at eighty-one still cooked and cleaned for her younger siblings, Bess always believed she'd be caring for her brothers until they married and moved into homes of their own. And after that, she'd care for her father 'til he drew that last breath…or she died of loneliness. It made her grin, just thinking about the wedding dress she'd sketched one night when she couldn’t sleep. If Jake ever screwed up the courage to ask her to be his wife….

Bess sighed again, thinking of that awful m
an on the Baltimore dock, of the wanted poster. She'd slipped outside after her meeting with Ernest Shelby and, when no one was looking, untacked the poster from the board and stuffed it into her purse. Bess guessed she must have taken it out and looked at it a hundred times during the trip home. The black and white rendition of the murderer
did
bear an uncanny resemblance to Jake. The man in the picture had longer hair, wore muttonchops and a mustache, and there were no laugh lines beside his pouting mouth. But those eyes....Pale and slanting and darkly-lashed, they captured her attention in exactly the same thrilling-yet-terrifying way the timber wolf had all those years ago in Baltimore.

Once she’d unpacked her
bag, Bess separated petticoats and stockings in need of a good laundering from her dusty bonnets and boots. After stowing her valise in her chiffarobe, she emptied her purse and carried the wanted poster to her bed, holding it this way and that to catch the light. But no matter which way she looked at it, the drawing resembled Jake. She flipped onto her plump feather pillow and pressed the poster to her chest. It couldn’t be Jake, she thought, biting her lower lip. He simply couldn't be a thief and a murderer!

She thought of all the
many thoughtful things he'd done—none of which had been required of him as foreman—since coming to Beckley's Hollow. Eyes closed, she could almost hear the powerful tremolo of his masculine voice, floating over the yard as he sang, unaware that he had an audience of one. Could a man who sings like an angel really be a cold-blooded killer?

Bess
held the picture aloft, so that it seemed the man in the poster was looking at her in much the same way Jake had that day in the parlor. She stared long and hard into those wolfish icy eyes, at the firm set of that broad jaw and the grim line of his mouth. Even the slight rise of that well-arched left brow…exactly like Jake's....

She
hugged the poster again and fought the bitter tears that stung her eyes. Much as she hated to admit it, Jake did have a hot temper. And he had behaved mighty mysteriously on occasion. The incident on the Baltimore docks, for example. The Texan’s wild accusation and the similarity between Jake and this man in the wanted poster couldn’t be chalked up to coincidence. Not when added to that time she'd found him in her secret place, sobbing as he begged God to explain why He'd doomed Jake to a life spent looking over his shoulder.

Bess dried her eyes with the backs of her hands and all but leaped from the bed. Trembling with fear, she haphazardly folded the poster in half, in half again, and tucked into her apron pocket. Crossing the room in purposeful strides, she leaned close to the mirror above her dresser and pinched both journey-paled cheeks, then tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

"He can't be the man in the poster," she whispered to the miserable young woman in the looking glass, "can he?"Could she really have been so wrong about him? Were all his kindnesses merely a ruse to hide his true identity? If so, she was the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi.

Suddenly, fury replaced self-pity. Bess stood straight, threw back her shoulders, and marched toward the door. "There's only one way to find out,"
she steamed, flinging it open.

Bess charged down the stairs and through the foyer, pr
opelled by a full head of steam.

"Bess Beckley, where are you off to in such an all-fired hurry?"

The deep, resonant voice startled her, and Bess stifled a squeal. "Pa," she said, clutching her throat. "I didn't see you sitting there." As her heartbeat returned to normal, she studied her father's handsome, grey-bearded face. "All right," she said, standing near his chair, one hand on his shoulder, "out with it. What's wrong?"

He smiled a bit. "Nothing. I'm right as rain," was his quiet reply.

"Don't give me that. I’ve always been able to tell when there's something on your mind."

