Jane Bonander (2 page)

Mumser raced past, breaking into his reverie, the cat not far behind. Mumser was trained to know the “come” and “heel” commands, but at this point, under these circumstances, Jackson wasn’t sure it made any difference. Still, he had to try. He whistled a command, then called his dog. Mumser ignored him, as Jackson knew he would.

With his hat in his hand, he crossed to where the woman continued to fuss with the dirt around her posies.

When she first stepped onto the porch, he’d noticed her fire. White women were always full of fire. Always had their backs up about one thing or another. They never left a man in peace. But if Jackson thought she showed her temper when the old coot spat tobacco on her flowers, wait until she discovered why he was there.
Then
he’d see a damned inferno, he had no doubt about that.

He hadn’t been drawn to a white woman in over ten years, for all the reasons that had just run through his head. Give him a geisha any day. Or, he thought, remembering painful years passed yet not forgotten, an Indian maiden. There was something soothing about women who knew how to please a man, and to his mind, white women hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it.

And he was tired. Damned tired of getting paid to fight someone else’s battles in dirty corners of the world. His years as a globe-trotting freelance mercenary had finally caught up with him. He was ready to retire and settle down. More than ready.

“You should really have a fence of some kind around those flowers, ma’am.”

The woman stood, her hands on her hips, and gave him an icy stare, although her eyes were dark and hot. “Until today I didn’t have need for one.”

He cleared his throat. “The name’s Wolfe, ma’am. Jackson Wolfe.” He bit back another groan as the animals raced past.

“Cyclops!” The young girl continued to chase them, her braid, as thick as his fist, swinging from side to side.

“After all this,” Jackson began somewhat hesitantly, “I … er … don’t suppose you have a spare room, do you?”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. “After all this,” she countered, throwing her arms wide with a flourish, “you actually think I’ll rent you … and your
dog
a room?”

“Well, I … er … just came from the jail, and Vern said you might have a room available.”

Her gaze was wary. “Vern Roberts?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m acting sheriff until Vern gets back on his feet, and I’ll need a room.” This was where he wanted to stay. No other place would do. He’d camp outside if he had to.

She turned away, but not before he saw her jaw clench. “As Burl said, I don’t rent to people with pets.”

“I noticed you have a shed out back. That’ll do.”

She swung around to face him, her expression incredulous. “You want to sleep in my shed?”

Nodding, he added, “I’ll pay you five dollars a week.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’ll pay me five dollars a week to sleep in my
shed?
My regular rooms don’t even cost that much.”

The young girl nearly skidded to a stop beside them. “Mama, we have two vacant rooms, and you said we needed—”

“Never mind what I said, Dawn. Has Mahalia looked after your skinned knee yet? And what about your sums?” Her voice was stern but not scolding.

“But, Mama, you said we needed the money for—”

“Ma’am,” Jackson interrupted. “I’ll be gone most days, all day. I’ll take Mumser with me. Why, you won’t even know we’re here.”

“Yes, Mama, we won’t even know they’re here.”

The girl’s eyes held a familiar twinkle in their depths, and the excitement he saw there weakened him. His gut clenched like a fist.

With her arms crossed over her chest, the woman continued to study him. During the fracas, wispy threads of dark hair had come loose from her neat bun and now blew gently over her forehead and cheeks. The rest of her hair shimmered with deep burgundy highlights.

Her mouth was rich and full, her skin creamy. There was the suggestion of a cleft in her chin, and a lushness about her that reminded him of sultry Spanish nights. Warm wine. Willing women. His thoughts surprised him, for this one, with her snapping dark eyes, was anything but willing. Though her face was expressionless, those eyes told him she thought that anyone who would spend five dollars a week to sleep in a shed had ulterior motives.

If that was what she thought, she’d be right. He’d come for his daughter, Dawn Twilight, and he wouldn’t leave without her.

L
ibby nibbled at the inside of her cheek. “I’ve never bent the rules for anyone.”

“Mama, please?”

