Kit Gardner (2 page)

Rance crushed the hat in one fist. “I owe you my life, Abigail.”

“Somehow I think you might have managed an escape without me.”

“Let me take you somewhere.”

She shook her head and seemed to force a wavering smile. “Cameron would find me. Besides, I’ve my children here.” Her narrow chest rose and fell beneath expensive lace. “And they’re still young. You see, I am simply doing my duty as a law-abiding citizen who doesn’t wish to see an innocent man hang. No, I wasn’t in Buffalo Kate’s saloon last night. And I don’t even know the man you killed. But I do know you, Rance. I know that somewhere deep down, under all that grime, under all your wounds, lurks a gentleman. And gentlemen don’t kill, except in self-defense. I’m merely freeing you, Rance. Your life is your own to save.”

Their eyes met, and something tore at Rance’s soul. Gratitude, fierce and completely foreign. He couldn’t remember anyone ever doing something for him that he hadn’t somehow paid for. His fingers reached for hers, yet she chose to ignore him as she bent and hoisted the discarded manacles. After shoving the shackles at him, she turned about and clasped her hands behind her back. “Put those awful things on my wrists, Rance, then lock me in here. And I suppose you should gag me, as well, if this is to look dastardly and cruel. After all, women have a tendency to scream in situations such as this, don’t they?”

Rance felt the weight of the chains in his fist. “Why do you stay with him, Abigail? Take the children with you somewhere. Anything has to be better than—”

“Stop.” She choked the word out, her head dipping. “Please, don’t speak of it. I’m his wife.”

“You’re afraid of him.”

“And what if I am? He’s still the father of my children. The only man I’ve ever known. I know it’s difficult for men to understand that sort of thing, but we women...we have so very few choices in this life. And what few we have are decided for us by men. Now hurry, Rance. The sheriff is sure to come, and Cameron with him.”

“Come with me, Abigail. We’ll go south, into Oklahoma. Or I’ll take you east, to—”

“No. Please, I don’t want to know where you’re going. Just go alone. You’ll have a fighting chance. Saddled with me... Good heavens, I’ve spent the last twenty years in all the relative comfort money can buy in this godforsaken town. I haven’t been on a horse since before I married Cameron. Some bounty hunter would catch us before we even made Dodge City, and then Cameron would probably kill us both. Now, dammit, put those chains on me, or I
will
start screaming.”

So he did, shackling her narrow white wrists to the iron bars and stuffing a gag into her mouth. By the time Gage returned to the jail with Cameron Spotz and found a hysterical Abigail blubbering about that outlaw Rance Logan overpowering her and managing his escape, Rance had disappeared into the barren Kansas prairie, with Frank Wynne’s gold locket and chain stuffed deep in one pocket.

Twilight, Kansas

June 1882

J
essica Wynne knew she should have worn her gloves, the freshly bleached and pressed white gardening gloves she’d folded neatly in the top drawer of the pine bureau in the sunny corner of her kitchen. Sadie McGlue would never have forgotten
her
gardening gloves—were Sadie McGlue ever given to gardening, that is. No, indeed, Sadie McGlue, of the New England McGlues—were there others?—would have surely remembered to encase her smooth, lily-white hands in
two
pairs of gloves before allowing her fingers to venture anywhere near dirt. Sadie McGlue would have remembered her gloves because Sadie McGlue had very little else to ponder except for the harmful effects of sun and Kansas dirt upon her tender skin and meticulously manicured nails. Then again, Sadie McGlue would never have been found on her knees in a strawberry patch on the hottest of June afternoons, up to her elbows in bone-dry Kansas dirt.

This was because Sadie McGlue had both a New England fortune and a husband to care for her. Sadie McGlue had no children to tend to and no farm to manage all on her own. Sadie McGlue also happened to live on Maple Street, the widest, longest, shadiest street in all of Twilight, in a freshly painted white two-story wooden house with black shutters and flower-filled white window boxes made of the same imported southern Missouri wood as the house. Sadie McGlue bought her strawberries at the local market with all the rest of the upper-crust folks from Maple Street. Jessica’s strawberries. And Jessica’s beets and preserves.

Jessica shifted to another strawberry plant, ignoring the ache spreading through her lower back. Just as she ignored the sun beating upon her bonneted head and the exposed back of her neck, where her frayed collar gapped. Just as she ignored the dirt accumulating beneath her nails and the browning of the skin on the backs of her hands. Dry. The dirt sifted through her fingers, then vanished with the next hot breeze. Too dry for so early in the season. If only the frigid winds of the past winter had been accompanied by a blizzard or two, her crop would have flourished through the summer on water stored in the ground after the thaw. Then again, as it was, she’d barely survived the cold. And talk was already circulating of the snowy, even colder winter to come. Not for the first time, she wondered if she could live through another four months of howling wind and bone-shattering cold with her sanity intact, not to mention the roof and the barn.

