Taming of Jessi Rose (2 page)

Griff looked at the front. “It's addressed to you.”

“I know, read it anyway.”

It began:

Griff looked up and handed the note back. “Sounds like it was written by a child.”

“It was. Jotham's ten or eleven now. My wife and I met him and his grandfather in Denver last year, and—”

Amazed, Griff interrupted him. “You have a wife?”

“Yep, name's Kate.”

“Since when?”

“Since '84.”

“No disrespect, Dix, but
you
married? That's unbelievable. What's she like?”

For the first time, Dixon Wildhorse smiled. “A handful. She's a crusading newspaperwoman, and it seems like I spend more time bailing her out of jail than chasing outlaws. She's amazing.”

Wildhorse, married. Griff found
that
amazing. The marshal he knew had been married to only one thing: bringing lawbreakers to justice. If Griff ever got out of prison, he'd certainly have to make it a point to meet Mrs. Kate Wildhorse. Any woman who could take Dix's mind off of his duties, even for a moment, had to be very special indeed. “Okay go on, explain the letter.”

“Kate and I met Joth and his grandfather in Denver last year. When the boy found out I was a lawman, he asked if he could have my old Wanted bulletins for his collection. He and I have been writing back and forth since then.”

“The boy collects wanted posters.”

“His daddy was Calico Bob.”

Griff stared. He'd crossed paths with the notorious Calico Bob on only a few occasions, but had found him to be one of the most intelligent outlaws he had ever met. He was also one of the most deadly. Rumor had it that he'd shot and killed a man simply because he didn't care for the make of the man's shoes. One of the territorial judges had given Bob twenty-five years in the Ohio State Penitentiary for that irrational act. “This boy is Calico Bob's kid?”

“Yep.”

“Never knew Bob had family. So what does this have to do with me?”

“I want you to go help Joth and his aunt.”

Griff stared. “You're joshing, right.”

The marshal's face said he was not.

“I'm no knight, Dix, and besides, the warden would never buy it.”

“He already has.”

Griff fought down the inner excitement that one phrase sparked. Would he really be able to walk free once more? “Why would he agree?”

“Because he's been asked to.”

“By whom?”

“Judge Isaac Parker.”

Griff was stunned. Every outlaw in the West knew Hanging Judge Parker. He ran the court down at Fort Smith, Arkansas. Usually, once Parker sentenced you, not even divine intervention could pry you loose. “Why send me?”

“Because you're smart and resourceful and you know how to stay alive. There's been a murder, you know.”

“And?”

“It'll give you a chance to tweak some noses, legally.”

“Meaning?”

“Railroad's involved.”

For the first time in months, Griffin flashed the smile that had endeared him to women from the Mississippi to the Rio Grande. Maybe this was going to be a better scheme than he first thought. “Start at the beginning.”

“Judge Parker and I found a nest of vipers a couple of years ago who were selling phony railroad stocks to old people back east. Actually, my wife Kate was the one who turned over the rocks. Anyway, we caught the man we thought was the brains of the outfit, Rupert
Smalls. However, it now seems we didn't catch the other head—Reed Darcy.”

“That's the man the boy mentioned in his letter—the one he says murdered his grandfather.”

“Correct. Judge Parker wants Darcy brought to justice, too, but as Joth said in the letter, the local sheriff's on Darcy's payroll.”

“Does Parker have jurisdiction this far south?”

“He says he does.”

Griff had no intention of questioning the mandate of Hanging Judge Parker. The only person who'd ever questioned Parker had been the President of the United States, and he'd done it only once. “So why doesn't he send you or one of his other lawmen?”

“We don't have the men to spare on what may be a long investigation, and Kate and I are leaving for San Francisco in a month.”

“Why doesn't Parker get a Texas lawman?”

“He wants somebody loyal only to him. He doesn't want to find out later that the man he sent in is on the railroad's payroll.”

