Liz Ireland (12 page)

One thing was certain—judging from this sample, Eugene Pendergast certainly had an interesting idea of what was appropriate reading material for children. But why on earth had Pendergast ventured out in the middle of the night to get the books out of the schoolhouse?

“Cecilia, you’ve got to make them stop!” Dolly cried. “Oh, Buck, be careful!”

Absorbed in trying to find a picture of Willa the dance hall girl, Cecilia crossed over to the pump, poured a bucket of water and returned with it. “Hold this,” she told Dolly as she handed her the book. Then, aiming the bucket to best hit both men’s faces, she dumped the water on her target.

“Hey!” Buck cried, holding Pendergast’s collar in one fist. “That ain’t fair!”

Jake shook his head in disgust. “I didn’t throw the water, you mutton head.”

Buck looked up at Cecilia and Dolly staring down at him. The water had apparently sobered him somewhat. “What are you doing here, Cici?” he asked.

“I could ask the same thing,” she replied.

Dolly pushed past her and dropped to her knees in the fresh mud. “Oh, my darling,” she cooed, cradling Buck’s head. “You’ve hurt yourself.”

“Dolly,” Buck murmured lovingly, burying his face in her soft muslin-covered chest. “I was just trying to protect your honor.”

“Oh, dear, what will make you feel better?”

Buck reached into his back pocket and produced a flask of hooch. “This will.”

Shaking his head, Jake moved away from the action and leaned back against the school’s porch steps to catch his breath. What a mess this had turned into! His books were scattered all over creation. As he picked up the ones nearest him, something caught his eye. The moonlight filtering through the boards next to him revealed something beneath the steps. Something that looked like books.

A quick duck into the crawl space confirmed his suspicions. Jake grabbed one of the readers, pushed himself up from the dirt and stumbled over to the pump, trying to assess the damage to his person. As far as he could tell, he would come out of this with only a few bruises and aches. Worse by far than any physical harm was the fact that Cecilia was thumbing through Pendergast’s books with keen interest. When she saw him moving toward the pump, she was right on his heels.

“You look fine!” she said in astonishment.

“Thank you. What did you expect?” Jake worked the pump and splashed water over his face and arms.

“I expected Buck would probably beat the thunder out of you.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah, I could tell you were real concerned.”

It was amazing that the man could laugh about it—most men would still be spitting mad. Cecilia looked into his face with renewed curiosity. Though she hadn’t been paying close attention to the fight, it seemed Pendergast had stood his own quite well—and Buck was considered one of the most formidable brawlers in the county. Even more so when he’d had a few.

“Seems you managed to protect yourself pretty well for someone so...bookish.” She gingerly held up
Dancehall Gunfight.

The inane cover of the cheap little book mocked him as effectively as Cecilia’s blue eyes did. “Humorous story, isn’t it?” Jake said.

Her triumphant smile reached from ear to ear; she held the book by her fingertips, as if it was distasteful. “I bet Lysander Beasley will be interested to see what the youth of Annsboro have been consuming.”

With a smile equally broad, Jake produced with a flourish the barely used Gibson reader he’d retrieved. “You mean, as opposed to consuming this?”

Her jaw hung slack in surprise. “Why...it’s one of the missing readers!”

“Apparently so.”

Under his sharp gaze, Cecilia fidgeted for a moment. Then, composing herself, she exclaimed, “Those boys and their pranks!”

Jake smirked. “So you think it was the older ones, hmm?”

“Of course,” she said nervously. She leaned against the pump and crossed her arms. “You know, now that I think about it, Tommy Beck even locked Bea under those porch steps once.”

“The porch steps?” Jake took a step closer to her, so that she was pinned between him and the well. “And just why did you jump to the conclusion that that’s where they were hidden?”

Her mouth snapped open, then closed. Even in the moonlight, he could see her face darken in a deep blush. He had her. “I sure don’t think Beasley would consider reading some fun little stories nearly as offensive as playing fast and loose with school property.”