With a gentleness she deemed only children and plants worthy of, she sank her fingers deep into the soil around one withering stalk and envisioned the pails of water she would need to haul from the well to this field. If she didn’t, if the sky remained as clear and blue from horizon to horizon, the air as hot and unforgiving, she would have no strawberries for women like Sadie McGlue to serve in fine porcelain bowls to their lady friends after church on Sundays and tea on Thursdays. There would be no strawberry preserves to sell this year, and therefore no new dairy cow, no new birch broom from New England, no additional stock of precious fuel for the winter months, and certainly no new horse to hitch to the broken-down buckboard wagon that had gathered a year’s worth of dust in the barn. And that lovely blue-gray dress with the scalloped lace collar would still be in the window at Ledbetter’s General Store long after she became Mrs. Avram Halsey in a few months’ time.

Odd that she should even waste a thought on that dress when the farm was in need of so much. Just because she’d spotted the thing in the window and briefly indulged herself in thoughts of walking down the chapel aisle on Avram’s arm, wearing that lovely dress, surely didn’t make it more important than a new dairy cow. Yet, some utterly pagan part of her soul, the part entirely unsuitable for a minister’s daughter, truly believed a woman deserved such a dress when venturing into marriage for a second time.

She sat back upon her heels and swept her forearm over her brow, uncaring of the dirt smudges she left upon her cheeks. Then, instinctively, with no thought whatsoever, just as she’d done every two minutes or so since she’d ventured into the field, she glanced toward the gray stone farmhouse and the backyard just visible through the flapping row of white sheets she’d hung out to dry.

Gray...just like the sun-baked landscape here, as if the house were born of the same dry, barren earth. Her gaze probed the gray and immediately found her son, Christian, where she’d left him, half concealed behind the tall cottonwood her own father had planted some twenty-two years before, on the day she was born, when the house was made of sod, not stone. The sunlight caught Christian’s round, blond head. It was just like his father’s, yet somehow intensely vulnerable. So unlike his father’s.

Stray blond tendrils tossed wildly by the wind blocked her view for a moment, and she stuffed them into her bonnet as she struggled to her feet. Yes, there he was, only he wasn’t playing beneath that tree, as she’d instructed him. He was shaking his head, vigorously, as though talking to someone, and he was backing away from...

She squinted beneath the glare of the sun and the dust billowing into her face.

The wind parting the tree branches or perhaps some slight movement, a rippling of shadow there beneath that tree, caught her eye and prompted her fingers to curl with a sudden white-knuckled intensity about the handle of her basket. And then she saw him, a man, crouched low, yet deeply shadowed and immense. A man she’d never seen before, reaching a hand toward her son...as though moments from snatching him up. Her tiny five-year-old child, helpless. And she too far away. A stranger.

The basket fell at her feet. She nearly tripped over it and the tangle of wind-whipped muslin skirts between her thighs. A cry managed to escape her constricting throat, only to be seized by the wind and tossed out over the prairie.

Run.

She stumbled over a strawberry plant and crushed it beneath her thick-soled shoes, clawing at air, then at crumbling dirt to regain her balance. Her vision blurred, and all air compressed in her chest, trapping her voice. Her limbs refused her commands. She couldn’t run fast enough.

The bonnet fell from her head, and hair whipped about her face, blinding her. Again she stumbled. Her chin snapped against dry earth, and one foot caught in her petticoat. She barely heard the cotton tear for the terror thundering in her ears when the man moved closer...closer. This stranger. So big, even crouched, and her Christian so tiny, too tiny even to flee on his thin legs.

Willard Fry, tending his farm a mile to the east, would never hear a rifle shot, much less a scream for help. Twilight was another mile farther. To the west swept nothing but endless arid prairie.

The rifle...get the rifle...

She surged from the field and ran blindly through a tangle of sheets that seemed to deliberately ensnare her in their flapping folds. Into the barn she ran, arms and fingers outstretched in the sudden pitch. The rifle sat in a back corner of the barn, though she should have kept the thing nearer at hand, she, a woman alone on a farm for over a year now, with a young son to protect. But she’d fired it only once, accidentally, and she’d put a hole in the roof of the kitchen. She dimly remembered Avram removing the rifle to the barn for her protection. Her fingers wrapped around cold steel. She hoisted the rifle and spun about.

Please, God, let it be loaded.

The sun still shone with a peculiar mocking brilliance when she dashed from the barn. Another strangled cry spilled from her throat when she spotted Christian...and the stranger. He still crouched low, his back toward her, as broad as her strawberry patch. A godsend, that massive expanse, a target even she would be hard-pressed to miss. Her feet skidded in the dirt, and she heaved the gun onto her shoulder and took aim at a spot just below the fall of his blue-black hair over his collar.

“Stand slowly and turn about, or I’ll put a hole in your back, mister.”

The bulk that was this man seemed to turn to stone. His black hat angled but a fraction toward her and she glimpsed a shadowed, beard-stubbled jaw. With a surge of uncommon female prowess, she glanced at Christian and battled a sudden desperation to fling her arms about his narrow body. His eyes, wide, filled with unmistakable fear, had never looked so blue, his cheeks so downy soft and tender, sun-kissed like a ripe peach. Her arms ached to hold his slight body close enough for her to hear his shallow breaths, to smell his skin, his hair. No, she could have none of that maternal gushing if she was to dispatch this stranger. A strong, self-assured front was required. No weaknesses. No emotion. “Christian, come stand behind Mama here.”