Micah only shook his head and stared across the lawn. "Remember the day your Mama planted those trees?" He nodded toward the clump of white birch just beyond the drive. "Everybody insisted they'd never grow in heavy soil, but Mary didn't believe them. Not for a minute."

Grinning, Bess knelt beside his rocker and lay her hands atop his. She, too, gazed at the clump of birches. "Ma always did have a mind of her own, didn't she?"

"'Deed she did." He faced his only daughter, took her hands in his. "I visited her grave this morning
."

"Oh, Pa," Bess interrupted. "Why didn't you tell me? I'd have gone with you. I know how upset it gets you to go there alone.
”

Gently pressing a calloused fingertip against her lips, he shushed her. "Do I look upset?"

She studied his face for the usual signs of distress...furrowed brow, trembling lips, tear-dampened eyes. It surprised her to see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, instead. "No, as a matter of fact, you look more like the cat that swallowed the canary."

He laughed softly, then stared off into space again. Shortly, Micah leaned forward, slid
his arms around Bess and drew her near. "How will I ever make it up to you, my sweet girl?"

Unfortunately, she knew exactly what he meant.

This wasn't the first time he'd apologized for years of emotional absence. Sometimes, she'd been tempted to say it was high time he realized what all his whining had put the boys through. But mostly, like now, Bess's love for her father made her want nothing but to see him smile. Bess rested her head on his shoulder. "There's nothing to make up for, Pa."

Micah kissed the top of her head. "Oh, but you're wrong. There's so much...." He inhaled deeply. "From the moment your mother left this world, you've been ma and pa to the boys. Been my lifeline, too. Wasn't fair of me, heaping all that on your shoulders. You were barely more than a child when
….” His voice trailed off. Then, "I'm ashamed of myself. I ought to have been there for you."

He got to his feet, and Bess
rose, too, she on the top step, Micah on the one below her. For the first time in a decade, father and daughter saw eye to eye."I was happy to help out, Pa."

One hand on each of her shoulders, he gave her a gentle squeeze. "
I know that. And in all these years, you never complained." Gray eyes misting, he gave Bess a little shake. "You're made of some mighty sturdy stuff, Bess m'girl. Why, I don't believe I ever saw you shed a tear."

She focused on birches that formed a giant white W beyond the drive, because if she allowed Micah to look into her eyes at that moment, he'd know in an instant that she
had
cried, thousands of tears, alone in her dark room during these ten, long years. He was right. It hadn't been easy being mother and father to the twins, confidant and caretaker to Micah, feeding the farm hands and balancing the ledgers while keeping up with housework and shopping and laundry. But she’d never tell him of the many nights she had cried herself to sleep, wondering where she'd find the strength to do it all again come morning, because without fail, her mother’s voice, gentle and reassuring, whispered in her mind, promising that tomorrow would be a better, brighter day. What could be gained from letting Micah know what his grief-induced weakness had done to his children? What possible good could come of admitting that his years of self-pity had robbed her of golden girlhood years? That time was gone, and she’d never get it back. And in truth, Bess didn’t want them back, because they’d made her a clear-minded woman who wasn’t ruled by childish dreams. That, Bess hoped, would help her cope with the truth about Jake.

"I was happy to do it, Pa," she repeated, shaking a forefinger under his nose, "and I don't want to discuss it, ever again." With that, Bess smiled brightly. "I
see that someone has hidden some lemons in the kitchen. Why don't you keep me company while I turn them into a pitcher of lemonade?"

Micah didn't respond to her invitation. Instead, he stood there, looking from her eyes to her hair, from her cheeks to her mouth, to her eyes again. And then he whispered, "Do you realize how much you look like your ma when you do that?"

His piercing gaze and intense tone surprised her, and Bess flinched almost as noticeably as when his voice startled her moments earlier. "When...when I do what?"

"When you throw back your shoulders and lift your chin that way
, as if you're prepared to take on a mighty enemy, single-handedly." Gently, he stroked her hair. "I'd hate to be that enemy, Bess m'girl." Winking, he added, "because you look determined to win."

