Chasing Rainbows (30 page)

The meal finished, the talk moved on to ranching, cattle, and horses. “There’s a ranch out in Leesville,” Jake commented, “owned by a man named Ben Davidson. Best horseflesh I ever saw west of Kentucky.”

“You mean Grantsville,” the young deputy named Curtis corrected sharply. “That’s Grantsville now.”

Jake thought about that. He hadn’t been out there in a while, but he remembered hearing something about the town changing sides after the war. “I believe you’re right,” he conceded easily.

“Damned straight I am. That’s Grantsville now.”

The deputy was perhaps nineteen or twenty, tall and rangy, with a sullen, hotheaded look about him. He glared across the table, studying Jake with an air of blatant hostility. Jake returned his glare with an expression of mild curiosity. “Something wrong, Deputy?”

“You’re a reb, ain’t you, mister?”

Jake had expected questions from the marshal’s men, but that wasn’t one he had anticipated. He sensed what was coming next but hoped he was wrong. “I’m from New Orleans, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You fight in the war?”

“I did.”

“Now, you. just settle down, Curtis,” the marshal warned. “We ain’t gonna get into this now.”

The boy’s face puckered in disgust. “Damned rebels killed my pa and my brother. They both fought with Grant, died at a place called Lookout Mountain.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Jake replied evenly. “Lots of good men died.”

“And a lot of stinkin’ rebs lived.” Curtis fingered the butt of his gun. Shadows from the kerosene lanterns played over his face, making him look far more bitter than warranted by his age. “I been practicing shooting every day since I was ten, you know that, mister?”

“Is that a fact.”

“I’m good too. I could of wiped out a whole damned army of rebs all by myself.”

“I’m sure you could have.”

“You any good with a gun?”

“Slowest man in my company.”

Disappointment showed in the young deputy’s face. “You want to try me?” he asked anyway.

“Not particularly. I think I’ll just sit here and drink my coffee.”

“Let it go, Curtis,” warned the marshal again.

Curtis ignored him, his eyes intent on Jake. “Let me hear it, mister. I want to hear that rebel yell.”

“War’s over, son.”

“Just once. I want to hear it.”

Jake eased back in his chair, leveling a cool, flat stare at the boy. “I better educate you on something here,” he said slowly. “Fact is, once a Southerner lets out the rebel yell, a madness gets into him. Especially if he’s facing a Yank. He can’t see straight, his mind gets all twisted up, and his trigger finger starts throbbing. If I let out the rebel yell, you know what would happen?”

“What?”

“I’d have to kill you.”

The boy looked startled while uneasy laughter broke out among the rest of the men.

As the laughter rose, Curtis’s face flamed bright red and his lips tightened into a thin line. He leapt to his feet, his fury evident. “Why don’t you try me, you stinking reb? No shooting, just draw.”

“Dammit, Curtis,” broke in the marshal. “I said that’s enough.”

“You afraid, reb?”

Jake sighed. “Why don’t we all just—” he began, but he didn’t have a chance to finish. Curtis made a move for his gun. The rest was instinctive. Jake had his gun in his hand — cocked, ready to fire, pointed directly at the deputy’s chest — before the boy had lifted his from his holster.

The boy’s jaw dropped and his eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his skull. A gasp sounded from the men around them, followed by the scraping of chairs as they shoved back from the table. Only Annie and Grumble Jones hadn’t moved. From the corner of his eye, Jake noted that they both looked distinctly satisfied.

He sent the deputy a cool smile. “That was my problem. I was always the slowest man in my company.”

The deputy swallowed hard and slowly moved his hand away from his gun.

“I wouldn’t blame him if he shot you,” said Grumble Jones. “Serves you right for running off at the mouth like that, boy. You been trying to pick a fight ever since your pa and brother died.”

“Now, there’s no call for bloodshed,” the marshal intervened, his voice cool and authoritative. He came to his feet, wisely choosing not to inflame the situation any further by pulling his own gun.