She glanced at her daughter, whose beseeching look never failed to soften her, then at the stranger. What
was
the matter with her? He was merely another boarder; she’d had hundreds before him. The fact that he was polite and could pay should have made her eager to rent him a room. And the fact that he was easy on the eyes should have helped, as well. Her feelings confused her, and she didn’t dare investigate them. But if Vern Roberts sent him …

“You’re going to fill in for Sheriff Roberts?”

He continued to hold his hat, and the sun danced brightly on the golden strands that threaded through his dark hair. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dawn tucked her arm through her mother’s and squeezed. “He’s gonna be the sheriff, Mama.”

Dawn’s gaze darted toward the wretched dog, and Libby knew that her daughter’s enthusiasm had nothing to do with the man and everything to do with his pet. She’d always had a softer spot in her heart for critters than for people.

“We can’t let him sleep in the shed. We just
can’t.”

Libby looked past her daughter, toward the lawn. The animals had tired. Cyclops was nowhere to be seen, but the dog was merrily ripping the torn length of her petticoat to shreds.

She stifled a sigh. They did need the money. The nest egg Sean had left her before he died six years before was dwindling fast. And with Bert and Burl seldom able to pay their rent, there was little income and far too much outgo, especially when there were empty rooms. And that outgo included the repairs the Bellamy brothers did in exchange for their rent. Repairs she had to pay someone to do over properly, she reminded herself with a weary sigh.

Yet she was hesitant. “Well …”

“Oh, thank you, Mama!” Dawn sprinted across the grass and fell to the ground beside the dog.

“Much obliged, ma’am.”

Libby stuck out her hand and he took it. His rough calluses slid over her own. “Liberty O’Malley,” she stated.

“My pleasure.” His hand held hers for a fraction of a second longer; then he released it.

She made a fist and shoved her hand into her apron pocket, sensing an odd tingling that burrowed through her palm. Giving him a jaundiced look, she mused, “Had that mutt of yours been big and ugly, you can bet I wouldn’t have given in.”

His smile was wide. It momentarily disarmed her, for it made him even more appealing.

“For the first time since he was given to me, I’m glad he isn’t. It’s hard to appreciate a dog that isn’t even as big as my boot.”

She hid her feelings, still unsure if she wanted to rent him a room. There was no sensible explanation for her reticence. Before she’d agreed, she’d decided the dog was merely a nuisance, and as long as it stayed away from her precious mums, she didn’t give a diddly damn about it.

There was something about the man himself that caused the skin on her arms to pebble with gooseflesh. The sensation was new and it was pleasant, and it bothered Libby a great deal.

With an abrupt nod, she turned and took the steps to the porch, sensing that he was behind her. The Bellamy boys had been surprisingly quiet since the fracas between Cyclops and the dog had ended. Libby shot Burl a quick glance, noting that his rheumy old eyes held an unprecedented gleam. Bert chuckled quietly beside him. Narrowing her lids, she gave each of them a threatening look. Bert’s restrained chuckle developed into a wheezing laugh.

Flinging open the door, she marched through and strode up the stairs, making her way to the third floor, where she kept a large bedroom. It was usually unoccupied; she rented it out rarely. The furnishings had been Sean’s. Not that it was a shrine to his memory or anything like that. Theirs had not been that kind of union. The room tended to get hot and stuffy in the summertime and cold in the winter, so she kept it vacant during the hottest and coldest months. Now, with September behind them, the cool autumn breeze would keep the room comfortable—until December, when there could be frost on the inside of the windows.

Perhaps Mr. Wolfe would be gone by then. An unpleasant twinge darted through her stomach at the thought, and she scolded herself for her foolishness.

“The room is four dollars a week. I usually charge three, but since you have the dog, I’m tacking on an extra dollar.” She didn’t expect him to argue. After all, he’d offered to pay five to sleep in the woodshed.

Stepping inside, she gave the room an automatic survey to make sure everything was in order. She cringed at the sight of the dust that winked and danced in the air, clearly visible as the sun shone through the window.

