Jake Walker's Wife (24 page)

L
ike the child whose fear of the dark abates with the morning light, the passing time has a way of easing a man's fears, and he'd headed straight back to Lubbock after the altercation on the dock. Half the reward money was better than no money at all. Let the sheriff puzzle out a way to get Johnson back to Texas.
Then it’ll be Carter’s bones they bury out behind Calvary Baptist, whilst I count the cash
.

Bravado now fully intact, Yonker scowled as he tucked a brand new box of shotgun shells into his rucksack.
When are you gonna learn to keep your big mouth shut?
he asked himself, slamming a fist into his open palm and cursing his own stupidity for having tipped Carter off.

Yonker rubbed his jaw and remembered how, after Atwood's powerful punch, it had ached for
days. The wanted poster said “Dead or Alive.”
He'd
rather be dead than admit what the thought of another beating from Atwood. Why risk it when he could take the fugitive down with one well-placed bullet, fired from a safe distance? Wouldn’t make a whit of difference to Horace’s widow if Atwood died at the end of a rope or at the business end of a shotgun.
Dead's dead!

His strategy was simple: Find Foggy Bottom
. Find Atwood…and kill him.

Yonker peered down the muzzle of his double-
barreled shotgun. Could use oilin', he thought. Then again, why bother, when it would only take one shot.

With a satisfied smirk, he snapped the breach shut. "You can run, W.C.," he said, patting the shoulder pouch that held the shells, "but you can't hide...."

***

The telegram arrived the evening after
Bess found him in the hayloft. Jake knew instantly that the message was bad news. What else could it mean, since only one man knew what name he'd been using since coming to Baltimore?

His heart clenched wit
h dread as he admitted that deputy-turned-merchant marine-turned-bounty hunter, Forrest Yonker knew....

Jake
accepted the envelope from the boy on the pony and handed up one silver dime. "Gosh, thanks, Mister," the boy said, grinning at the generous tip.

But
Jake didn't hear him, for he'd already headed for the porch. Slumped in one of the twin rockers that flanked the wide, oak doors, he read the name on the envelope. WALKER, it said, and nothing more. Heart hammering with fear and dread, he tore it open and read:

CARTER AND YONKER HEADED EAST
--STOP—
PURDY.

For as long as
Jake could recall, Joe Purdy had been Lubbock's resident vagrant. Most of the time, the man had been too drunk to do much of anything useful, but he'd managed to sober up just often enough to push his big boar-bristled broom around town and earn some cash to buy his next bottle.

Once, the old sot saved
Jake from his uncle's wrath by putting himself between the man and the boy. Why Joe had deliberately accepted the lash of Josh's meaty leather belt in his stead, Jake had never quite figured out, but the action earned Joe a place in his heart.

Between the ages of twelve and fifteen, he shared school lunches with the man. From the time
Jake finished school 'til the day he left Lubbock for good, as Joe slept off his latest binge, Jake replaced soured shirts and socks with the ones he'd secreted away the week before and washed down at the creek. It had given him a certain satisfaction, believing Joe didn't have a clue who was responsible for the acts of charity. But on the night of Horace Pickett's murder, he learned differently:

"I know you, boy," Joe whispered through the barred jailhouse window. "Anybody who treats a good-for-nothin' drunk the way you've treated me all these years ain't no killer!"

Later, when he arrived safely in Acapulco, Jake had sent a telegram to the only person who seemed to give a damn about him:
SAFE, SOUTH OF THE BORDER--
STOP
--HOPE YOU'RE CHANGING YOUR SOCKS.

Every town after that, he'd sent a similar bulletin.
Joe had never taken very good care of himself. For all Jake knew, he'd been communicating with a dead man all these years. Still, in every new town, he'd plunk down his hard-earned coins to get a message to old Joe Purdy, because it felt good, believing that someone,
somewhere,
knew where he was....

Now,
Jake said a quick prayer of thanks. Not only did this prove his old friend was indeed alive, he’d probably spent the cost of a bottle of cheap rye to send the telegram.

Sheriff Chuck Carter had never been one of
Jake's favorite people, but he was an honest man who took his job seriously. He hadn't shackled Jake to the jailhouse wall ten years earlier because of a personal vendetta. Rather, he'd done it because according to the letter of the law, it had been the right thing to do. Jake would much rather have Carter on his trail than Yonker. At least with the sheriff, he'd get a fair shake.

Jake
folded Joe's message in half, in half again, and slid it into his shirt pocket. Then, to ensure it couldn't slip out and fall into the wrong hands, he buttoned the pocket's flap.

With grim determination, he set his jaw.

He'd known since walking away from that overturned wagon in the Texas desert that the day of reckoning would eventually dawn. Jake took a deep breath and surveyed the horizon, possibly his last chance to enjoy the beauty and tranquility that was Foggy Bottom.

He rose on shaky legs and headed for the bunkhouse
, where he'd pack his meager possessions. Then he’d saddle Mamie—a Christmas gift from Micah—and head north, into Canada.

But first, he had a message of his own to write....

***

She'd dreamed of rose bouquets and long flowing veils and ruffled white dresses. He hadn't come to dinner
after their moments in the loft, but then, Bess hadn’t been surprised. Jake had always been a bit remote and distant, particularly when folks got too close.

For the second day in a row, she made all his favorite things for breakfast: eggs and thick-sliced ham, jam and bread, fried potatoes, and honey b
iscuits. She'd brewed the coffee extra strong, just the way he liked it, and added a dash of pepper to the biscuit batter, because she'd so often seen him spice them up at the table.