“Okay. Say I agree. What's to keep me from just taking my freedom and heading on down to Mexico, like I'd always planned?”

“Me,” the lawman replied bluntly. “I will find you. Even if it takes a decade. And when I do, that red head of yours will be silver by the time you see freedom again.”

Griff believed him, although if he had a head start, who knew if Dix could really make good on his threats?

As if he'd read Griffin's mind, Dix repeated, “I will find you.”

Griff shrugged. To tell the truth. Griff didn't really want to do this—because of his mother and the circumstances leading up to her death, he had a soft spot in his heart for women and kids in distress, and it would give
him another chance to give the railroad bosses fits, but this endeavor sounded like it might be complicated. Outside of robbing trains, he preferred to keep life as simple as possible.

“So, will you do it?”

“Do these Claytons know I'm coming?”

“No. Judge Parker would prefer you went in unannounced.”

“I'm just supposed to waltz up to the door and say, ‘I'm here to help?'”

“No, you're going to go in as an old friend of Bob's. The boy's aunt is a widow, but she was Bob's woman at one time, too, according to Parker's report, so you shouldn't have any trouble. Bob died about three months ago. Consumption. Judge wants you to take her his things; hopefully she'll be grateful enough give you a job or something. That way you can help her and still nose around for evidence on Darcy. If that doesn't work, the judge has a letter for you to give to her, asking for her help.”

Griff still didn't know if he liked this, but it beat his present situation hands down. “Okay, what do I have to do?”

“Raise your right hand.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Griff was skeptical, but slowly raised his right hand.

“Repeat after me. I, Griffin Blake, promise to uphold the law—”

“Wait a minute, I'm not saying that.”

“If you want to walk out of here with me, you'll say it.”

“What is it?”

“United States Marshal oath.”

Griff's eyes widened. “Marshal oath? Are you loco?”

Dix stood silent, waiting.

“If word gets around that I'm a marshal, even a pretend one, I won't have a friend left once I get to Mexico.”

This was exactly the type of complication he'd meant. He couldn't take a marshal oath. He'd be unable to show his handsome face anywhere, especially in the old haunts where outlaws gathered. Griffin looked over at Dix standing silent and unreadable.

“This is your chance to walk on the right side of life, Griffin.”

“And suppose I don't
want
to?”

“Then you can stay here.”

Griff shook his head. Everything kept coming back to the seven years. No one in his right mind would choose the hospitality of the Kansas State Penitentiary over freedom, so he raised his hand and repeated the oath.

“Now,” Dix said, when they were done reciting, “here's your star.”

“Keep it.”

“I can't. It's yours. And here are a few more, just in case you decide to hire a deputy or two.”

Griffin looked over at the marshal and said in all seriousness, “If I put on that star, hell's going to freeze over and plagues are going to break out all over the land. No.”

“Take the stars, Griff.”

“Dix, boils are going to pop out all over my body.”

“Take the stars.”

Griff took the stars, but he held them in his hands as if the metal were forge hot.

Dixon shook his head at Griff's antics. “Gather up your stuff and let's get out of here.”

Griff looked down at the stars in his hands and knew this was going to get a whole lot more complicated before he saw Mexico and the many señoritas awaiting him there.

T
he fat Texas moon outlined a man riding slowly up to the house. From the roof, Jessi Clayton kept one eye on him and the other on the black expanse of the horizon. Earlier today she ridden into town intending to telegraph the Texas Rangers' office in Austin about her father's murder, but she'd been denied access to the wire by the Vale telegraph agent. Because of that, she had a feeling she'd be paid a visit by Darcy's men tonight, and by being up here on the roof, she'd be able to see them before they could see her. Her nephew, Jotham, was inside awaiting their coming, too. Granted, an eleven-year-old boy had no business being up at this hour with a rifle in his hand, but he refused to let her face this alone. This was his land, too, he'd argued, and as Jessi had promised Dexter, he wouldn't give up the land without a fight. Life under siege was no way to raise a young manchild, and it ate at her heart every day, but for now, Jessi had no choice.