He stepped in beside her, his size both intimidating and alarmingly arousing. She’d been showing male boarders bedrooms for over ten years, and never before had she been so acutely aware that they were rooms in which people did their most intimate acts.

The bed, which had been Sean’s, was wider and longer than normal. It seemed the perfect bunk for this big man.
Sean’s heavy rolltop desk and his big leather easy chair with the matching ottoman were bittersweet reminders of a life long gone. For obvious reasons, it was her most masculine room. She’d fought her feelings for months after Sean’s death, wondering if she could bear to have someone else use his things, but in the end, she was too practical to do anything else with them.

Mahalia had once asked her why she didn’t simply use the furniture herself. That would have been the sensible thing to do, of course. But with Sean gone, it was her first opportunity to have things of her own.

As the only daughter of migrant Irish farmworkers with four sons, Libby had been the least important person in the household. No one cared that she wanted a permanent home. Her brothers, rowdy boys all, had been delighted that they didn’t have to attend school. Her father moved the family with every change in the seasons, going where there was work, careless of his daughter’s thirst for a little knowledge and a place to put her roots. She barely existed, as far as he was concerned. The only thing she’d been good for was to work and bring in money. Money that he took from her. She’d even tried hiding a few dollars for herself, but in the end, he found that, too. She wore her brothers’ hand-me-downs, not owning a dress until she married Sean. Even at that, he’d bought it for her, not her father.

Sean’s arrival in her life had been like a prayer answered. A distant relative from Ireland, he’d sought them out after learning the family was picking peaches in the valley. To Libby, Sean had been a savior from the beginning. He was quiet and polite, a welcome change from her bawdy brothers and brutish father. He’d given her polish and taught her independence. Although she’d known how to read a little, he’d taught her more. He’d been a tutor and a mentor. He’d opened up a whole new world to her, a world in which she was important. And although he’d been kind, Libby had been forced to share what was his. Now she had things in her bedroom that she had chosen, and she chose nothing that had been Sean’s.

The new boarder shifted beside her. “Looks fine. Real nice.”

Pleased, she merely nodded. “Breakfast is served between five and seven.” She crossed to the washstand and tidied up the towels that hung on the wooden bar, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, and her cheeks were flushed. Her stomach dropped. She looked positively unkempt.

“The evening meal begins promptly at six. Mahalia, my cook, doesn’t do lunches, so you’re on your own.”

Actually
,
that wasn’t entirely true. There was usually a pot of stew or soup simmering on the back of the stove, fresh bread, and cookies in abundance, but Libby wasn’t feeling generous. If Mr. Wolfe was the least bit clever, he wouldn’t go hungry.

“You’ll share the bath with the other tenants on the floor below. There’s a gas-heated tub. The … necessary is outside, beyond the woodshed.” She opened the wardrobe, revealing a clean chamber pot, and felt heat rise on her neck. She berated herself again, for never before had such things embarrassed her.

“I’ll… ah, let you settle in, then. Dawn, my daughter, will leave a teakettle of hot water for washing outside your door each morning. It’s one of her responsibilities before she goes to school.” She marched to the door.

“Ma’am?”

Libby stopped but didn’t turn around.

“She’s a pretty girl, your daughter.”

Hearing no derision, Libby was momentarily shoved off balance. “For a breed, you mean?”

“That’s not what I said.” His voice was hard, as if he was angry with her.

Libby turned, noting the coldness in his eyes. Again her balance was threatened, but she owed him no explanation, nor would he get one. Dawn’s skirmishes with her white classmates need not be blabbered to strangers.

“I apologize. Thank you,” she said as graciously as she could. “Yes, she’s a pretty girl, although around here, Mr. Wolfe, a breed is a breed is a breed. Her looks, pretty or not, mean nothing at all. She may have the face of an angel, but she must fight off the demons, just the same.”

With a slight nod, she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Jackson stared at the door long after she’d gone, her words ricocheting in his brain. He’d been so single-minded in his purpose, he hadn’t given much thought to anything else.

Who was this child he had sired twelve years before? When he last saw her, she’d been an infant, void of personality. She’d been the dependent child of a widower on whom she could not depend. She’d been a helpless little angel.