“You’re right, Marshal.” Jake flexed his fingers, letting his gun spin downward to point harmlessly at the floor, then he returned it smoothly to his holster. “Like I said, the war’s over.” He paused, giving the boy a long, hard look. “But there are a few Southerners who still suffer from a throbbing trigger finger. It acts up every time someone calls them a stinkin’ reb. You might want to remember that, Deputy.”

“I will,” the boy croaked out.

Jake nodded. He rose to his feet, shrugged into his coat, and put on his hat. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I think I’ll check on our horses.” He strode to the door and walked out of the shack, letting the door slam behind him.

The threat of snow that had filled the sky earlier had been just that — a threat. The night was as silent as only a night in the mountains can be. A soft breeze blew in from the west, carrying with it the scent of pine and horses. A crescent moon hung in a slate-black sky that glistened with stars. Jake moved to the corral where the horses were penned. From the line shack, the sound of men’s voices drifted toward him. He heard a door open and shut, then turned to see Annie walking across the yard.

She reached his side and leaned against the fence post without speaking. Together they watched the horses frolic and nuzzle in the silvery moonlight. “You all right?” she asked after a minute.

Jake shrugged. “Sure. He was just a hotheaded kid.” What bothered him more was that the marshal had seen him draw. But that had been unavoidable.

“That happen often?”

“Often enough.”

Jake had been in the West long enough to recognize that rebels weren’t overly welcomed. He had once read a fiery editorial in the Rocky Mountain News calling Southerners the scourge of the West — flotsam and jetsam from the tide of war. According to the paper, rebels were nothing but the disgraceful wreckage of the war washing up on Colorado’s proud shores, as unwanted and offensive as a plague of locusts. Jake didn’t take it personally. The way he saw it, a country couldn’t lose as many men as had been lost in the war without some bitterness. The wounds were still too raw on both sides.

Annie hooked her boot heel over the fence rail and dug her hands deep into her pockets for warmth. “Why Duquette?”

“It was my mother’s maiden name.”

She turned to face him, her expression frank and trusting. “I’m not asking where you got it. I’m asking why you used it. There’s a reason the marshal thinks you look familiar, ain’t there?”

“
Isn’t
there.”

Her face tightened. “Not now, Jake,” she said. “I’ve been honest with you. I think it’s high time you were honest with me.”

Jake was still not used to hearing her use his name. The sound of it on her lips pleased him more than he would have imagined possible. But that wasn’t all. Everything about Annie pleased him more than he would have imagined possible. She was artless and outspoken, sensual and compassionate, generous and amusing. He loved her laughter, her eyes, her body, her warmth, and her courage. He loved the fact that she wore nothing but her socks to bed, and that she fell asleep curled up in his arms.

They had been lovers now for nearly a week. During that time, he had seen nothing that might prove that Annie was still involved with the Mundy Gang. But he couldn’t deny that there were too many coincidences as far as she and the gang were concerned. First there was the attempted robbery in Two River Flats. Then there was the shot she had accidentally fired that had warned off the stranger who had been following them.

There was also the matter of the wire he had picked up from Walter Pogue two days ago, informing him that the Mundy Gang had just hit a bank outside of Manitobe — just hours after he and Annie had passed through the town. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the robbery to her, nor had he examined his reasons for not doing so. Now, however, he wondered. Was there still a part of him that didn’t completely trust her? Or had he simply not wanted to frighten her with the news that the gang was on their trail?

Either way, this didn’t strike him as the best time to admit that he was using her to track the gang. He simply couldn’t risk it. So he lifted his shoulders and replied, “The marshal and I played cards a year or so ago. As I recall, he lost pretty heavily and didn’t take it too well.”

“Is that it?” Annie let out a deep sigh of relief. “Hell, you had me worried.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Why?”

“We’re
cumpleanos
, mister,” Annie said matter-of-factly, as though shocked that he hadn’t realized that himself by now. “Truth is, you’re getting to be my favorite
cumpleano
ever. You been helping me, I figure it’s my turn to help you.”

Jake spent a few seconds interpreting her fractured Spanish. He was her favorite birthday ever? “You mean we’re
caballeros
?” he suggested.

“
Caballeros
. Right, that’s it. Diego taught me that. You know what it means?”