The rider was getting closer. He rode like someone who'd been in the saddle a long time. She hoped he had no intention of seeking shelter here, because she couldn't help him. Unknown visitors were the last thing she needed.

To her displeasure, she saw that he did seem to be
riding her way, so when he got within shooting range, she yelled out, “Hold it right there!”

He eased his mount to a halt.

“State your business,” she commanded.

She couldn't see his features, but could see him peering around, trying to figure out where her voice was coming from.

“I'm looking for Calico Bob's woman,” he replied.

The big house with its listing chimney and long neglected outbuildings were silhouetted against the night. Griff remembered Dix saying the Claytons had boasted of having quite a spread here. Too bad no one had taken care of it.

All of a sudden he saw a lone figure move on the roof. “Why are you looking for her?”

Against the moonlight, the shadowy form looked to be that of a kid, but the rifle trained on Griff was definitely full grown.

“Promised him I'd bring her his last effects. He's dead.”

“When?”

“Three months ago. Prison doc said it was consumption.”

“Were you in prison, too?”

“Yeah.” Griff didn't bother to add that it hadn't been the same prison.

“Just dump his stuff on the ground and get.”

This was not the reception he'd been anticipating. He thought Dix had said she'd be grateful. “I've been in the saddle for a month. I was hoping to bed down here, at least for the night.”

“No.”

“Where's Bob's woman?”

“You're looking at her. Now, leave his things and head out. I need to—grieve.”

“I've been riding a long time—”

“I don't care.”

Exasperated and tired, Griff called up, “Lady, you got no manners!”

“I know.”

They'd reached a stalemate. Griff wondered how he could convince her to let him stay. He was too bone weary to ride another foot. He tried another tactic. “Bob won't rest easy knowing you turned me away.”

“If Bob's dead, he's in hell. He won't be resting easy for eternity.”

Griff was taken aback. She didn't sound like any grieving woman he'd ever met.

Her smoky voice floated on the night. “Look, mister. I don't have a place for you to stay, and I don't want to waste a cartridge convincing you to leave, because I may need it for them.” She gestured toward the horizon. “I've got visitors coming, and they're not after tea.”

Fluidly raising himself in the saddle, Griff turned in the direction her rifle indicated; there were three of them, riding hard in the direction of the house.

“Friends of yours?”

“No, and if you have any sense, you'll point that horse east and ride fast.”

He swung his attention back to the woman on the roof. “You up there because you're hiding?”

“No,” she answered bluntly. “I'm up here because I want the first shot.”

He watched as she yelled down into the chimney, “They're coming, get ready!”

Griff wondered who she might be alerting, but saved the speculating for later. Right now, he had to convince her to let him stay and he didn't want the debate to last all night. He was too damned tired to be arguing, especially with a woman with bad manners. “Do you want an extra gun?”

“It's not your fight.”

“I know, but maybe it'll earn me a place to bunk for the night.”

Silence.

He could see her evaluating him, and then the riders.

She didn't take long to decide. “Put your horse round back.”

Griff did as she instructed and quickly reined the gelding around to the back of the house. Moments later he was back, asking, “Any particular place you want me to fire from?”

“It's up to you, just don't let fly before I do. I get first pickings.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She faded back into the darkness behind the chimney. He shook his head at her sergeantly manner, then took up a spot to the left of the porch, all the while hoping her visitors would be dispatched quickly so he could get some sleep.

The men had halted their horses a ways away from the house and were now talking, debating the best approach, Griff thought, or maybe trying to figure out if the occupants were asleep. With the house so dark and quiet, it certainly appeared that way. Moments later, they began moving on horses reined to a walk. Griff noted that they were being cautious. After meeting the lady on the roof, he didn't blame them a bit.

