The Horseman's Bride (9 page)

To make certain she’d missed nothing, she studied the board in more detail, moving from right to left this time. She had worked most of the way across when a nasal voice startled her from behind.

“Well, now. If it isn’t Miss Clara Seavers. Come to pay us a visit, have you?”

Even before she turned around, Clara knew who the speaker was. Something about Deputy Marshal Lyle McCabe had always made her skin crawl. He was handsome enough, tall and wiry, with bullet-sharp eyes and pomaded black hair. But he had a way of looking at her that made her stomach turn. Last winter, at the Christmas dance, he’d held her so tightly that she could feel his arousal through her skirt. He wore an air of sanctimony and attended church every week, but before the aging marshal had made him a deputy, McCabe had hung around with some of the meanest ne’er-do-wells in town. It was widely suspected that Sam Farley had deputized McCabe to help keep his unruly friends under control.

The last thing she wanted was to be alone with the man.

McCabe had emerged from the back of the building, where the prisoners were kept. Moving with an easy saunter, he positioned himself between Clara and the door. “Something I can do for you?”

“I was looking for the marshal,” Clara said.

“Marshal’s out sick for a couple of days. In the meantime, I’m the man in charge.” McCabe’s mouth spread in a lazy grin, showing the glint of a gold tooth. “If there’s some way I can help, I’d consider it an honor.”

Clara shrugged, trying to appear casual. “Don’t worry about it. I just came in to look at these posters.” She nodded toward the board. “I saw a man on the road today. Something about his looks made me wonder, but I don’t see his picture here. He was probably just a harmless tramp.”

“We can’t be sure of that.” McCabe leaned back against the edge of the marshal’s desk. His long legs, ending in sharply pointed black boots, blocked her path to the door. “We got a new batch of posters in a couple of days ago,” he said, picking up a brown manila packet. “Marshal hasn’t got around to putting them up. Why don’t you sit yourself down and have a look?” He walked around the desk and pulled out the marshal’s big wooden swivel chair. “Here. Old Sam won’t mind a pretty girl like you sitting in his seat.”

Clara was becoming uncomfortable. But there was no way to leave without making things even more awkward. McCabe might make her skin crawl, but he was only doing his job. So far, he hadn’t laid a finger on her or said anything inappropriate.

She settled into the chair while McCabe slid the posters out of the packet and laid them on the desk. There appeared to be no more than a dozen of them. At least this shouldn’t take long.

McCabe took a seat on the corner of the desk, where he could see both the posters and Clara’s face. His nearness made her squirm. “You needn’t stay with me,” she said. “I can thumb through these and let you know if any look familiar.”

“It’s my job to stay.” He leaned over her, so close she could feel his breath on her hair. Clara picked up the thin sheaf of papers, wanting only to get this ordeal over with and leave.

She gave the first poster a glance. The tough-looking bank robber was no one she knew. Putting the poster aside, she studied the next one. The handsome, youthful fugitive had a face anyone would trust, but he was wanted for selling stock in fake oil wells. Clara didn’t know him, nor did she recognize any of the next six posters she saw. Lyle McCabe was leaning so close that she could smell the pomade on his hair and the tobacco on his breath. The nauseating blend of odors made her stomach roil.

“This is a waste of time,” she said, shoving the rest of the posters aside. “I glimpsed the man’s face as I passed him in the car, and my overactive imagination did the rest. I’ll go now, before I take up any more of your day.”

“Might as well finish what we started.” McCabe pushed the papers back in front of her. His position on
the desk blocked her escape, and he showed no inclination to move.

With a sigh, Clara glanced at the topmost poster and put it aside to look at the next one.

Her breath caught in a silent gasp.

She had thought his features would flash at her like a lightning bolt. But seeing him on the poster was more like a bullet through the heart. Even with the well-trimmed hair and mustache and the immaculate suit he wore, there was no mistaking the man she knew as Tanner.

The blood had drained from her face. She knew McCabe was staring at her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the photograph, or from the bold lettering above and below.

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
JASON TANNER DENBY
For the Cold-blooded Murder of Mr. Hollis Rumford Contact Sheriff John B. Clayton, Springfield, Missouri
$1,000 REWARD

There were more details in the fine print at the bottom of the page, but Clara was too shaken to read them.

McCabe had laid a hand on her shoulder, his palm too warm, his grip too possessive. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is that him—the man you saw?”

Clara shook her head vehemently. “No. The man on the road was…older. And darker, more like…like a
Gypsy. I’m just feeling a bit nauseous, that’s all. Maybe some fresh air—”

Rising, she pushed her way past the startled McCabe, fled out the front door and swung it shut behind her. She heard the click of the door opening again as she hurried up the sidewalk. Clara knew McCabe was watching her. She could feel his eyes following her every move as she crossed the busy street, reached the parked auto, switched on the starter and fumbled with the crank.