And he’d been a coward. A spineless whiner whose tears had been as much for himself as for the woman he’d loved and lost. And he’d been running from his grief and guilt ever since.

He flung his travel bag onto the bed and crossed to the window, raising it to let in some air. The curtains caught the breeze, billowing slightly.

Scanning the lawn, he felt his heart clutch when he saw his daughter. And he had no doubt that she was his. None. His gut told him. She had Flicker Feather’s smile. The same dimple in her left cheek. The same tinkling laughter, which had always reminded him of chimes in the wind.

He laughed softly, knowing that to look at him no one would believe he had the soul of a poet. Truth to tell, he hadn’t felt poetic for a very long time.

He had questions aplenty. Among them, how did Dawn Twilight come to be at this place, with this woman whom she called Mama? Maybe his questions would be answered in the morning, when he paid a visit to the bank. And John Frost. It had been five years since he’d received the last verification of funds he’d mailed. Sometimes it had taken two or three years for his mail to catch up with him, but five …

Time had softened the pain of his wife’s death. It no longer dug at him with serrated edges
,
bloodying his conscience. He still hurt, probably always would, but finding Dawn Twilight was like pressing a cool, healing compress over a wound that refused to heal.

Now he had to find a way to announce who he was. He would need time. Couldn’t simply blurt it out, for that would drive the girl away. And, he thought with a scornful smile, he would no doubt find a stake driven through his heart by Liberty O’Malley if he moved too quickly. But he would make his move. Slowly. Steadily. The woman would be first. He had to break down her defenses, and he had no doubt that she had many. He’d already felt her reticence, and she had no idea what he was up to. He couldn’t tip his hand. He had too much riding on the outcome.

The woman was a beauty, though. Standing with her in the quiet room, staring at the big bed, he’d felt a surprising surge of desire. With her hair mussed and her face high with color, she’d been damned tempting. Like she’d just had a satisfying tumble between the sheets.

He swore and shook himself, continuing to study his daughter through the open window. With Mumser snuggled in her arms, she was curled up under a weeping willow, the branches drooping around her as if already protecting her from outside forces. Perhaps from him. He sighed.

“Dawn?” Liberty O’Malley’s voice called from the porch below.

His daughter’s gaze went toward the house. “Yes, Mama?”

“It’s time to get at your sums, dear.”

Dawn’s distress was visible, even from the third-floor window, “But, Mama—”

“No buts. You’ve wasted enough time. And Miss Parker is willing to help you if—”

“I can’t let the
teacher
help me, Mama!”

There was a moment of silence. “Dawn, I don’t want to argue with you anymore. The sooner you learn to do sums, the better life will be for both of us. Schoolwork is more than writing stories and poems, and it’s time you realized that.”

“But what about the berries? I promised Mahalia—”

“Bert and Burl have gone into the woods to pick the berries, dear, now take that … that
dog
up to Mr. Wolfe. He’s in the room on the third floor.”

A smile tugged at Jackson’s mouth as he stepped away from the window. He went to the desk and rolled up the top. He was sitting there, pretending to struggle with something when Dawn Twilight knocked on the door.

Libby stepped into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Mahalia stirred what smelled like pudding on the stove, the wooden spoon making smooth figure eights over the bottom of the cooking pot to prevent burning.

Libby peered into the vessel. “Tapioca? Isn’t that a bit bland for your taste, Mahalia?”

Mahalia snorted. “You’ll never catch me eatin’ the likes of this.” She grimaced. “How you white folk can swallow such tasteless bird shit is beyond me.”

Libby gave her a sweet smile. “But it’s nice of you to think of the boarders once in a while. Since,” she added, arching an eyebrow, “that’s who you’re supposed to be cooking for in the first place.”

Mahalia lifted her chin, appearing offended. “I just try to expand their culinary experience.” Suddenly her face changed, and she gave Libby a wicked grin.

“What’s that look for?” Libby slumped into a chair by the table and watched the steam rise from her coffee.