One of the men dismounted. When his feet hit the ground, her first bullet struck the earth only a foot away from his boots. He jumped and froze all in one motion as she yelled out, “Get back on your horse!”

“Crazy woman! You could have shot me!”

“I could've killed you, but I don't want your dead carcass poisoning my land.”

The silently watching Griff was impressed. Her offensive tactics had obviously caught them off guard. The men seemed confused and angry. It was quite obvious
she didn't need his help; at least, not for the moment.

One of the men still mounted yelled up, “Mr. Darcy just sent us out here to make sure you were all right, Miss Jessi. Everybody knows about the problems you been having, with your cows being butchered and all. He's just being neighborly.”

“And my name is Sam Houston,” she called down sarcastically. “Tell Darcy I don't need his help, and tell him the next time he sends you boys over to be neighborly, I won't be so hospitable. Now,
get!
”

A rider replied cockily, “If we wanted to, we could burn this place to the ground.”

“Not before I send you to hell you won't.”

Griff wondered what in life had made this woman so rawhide tough.

She then declared, “I'm counting to ten. Either be gone or be dead.”

She started counting real slow. “One!”

The angry man stood his ground for a while, but as the number reached five, he took hold of his horse's reins and mounted up.

Her voice chimed out eight, accompanied by the sound of her rifle being primed.

Darcy's men reined their horses around. “We'll be back,” one threatened.

“I'll be waiting,” she promised.

They rode off toward the horizon and disappeared into the night.

Griff stepped away from his hiding spot and looked up to the roof, where she stood against the moon. It bothered him that he still couldn't make out her fetures. As if assessing him too, she said nothing for a moment, then told him, “You can bunk on the porch. Pump's out back.”

Griff nodded and went to his mount to fetch his gear.

 

When he awakened the next morning, the sun was already up, and there was a young light-skinned boy of about ten bent over him, staring down curiously through a pair of spectacles. Griffin held the watching pale brown eyes for a moment, then asked gruffly, “Can I help you, son?”

“You're Kansas Red!!”

Griff's eyes widened hearing the declaration.
Shit! So much for anonymity
. “No, I'm not,” he denied, getting out from beneath the blanket. Dressed in his Union suit, he began a search for his pants.

“You are, too. Texas Red, Kansas Red, Oklahoma Red. You've got a lot of names.”

“No, I don't.” Griff dragged on his pants and wondered if anybody would miss this tall, thin kid if he suddenly disappeared.

The boy disagreed. “I'd know your face anywhere. Seen it a million times in Wanted bulletins.”

“Well, you're wrong.”

The kid folded his arms and stated flatly, “I am not.”

Griff didn't see the lady of the house standing behind the screened front door until just then. He held her unreadable eyes, wondering how much she'd heard. As she stepped outside onto the porch, he got his first good look at her.

The fierce-talking woman on the roof last night had a face so uncommonly beautiful it was jaw dropping: rich chocolate skin, a lush, full mouth. She was of average height and Texas slim. She dressed like a ranch hand, though—a man's shirt, denims, worn boots. Her dark hair was cropped short like a young boy's and there were small gold circlets in her ears. Like most women of the race, it was impossible to gauge her age, but if the lines beneath her serious dark eyes were a true indication, she hadn't slept in weeks.

As if she'd let Griff look long enough, she turned her
attention to Griff's tormentor and asked, “Have you finished your breakfast?”

The kid, still staring Griff's way, shook his head no.

She told him gently, “Then you need to do that and get to school.”

Griff could almost touch the affection in her voice. After last night's encounter, he'd not thought her capable of such softness.

The boy looked up at her and said, “Okay, but I'm not wrong about him.”

He gave Griff one last look, then went on inside.

After they were alone, she asked, “Is my nephew correct?”

“About what?” The minute the words came out of his mouth he wanted to take them back. She was smarter than that and so was he.

“Your identity,” she replied.