Had he believed her lie about the man on the road? McCabe might be a weasel, but he wasn’t stupid. She could only hope he’d been paying more attention to her than to the face on the poster. At the very least she should warn Tanner not to go into town.

After cranking the Model T’s engine to life, she climbed into the driver’s seat, wove her way through the Main Street traffic and turned onto the road that led back to the ranch. Only as she drove did the gravity of what she’d learned begin to sink in. Tanner—she couldn’t think of him by any other name—had admitted that he was a wanted man. And he’d told her that his crime had been a necessary one. But cold-blooded murder? How could she have feelings for someone who’d committed such an awful act? She’d promised to keep his secret. But now that she knew what he’d done, how could she justify protecting Tanner from the law?

Emotions churning, Clara drove faster and faster, flying over bumps and ruts, screeching around the
familiar bends at more than forty miles an hour. The big cottonwoods that overhung the road blurred in her side vision. The wind clawed at her curls.

Where should she go with the truth? To Tanner? To her mother? To her grandmother?

What if she’d alerted Lyle McCabe to Tanner’s presence? Heaven save her, what had she done?

Lost in frenetic thought, she didn’t see the horse-drawn farm wagon, lumbering around the curve toward her, until it was too late to stop. The huge draft horses screamed and reared as she swerved under their very hooves. The auto lurched through the barrow pit and slammed into a tree. Pitched forward, Clara struck her head on something hard. There was a flash of crimson; then the world shattered into blackness.

J
ace had spent the past two days rebuilding the roof on the hay shed. He’d cut new timbers to strengthen the old walls and tacked down each shingle before he hoisted the sections with a block and tackle and nailed each joint into place. At last it was finished. And he’d challenge any wind to blow it away again.

Filling the tin dipper with cold water from the pump, he swallowed long and deep while he took a moment’s satisfaction in a job well done. It felt good to do meaningful work, even if it was only a shed. Mary would be pleased, and when her new hay crop came in it would be safe and dry.

A glance at the sun’s angle told him it was mid-afternoon. If Mary didn’t have anything else in mind, maybe he’d ride out to the bog where he’d seen the oil seepage. He hadn’t made up his mind what to do about the discovery, but he was curious and wanted to look at the place in a better light. Maybe there was something he’d missed.

He found Mary bent over her ironing board, pressing the wrinkles out of a dampened pillowcase. She was mightily pleased about the finished shed and fine with his taking a ride on his own time. “Go on,” she said. “You’ve been working way too hard. Take the rest of the day.”

“No need for that. I’ll be back in an hour to start on the gate for the pasture.”

“And to have a fresh piece of gooseberry pie,” Mary added with a laugh. “I was just about to take it out of the oven. It should be cooled by the time you get back.”

“In that case, I won’t waste any time.”

Jace strode down the front steps and set off for the paddock to fetch Galahad. His gaze swept over the weathered outbuildings and outdated farm equipment, the laboriously tilled vegetable garden, the stark old house with its worn furniture, unmatched dishes and the barest of modern conveniences. Mary Gustavson was one of kindest, hardest-working women he’d ever known. She deserved a life of ease, in a comfortable home with a cook and housekeeper to wait on her needs. Maybe she’d enjoy visiting her distant children, or traveling back to her birthplace in Norway. Oil on her property could make all those things possible. But profiting from that oil would mean drilling noisy wells, bringing in work crews and triggering a stampede of money-hungry speculators. The peaceful landscape would be changed forever. From what he knew of Mary, Jace understood that she might not want that.

Either way, the least he could do was tell her about the oil and give her the name of a reliable firm to
contact. Then, after he was gone, she could make her own decision.

After he was gone
.

He would go. It would have to be soon. And he couldn’t look back.

Making a clean break was the only decent thing he could do for Clara. She had offered him her trusting, vulnerable heart, and he had broken it. The longer he stayed, the more likely he was to hurt her again. Clara was a “for keeps” kind of girl, not a plaything to be romanced and left behind. She deserved someone solid and respectable—not a man doomed to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

Galahad came at his whistle. Jace saddled and bridled him in the corral. The two young mares were as coquettish as ever, frisking around the paddock and swishing their pretty tails like schoolgirls at a ball, but the stallion barely gave them a passing sniff. Pity there was no way to rush Mother Nature. But Jace had noticed that last night’s moon was coming up on fullness. He’d heard that mares tended to come into estrus with the full moon. He could only hope it was true. Every day he remained here raised the odds that he might be recognized.