Bess had never minded the womanly chores that involved caring for the men of Foggy Bottom
, but she'd never enjoyed it quite so much as when she prepared the food that would sustain Jake throughout his long, hard day. The Widow Rennick had certainly been on-target when she'd said “When the right man comes along, you'll know!”

Bess whistled as she set the dining room table, hummed as she
lined it with big steaming bowls of food. By the time she stepped onto the porch to ring the bell, Bess felt like singing. She knew the male mind well enough to understand that terms of endearment—and commitment—were difficult to speak. But it didn’t matter, because Jake had
shown
her how he felt. Someday, he’d say those three, wonderful words again, and next time, it wouldn’t be an accident that she heard them. For now,
patience
was the operative word....

She rang the breakfast bell, and one by one, the men filed into the dining room. Plates began to fill as serving platters were passed up and down the long, narrow table. How could
Jake miss yet another meal, she wondered, and continue the hard pace he demanded of himself?

Once the hired hands had everything they needed, Bess strode determinedly into the kitchen, flung her apron onto the table and slipped quietly out the back door, carrying the plate she'd fixed him. She
aimed to deliver it to the bunkhouse, and didn't intend to leave until she'd watched him eat every last bite. When Bess knocked on the door, she heard the sounds of chair legs scraping across the wood floor.

"Who's there?" he called.

"I've brought you breakfast."

Silence.

Then, "I'm not hungry."

But how could that be? He hadn't
eaten a real meal since breakfast, two days earlier. "Jake Walker," she scolded, "I'm going to count to five, and then I'm coming in. So you'd better make yourself presentable."

She tapped her foot on the flagstone walkway outside the bunkhouse. "One, two, three," she said, her free hand on the tarnished brass doorknob, "four, five!"

Ordinarily, she did not enter the men's quarters except to change their bed linens and mop the floor, and only then, while they were at work in the fields. She believed they deserved as much privacy as this crowded, eight-bed space would allow. It felt odd to be inside while the men were still within shouting distance. Felt odder still to be there with one of them present.

"I told you," he
growled, standing when she entered the room, "I'm not hungry."

"Well, you don't have to get all uppity about it. I
thought you might enjoy a nice hot meal, since you haven't eaten in so long."

Jake
couldn't take another minute of watching her lovely face, pinched by the hurt his harsh tone had caused. Couldn't take another minute of listening as she struggled not to cry. He crossed the room in three long strides, but stopped short of where she stood. He pocketed both hands and stared at the toes of his boots. "Didn't mean to bark at you," he said softly.

When she'd knocked, he'd been sitting at the rickety old desk, trying to explain why he had to leave her. Six sheets of paper, wadded up and tossed into the corner, proved how inadequate words could be at a time like this.

A time like this....

As he'd sat there, trying to pen his goodbye, he found himself
knuckling his eyes. What would Matt and Mark have thought if they'd seen him, snuffling like an old crone as he tried to write the note that would allow him to sneak away without having to face her, directly?

She continued to stand there, napkin-covered plate balanced on one hand, the other fisted on her shapely hip, blinking back tears of her own. He could tell by the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her jaw that she sensed he'd started construction on a wall that would separate them
. The quivering of her full lips told him she had no idea
why
.

If only he could tell her everything
! If he could set the record straight, maybe she'd understand why he couldn't stay. Maybe then she'd realize that if he didn't go, she and Micah and the twins and everybody associated with the farm would face the same danger he'd been running from all these years. If only he could explain that his love for her was why he had to go.

He closed his eyes
to the 'if onlys' and steeled himself to do what he must. For Bess, the truth would set her every way
but
free.

Jake
took the plate from her, placed it on the corner of the desk, then took the hand that had held it. Her fingers were still warm from the heat of the food, and he stroked her palm, knowing it would probably be the last time he'd touch her. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Dear God, but life can be hard
.

"
Jake...what's wrong?"

If he looked into her face, into that trusting, open face, he'd lose the last vestig
es of self-control.

She
pressed both hands to his cheeks. "I dreamt of you last night," she said, her voice whisper-soft and sweet as fresh-pulled taffy.

He couldn’t,
wouldn’t
admit that he’d dreamed of her, too.

Bess tilted her head, tucked in one corner of her mouth. "You aren't ill, are you? Not that I'd be surprised, the way you've been skipping meals...." She pressed her palm to his brow, then frowned. After a moment, she took a step closer and linked her fingers behind his neck, drew him near and kissed his forehead. "
Mama used to say that’s a foolproof way to tell if someone has a fever. The lips are far more sensitive than the hands, you see…."

He should
send her away, so he could finish writing the letter. So he could pack, and hit the road. The best way, he knew, was to admit he would leave. Today. But as long as she stood, boring into him with those big frightened
eyes
of hers, he'd never get the words out. She knew something awful was about to happen, yet there she stood, shoulders back, prepared to take it on the chin.

"Your breakfast is getting cold."

He heard the tremor in her voice, and felt like a heel for being the one who had put it there. "I'm—“

"
—not hungry,” she snapped. “So you said."

Jake
drove a hand through his hair, nodded toward the plate. "Thanks for thinking of me, though. It was mighty sweet of you to—“

With no warning, Bess threw herself into his arms. "Oh,
Jake. It's all right. Everything is going to be all right. Whatever it is, we can work it out,
together
." She looked up at him. "Because...because I love you, you big galoot."

Groaning with frustration, he
hid his face in her hair. Why oh why did she have to say it out loud! He had to find a way to make her understand. To make her see that he was no good for her, so she'd have no regrets, once he was gone. Jake closed his eyes. "Bess," he began, "I—“