Grinning, she kissed his cheek. "Well,
like Ma always said...."

"...'no sense doing anything half-way,'" they quoted in unison, laughing.

Micah held open the screen door. "We'll talk about your trip over supper. Right now, I'm more interested in hearing where you were headed in such an all-fired hurry a bit ago."

Bess stepped over the threshold and headed for the kitchen. She
’d tell him about her run-in at the bank, about her meeting with Shelby, but she wouldn't tell him—or anyone else, for that matter—what she suspected about Jake. Because if everything
had
been a strange coincidence, and he wasn’t W.C. Atwood, his life could be ruined forever. No, she’d confront him in private. And if her suspicions turned out to be facts? Well, she'd just cross that bridge when she came to it. "I was looking for Jake," she said, choosing her words carefully. "I wanted him to bring me up to date on...on the harvesting."

"Ah...." Nodding, Micah crossed both arms over his chest. "The harvesting. Yes. Of course."

"What does
that
mean?" she asked, turning to face him.

"It means
Jake has been mooning around here like a sick calf ever since you left. Every other word out of his mouth is 'Bess this' and ‘Bess that’. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you two look at each other when you think nobody's paying attention." Micah snickered. "I could do worse, I suppose, than to have—“

"Pa," she interrupted, "I haven't
the foggiest idea what you're talking about."

"
—a man like Jake for a son-in-law," he finished.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of it.
Son-in-law
. It had a magical, musical ring, because in order for Jake to be Micah's son-in-law, he'd have to be her husband. If her mother were still alive, she’d read Bess’s heart in an eyeblink. Fortunately, her father had been too wrapped up in his own misery to know that his daughter
had
secret thoughts, let alone try to decipher them. "For your information," she began, "Jake has no romantic designs on me." It was a boldfaced, blatant lie, but necessary—if not forgivable—until she forced a showdown about the wanted poster. "And I have no romantic notions about him, either." Bess turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen.

"Mmm-hmm," her father said, pocketing both hands as he followed her. "And the sun doesn't rise ever
y blessed morning...."

***

Long after she'd cleaned up their lemonade and cake snack, Bess thought about her father's pronouncement.
I wonder how eager he'd be to have Jake for a son-in-law if he'd seen that wanted poster!
She put washed-and-dried tumblers back onto their doilied shelf in the hutch, then hung the tea towel over the wooden dowel beside the sink.

She had procrastinated long enough. One way or another, she would have an answer to her question
s about Jake. And she’d have them by suppertime.

This time when she stepped into the bright sunshine, there was no head of steam propelling her, no righteous indignation urging her onward. Because
while she and her pa chatted over fresh-squeezed lemonade and honey biscuits, it occurred to her that if Jake admitted to being W.C. Atwood, she'd be forced to make a choice:

Stand with him...

...or stand apart.

As she neared the red-sided building, Bess heard the
familiar
chit-schr-r-ring, chit-schr-r-ring
that told her someone was in the loft, forking hay into a stall below. Hoping it was Jake, Bess took a deep breath and grabbed the rusting iron door handle. The hinges squealed mercilessly as she pulled the heavy wooden door and slipped through the narrow opening.

A bright shard of sunlight sliced across the board floor, broadening as it slanted into the darkened interior of the barn, and in its center, Bess saw her silhouette. For an instant, she stared at it, mouth agape
, at her shadow, for the daystar's gleam gave the illusion that her dress had a long, shadowy train, and the poster wadded in her left hand looked like a bouquet of posies. The breeze gave the door a gentle shove, and it creaked slowly shut, blotting out the sunlight...and the beautiful mirage on the barn floor. Swallowing, she shook her head. “Thanks, Pa,” she muttered. If it hadn’t been for all his talk of sons-in-law…. She looked up, fully prepared to call Jake’s name.