The bog was an easy ride from Mary’s place. Jace could have walked the distance, but the idea of being on foot in open country made him nervous. If the worst happened and he had to make a run for it, he wanted the stallion close at hand. He’d strapped on the pistol for the same reason. Shooting at an innocent man was
the last thing he wanted to do—let alone killing someone’s husband, father, son or brother. But the very threat of the .38 could make the difference between his own freedom and his death at the end of a rope.

A meadowlark warbled from the top of a stump as he crossed the pasture. The whisper of grass against the stallion’s legs brought back the memory of riding with Clara behind him, her arms wrapping his waist, her sweet fragrance stealing through his senses.

I think I’m in love with you, Tanner
…

The words had broken his heart. He’d answered her harshly, called her foolish. But what he’d really wanted to do was sweep her off the horse, pull her down with him into the grass and bury himself in her ripe little body. Lord help him, if he could die that way, he would die with a smile on his face.

Blackbirds rose in a swirling cloud as he approached the bog. The colt’s grave was much as he’d left it, with no sign of Clara’s narrow boot prints in the fresh earth. So she hadn’t come after all. Maybe that was for the best. There was something about this place, an evil miasma that set Jace’s nerves on edge. If he spoke with her again, he would warn her against coming here alone.

Halting the stallion at a safe distance, Jace dismounted and walked into the bog. The high water from the storm had receded, leaving a morass of tangled roots and gaping holes. Flies swarmed over the drying mud.

The oil was where he remembered, its seductive
blackness oozing out of the earth. Jace took a folded handkerchief from his hip pocket and dropped to a crouch. Dabbing some oil onto a dry leaf, he laid the leaf between the folds of the handkerchief as proof of what he’d found.

Straightening, he slipped the handkerchief into his pocket. Out of habit, he scanned the country around him for any sign that he was being watched. The fields were silent except for the whisper of blowing grass. On the wooded hillside, nothing moved except a chicken hawk spiraling above the ridge. But Jace couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. He’d been living by his instincts too long not to trust them.

Maybe it was time to move on.

Mounting up, he spurred the stallion to a canter. The big bay’s powerful legs ate up the distance. He would finish the pasture gate and have it hung by day’s end. Over supper, he would tell Mary about the oil. Later that night, under cover of darkness, he would pack his things and leave.

Mary would be hurt. Clara would be livid. But that couldn’t be helped. His danger senses were prickling. If somebody was on to him, he couldn’t wait around to be caught.

Minutes later Jace rode into the yard. Mary hurried off the porch to meet him. Even before she spoke, her ashen face and nervously clasping hands told him something terrible had happened.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Tanner.” Her work-
worn fingers twisted her thin gold wedding band. “My daughter just called. Clara’s been in an auto accident. The ambulance is bringing her home.”

The shock slammed into Jace, followed by a rush of denial. Not Clara. Anybody but Clara. “How badly is she hurt?” he managed to ask.

“They say she’s unconscious. I don’t know about the rest. But I need you to hitch the buggy while I get my medicines. You never know what might help.”

“I’ll drive you.” The words spilled out before Jace had time to think. It might not be safe going to the ranch with Mary. But right now nothing mattered except getting to Clara.

“Fine. Hurry.” She rushed back into the house.

Jace had hitched the dun gelding to the buggy and was adjusting the harness when Mary came out carrying a black valise that resembled an oversize doctor’s bag. She climbed into the buggy without waiting for Jace’s help. He sprang onto the seat beside her, slapped the reins down hard and they were off, racing down the drive to the road.

Mary clutched her valise in silence, her thin gray brows knotted with worry. Jace kept the horse to a brisk trot, avoiding the worst of the ruts and potholes. The last thing they needed was a spill.

Only as they rounded the last bend and turned in the gate to the Seavers Ranch did Jace realize that he wouldn’t be able to see Clara at all. He was a hired man, not a member of the family or even a friend. All he could do was drive Mary to the house and wait outside like a horse or a dog while fear gnawed at his gut.

Logically, he knew that was for the best. The fewer people who got a good look at him, the better. He should probably have stayed at the farm and let Mary drive the buggy herself. She certainly could have managed it. But even as the thought crossed his mind, Jace knew he couldn’t have stayed away. The thought of Clara—the beautiful, passionate Clara he’d come to know—lying broken and unconscious was more than he could stand. If he couldn’t be with her, at least he could be close by.

The ambulance, a sputtering relic of the war, had arrived ahead of them. Two men were lifting a stretcher out of the back. Jace glimpsed a spill of chestnut curls and a slight form beneath a flannel blanket. That was all he saw of Clara before they rushed her into the house. He gripped the edge of the seat to keep from charging after her. He had never felt so helpless in his life.