Griff knelt to reroll his bedding. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. I like to know with whom I'm dealing.”

“I served my time,” he said, by way of explanation.

As if that was all she wanted to know, she stuck out her hand like a man. “Name's Jessi Clayton. Thanks for backing me last night.”

“Griffin Blake.” He shook her hand.

“There's coffee and food on the stove.”

He found her dark beauty a fascinating contrast to her manner, and her handshake as firm as any man's.

“Where are you headed?” she asked then.

“Nowhere in particular. Looking to make my way down to Mexico eventually.”

“Good luck then,” she stated, in a voice that imparted both dismissal and departure, then went back into the house. She didn't ask at all about Bob's possessions.

Griff shook his head. He sensed it was not going to be as easy to infiltrate her life as Dix and Judge Parker assumed it would be. He also wondered what a beautiful
woman like her had been doing with a murderer like Calico Bob.

Griff went inside. As he wondered where she'd gone, he followed the smell of bacon to the back of the house and found the kitchen. At the table sat the boy.

Griff didn't say anything as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

The boy said, “My name's Jotham. Everybody calls me Joth.”

Griff offered a small smile. “Pleased to meet you, Joth. I'm Griffin Blake.”

“That your true name?”

“Yep. How'd you know about my other names?”

“I collect Wanted posters. Got maybe three of you.”

“Why do you collect them?”

“My pa's Calico Bob, and it's the only way I know what he's been doing. I don't see him much. I heard you say last night that he was dead.” He paused. “Is he really?”

Griff observed the boy. Had Joth been the person Jessi Clayton had called down to alert last night when Darcy's men had come calling? Since Griff had yet to meet anyone else in the household he could only assume it to be true. A boy had no business in the middle of this, but then, Joth had been the one to write to Dixon for help in the first place.

“Yes, son, he is.”

He didn't think it was his place to be discussing something like this, but the boy had asked and Griff had been eleven once too—he wouldn't have wanted to be lied to.

“You ever met my pa?” the boy asked softly.

Griff studied Joth and wondered how the boy felt about the death. He sensed a sadness behind the spectacled eyes. “A couple of times, yeah, I did.”

Evidently Joth had no intentions of revealing his true
feelings, at least not to Griffin because he then changed the subject. “You planning on staying around here a while?”

Griff took a sip of the strong coffee and found it good. “Maybe. I'm looking for a job.”

“You could work for us, except we can't pay you. Aunt Jessi and I don't have a lot of money. We could sure use the help, though.”

“With what?”

“Reed Darcy. He wants to take our land.”

Jessi Clayton entered the kitchen then. Once again Griff noticed how beautiful she was. “Jotham, finish your breakfast. School's waiting. Please excuse my nephew, Mr. Blake, but he needs to get going.”

Joth finished the last of his meal and took his plate to the sink. “Hope I'll see you later, Mr. Blake.”

Griff looked over at Joth and into young eyes he'd seen before in a dream. He shook off the odd sensation even as he wondered how this boy figured into his life's path. “Same here, Joth.”

Joth gathered up his slate and left the kitchen, and his aunt followed. While she was gone, Griff looked around. He saw only the bare essentials: table, chairs, a few lamps. There were no frilly curtains, no throw rugs on the kitchen's linoleum floor, none of the knickknacks women seemed to collect, but beneath each window stood a well-oiled rifle and a box of cartridges. The two kitchen windows that looked out on the front of the house were framed with heavy shutter doors. The back door had been outfitted the same way. Other windows had been boarded shut. There was a ladder leading to a hole in the roof and a big bucket beside it which he assumed had been positioned to catch the elements. The interior looked as if it had been stripped down and prepared for war. The place resembled more of a hideout than a home. He could almost feel the strength of the
battle the woman and the boy were waging. According to Dix, Darcy's power and his hired guns had forced many of the people around here to sell him their land; he probably wasn't pleased about being defied by Joth's rawhide aunt.