He knew the word, although he had never used it before and certainly never had it applied to himself. It ran along the lines of
amigo
but had a more formal, richer meaning. A
caballero
was a man of honor and principle, trusted and respected, a knight of sorts. The word fell heavily on his shoulders, a compliment and a burden at the same time.

“I’m no knight, darlin’.”

“You’re my friend, ain’t you? That’s why we’ve been helping each other. You trust me and I trust you.”

Jake felt a sharp stab of guilt tear through him. “You shouldn’t give your trust away so freely.”

“There’s nothing I give away freely. ’Specially not my trust in men. I reckon you ought to know that better than anybody.”

“I reckon I do.”

Their eyes met in the moonlight. Jake had spent a lot of time mentally wrestling with the question of getting close to Annie. He had tried to be noble and keep a distance between them, but that had been as unrealistic as trying to dam up the Niagara. Yet, as much as he desired her, the last thing in the world he had wanted to do was to hurt her, this beautiful, vulnerable woman with her bulky, masculine clothes, golden-brown eyes, and clumsy shoes.

But at that moment, an astounding question occurred to him. Would he ever really be able to walk away from her? What would happen to him if he did? The thought of losing her was as unimaginable as the thought of Annie being involved with the gang. Yet both possibilities loomed in his mind, growing larger and more distinct with each passing day. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly against him.

“What’s going to happen next, Jake?” she whispered against his chest.

“I wish to hell I knew, darlin’. I wish to hell I knew.”

Annie awoke the next morning to the steady, rhythmic sound of a man chopping wood. She sat up in bed, listening for voices or the shuffling of footsteps. The silence that greeted her told her that she was the only one remaining inside the line shack. Last night Marshal Locke had hung a thick saddle blanket over a rope and partitioned her sleeping cot away from those of the other men. While the privacy had been appreciated, the relative darkness and isolation of her quarters had caused her to oversleep, something she rarely did.

She threw off her blankets, occasioning a surprised howl of protest from Cat, who had been contentedly curled up at her feet. “Sorry, darlin’,” she said, surprised and embarrassed to find herself adopting Jake’s pet phrase. Annie crossed the room to examine the wash basin, pitcher, and chamber pot. She peered cautiously inside, then sent up a short prayer of thanks that one of the men had been courteous enough not only to empty the chamber pot before leaving it for her but to provide fresh water for the pitcher as well. Her toilet finished, she quickly dressed, braided her hair, then pulled on her boots and hat.

She collected her belongings and stepped outside to a misty, overcast sky. The day was warmer than it had been in over a week. The air was wet and strangely beautiful, like looking at the world through a shroud of gray silk. The sun shone faintly through the mist, its pale-gold beams reflecting off the watery drops that glistened in the trees. Tiny beads of moisture clung to the branches and shimmered like opalescent pearls.

She saw Grumble Jones near the stream, stripped down to his woolen underwear, splitting a tree trunk into firewood with a huge ax. Marshal Locke and his men had apparently already left, as the stage and horses were gone. She found Jake near the corral, just finishing the chore of saddling Weed and Dulcie. Hearing her approach, he turned and flashed her a brilliant smile. Annie felt a warm glow spread through her and smiled in return, quickening her pace.

He strode over to meet her. “Morning, darlin’.”

“Morning, Jake.” She cringed at her voice, which sounded far too breathless and excited. That was exactly how she felt, but not at all how she wanted to sound.

“Sleep well?”

“Fine,” she lied. It was the first time she had slept by herself since she and Jake had become lovers, and the adjustment had not been an easy one for her. She had tossed and turned all night, wishing he were beside her. After a lifetime of sleeping on her own, it was amazing how quickly she had accustomed herself to sleeping in Jake Moran’s arms.

She tilted her head back to study his features, wondering if her fascination with the man would ever end. She still couldn’t quiet the thrill of excitement that pulsed through her veins every time their bodies touched, or when he looked at her with his half-lidded, sexy gaze, or when he sent her one of his slow, lazy smiles. Even now, standing in the bright, bold light of day, all she could think about was the feel of his skin against hers, the feel of his hands as they slowly caressed her breasts and hips, and the way his lips felt so yielding yet firm against her own.