Christian’s enormous blue eyes darted to the stranger, then to the ground, before he frowned at the rifle. “Why do you have the rifle, Mama?”

She peered down the long barrel, her aim wavering upon the back of that black head. “Get behind Mama, Christian.”

Her son hesitated several teeth-grinding moments, then dragged his bare toes in the dust and moved slowly toward her. “But you don’t know how to shoot it, Mama. Reverend Halsey told you to keep it in the barn so you don’t put no more holes in the roof. Remember, Mama?”

“Shush, Christian.”

“But, Mama—”

“Shush. Go sit on the back stoop.”

“But, Mama, you scared him away and—”

“On the back stoop, Christian.
Now.
” Something in the shifting of the stranger’s shoulders flooded her with a profound chagrin, as if even he had taken ample notice of the battle of wills she constantly endured with her son. And then the stranger unfolded his crouched body, slowly, warily, though she sensed he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by her or her gun.

Jessica didn’t realize she’d taken a step back until her foot struck an exposed tree root. She blinked a trickle of perspiration from her eyes. Dust and fear—yes,
fear
—clogged her throat. This man loomed like the devil himself, his head skimming the tree branches a good eight inches above her own. His legs were long and heavily muscled, snugly encased in those faded denims common to thieves and all manner of coarse menfolk. His shoulders looked capable of filling any doorway, and his arms hung potently at his sides, fists unclenched, long fingers curling, as if moments from snatching some concealed weapon from his waistband.

“Turn around,” she said, her voice cracking strangely even as he complied. The eyes struck her first, like an invisible blow, and again her foot faltered over the tree root. The rifle wavered, then fixed squarely on his chest, though her limbs seemed to suddenly quiver beneath the weight of the firearm.

His eyes were gold, as she imagined a lion’s would be, and deep-set beneath a vicious slash of black brows and the shadow of his hat. Yet his gaze was empty. A prairie savage, he was, his skin weathered and creased like worn, deeply tanned leather, his jaw all beard-stubbled hollows and angles. His mouth compressed, tight and unyielding. His eyes reflected nothing but sunlight and then emptiness, cold emptiness, even as they hooded and moved slowly over the length of the rifle.

An outlaw. In her backyard.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice uncharacteristically quavery.

“Stark.” His lip barely curled with the word. His voice was like the sound of distant thunder, ominous, chillingly deep and rasping. Yet his speech was not the typical slow and deliberate heavy twang, but measured, as if his words were carefully chosen, yet simmering with a distinct undercurrent of impatience. “Logan Stark. I meant your boy no harm, ma’am. Or you. Put down the gun.”

She ignored this, having expected it, of course. Any man who looked like this man had but one thing on his mind: no good. She jerked the rifle when one bronzed hand lingered near his pocket. “State your business, Mr. Stark. And be quick about it.”

The wind ruffled through his hair, yet there was nothing innocent even in this on such a man. Perhaps because Jessica felt oddly disconcerted when those transparent eyes seemed to probe right through her, as if he were memorizing her.

“You advertised for a farmhand,” he said.

“You’re mistaken.” In spite of herself, she flushed when his eyes swept the farm and the house, in dire need of repair. One side of the barn bowed and sagged. A crumbling excuse for a stone fence encased one mangy cow lazily chewing her cud. The ravages of one year spent without a man’s hand. Yet what more could a woman do, alone, her funds so depleted when those gambling debts had been called that she could barely afford to feed and clothe her son? She was lucky she still had the house and any semblance of a barn. Had she let them, they’d have taken nearly all her land, all that her father had built his dreams upon, all that he had died for.

Jessica’s nose jutted upward when that golden gaze lingered on the field of wilting strawberry plants.

His eyes shifted back to her.

She jerked her chin to the east. “Next farm up the road. But I’ll save you a walk. Willard Fry hired on his new hand several months back.” A nagging suspicion blossomed to life within her, and she squinted at him through a spray of dust. “That’s an old paper you were looking at, Mr. Stark. Where are you from?”

That jaw angled to the west but his eyes held her. “Just passing through, ma’am. Looking for work.”

“Mama—”

“Shush, Christian.”

“But Mama—”

That old, uncomfortable feeling of maternal ineptitude flooded through her, bringing a tightness to her tone. “Christian, mind me.”

And then Mr. Logan Stark appeared to bunch all his muscles and loom toward her, like a massive black thundercloud that would swallow her up. “Ma’am, don’t move,” he rasped.

One hand reached for her, long fingers outstretched toward her...no, toward the rifle, as if he meant to yank it from her arms. With his other hand, he slowly drew a long, black-handled blade from his waistband. This outlaw, Logan Stark, meant to kill her, take her son, her only cow, burn her house and all her strawberry plants. She could see it in his eyes...in the flash of sunlight upon that blade. The world tilted beneath her feet.