“Here’s the doctor.” Mary touched his arm as a dusty Model T chugged up to the house and stopped next to the ambulance. Forcing himself to move, Jace hurried around the buggy to help her out. Her face was colorless, her eyes sunk into creased pits of worry. “No sense in your waiting,” she said. “I could be here a long time. You take the buggy and go on back to the farm. Somebody else can drive me home later.”

Jace shook his head. “I’ll stay until I know how Clara’s doing. Will you come out and tell me?”

Mary gave him a jerky nod. He glimpsed tears in her eyes before she turned away and hurried after the
doctor. Together they mounted the wide steps and vanished through the front door.

Jace drove the buggy to a shady spot on the east side of the barn. Pulling his hat brim low over his eyes, he settled back in the seat for what could be hours of hellish waiting. He had known Clara Seavers for less than a week. But he could no longer imagine a world—his world or any world—without her. Fearless, beautiful and so full of life, she was like air and sunlight and pure, clear water to him. Once, having her in his life might have made all the difference. Now there was nothing he could do.

From under the brim of his Stetson, he studied the Seavers home. A large, two-story frame with tall windows on both floors, it was surrounded by well-tended rosebushes and painted an elegant cream with dark green shutters. Compared to Hollis Rumford’s marble-pillared Missouri mansion, the house was nothing. But for this part of the country it was grand enough. And from what he knew of the family, Jace sensed that within these walls there was love and respect. There’d been precious little of that in the twenty-one-room prison where Hollis Rumford had kept his wife and daughters.

He could only hope that Ruby and her little girls were doing all right. Maybe in a year or two they’d be able to exchange letters. For the time being, it was far too dangerous. The police were probably checking every piece of mail that came to the house. Even telephoning her would be too much of a risk.

His gaze followed the trail of a blooming honeysuckle vine up the side of the house to a second-floor window with white lace curtains. Through the glass, Jace caught a flicker of movement. Was that Clara’s room? Were they moving her onto the bed, the doctor stepping in close to check her injuries?

Was she still unconscious? Was she even alive? Jace had never been much of a praying man, but he prayed now, his lips moving in a silent plea.

The two men from the ambulance came out the front door with the empty stretcher. Jace watched them climb into the front seat and drive away. Their faces told him nothing. Where was Mary? Why wasn’t she bringing him some news?

He thought about getting out of the buggy and walking around to stretch his legs, but he’d glimpsed a couple of cowhands going in and out of the stable. They might get curious and want to talk to him. Better to stay here and keep to himself.

Resting his knees against the dash, Jace tried to settle back and doze. It was no good. All he could think of was Clara—racing the chestnut colt across the pasture on that first day, her sunlit curls flying in the breeze. Clara taking the pistol from his hand, aiming the muzzle and squeezing the trigger to put her beloved horse out of its misery. Clara in his arms, her mouth softening to his kiss, her hungry little hips rocking against his hardness, driving him to the brink of control.

Damn it, what was happening in that house?

Minutes stretched into what seemed like hours. The
sun was creeping toward the horizon when a rider on a lathered buckskin came thundering up the drive and reined to a halt in front of the house. Tall, lean and dressed in dusty trail clothes, he flung himself out of the saddle and pounded up the steps, leaving the two hired men to scramble after his horse. As he crossed the porch, Jace glimpsed graying hair and proud, hawkish features. Clara had mentioned that her father was on the mountain with the cattle. Someone must have gone to fetch him, for the newcomer could be none other than Judd Seavers, head of the family and owner of the ranch.

Judd opened the front door and nearly collided with Mary, who was just coming outside. With a cry, the old woman threw her arms around him. “Thank goodness you’re here, Judd! Clara’s awake and talking! She’s going to be all right!”

Like a mountain stream trickling to life after a winter thaw, Jace felt his heart begin to beat again.

“Hello, sweetheart, how are you feeling?”

Clara looked up into the worried gray eyes of the man she’d known as her father—the man who’d taken in his brother’s child, sheltered and protected her, disciplined her, schooled her and loved her as his own for the past nineteen years.

“Hello, Papa.” She blinked back a rush of tears. The accident had brought her emotions perilously close to the surface. “I’m sorry about the car. Is it ruined?”

“I haven’t seen it, but don’t worry.” His voice
cracked, the way Daniel’s sometimes did. “Any machine can be replaced. The important thing is that you’re all right.”

“It was all my fault. I was going too fast and didn’t see the wagon coming.” Only as Clara spoke did she remember why she’d crashed. She’d been too upset about Tanner to pay attention to her driving.