Her jaw set stubbornly. “It’s your word against mine.”

“And who do you think they’ll believe?” he asked, placing a hand on the stones to either side of her waist.

Pendergast, naturally. “I don’t care who everyone believes!” she said defiantly. “I still say you’re a curious excuse for a schoolteacher.”

“Curious, how?” he asked, enjoying the way the moonlight made her blue eyes look sparkly and dark.

“First, you’re a Yankee, but you don’t sound like one. And you’re a schoolteacher with an odd sense of what’s appropriate for your students to do all day. And you sure as hell don’t fight like a schoolteacher, and I know you don’t kiss like one!”

As her own ears registered what she’d just blurted out, her lips pressed shut and her cheeks reddened even more.

Lord, she was pretty. He remembered how she looked this afternoon in her fancy dress, but she looked just as inviting tonight in her work clothes. He leaned closer to her, breathing the sweet female scent of her hair and getting himself more wound up than was wise.

“How are schoolteachers supposed to kiss, Cecilia?”

“Not like you,” she said, looking straight into his chest.

“Well, you’re a teacher,” he said. His heart pounded heavily as he pulled her toward him. “Show me how it’s supposed to be done.”

Her breath caught just before he kissed her, a little sound that aroused him more than he would have thought possible. This time when their lips met, she snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her, just like he’d imagined her doing on the many sleepless nights he had lain awake thinking of her. It was as if she, too, had anticipated this moment....

They were both brought back to earth by the sound of Dolly, who was still kneeling in the mud across the yard from them.

“Cecilia?”

Startled, Cecilia looked at Pendergast through glazed eyes. He was grinning at her. Like he’d just won a second victory for the evening. She stepped back in horror. “I must have lost my mind!”

“Or maybe you just don’t know your own mind,” Jake said, loving the sweet confusion on her face. “Women sometimes don’t, I hear.”

“Oh, if that wasn’t the most—”

“Yes,” he said, interrupting, “and you were enjoying every second of it.”

God help her, she was, and Pendergast knew it. Cecilia looked down and felt her herself blush from head to toe. Pendergast laughed softly and lifted her chin, as though about to kiss her again.

“Cecilia?” Dolly called into the darkness. “I think I might need help with Buck.”

Cecilia pulled away from Pendergast and threw him an accusing look. But what could she accuse him of? She hadn’t even thought to duck away from his kiss.

“I won’t say anything if you won’t,” he said.

“About the kiss?” she asked, shocked. As if she wanted
that
spread all over town!

“No, about the books.”

Well, there was simply no question about that! Backfired. Another plan had backfired, this time so completely that she hardly knew what had gone wrong. Or what to do next.

Making no promises, she turned and marched over to where Buck was lurching up from the ground. Pendergast was right behind her, she was glad to note, because it looked as if it was going to take all of them to maneuver the ranch hand back to the boardinghouse. She shook her head, remembering the time she and Pendergast had carried Buck before.

“I’ll take one arm, you take the other,” she directed Pendergast.

“Maybe we can lift him onto his horse,” he suggested.

She had to admit it would be easier. They hoisted Buck to standing and began stumbling toward the horse.

Dolly was completely useless. “Poor Buck,” she said fretfully as they heaved his inert body. “I fear he’s a tad inebriated.”

Hearing his name, Buck came out of his stupor long enough to say, “I ain’t too drunk, Dolly. I was just worried about your honor.”

“Dear Buck.” Dolly smiled tenderly at him. “Please don’t say ain’t.”

Luckily, Buck passed out or Jake feared they would have had another brawl on their hands.

He glanced over at Cecilia as he took the reins to lead the horse, but she was pointedly not looking in his direction. He remembered their kiss and felt desire surge through him all over again. He should have been happy—finding those readers meant he could breathe easy for a while. If she tried to devil him again, he could snitch on her to Beasley.

He had her.

But after that kiss, he feared she also had him.

E
arly Sunday morning, just when it was beginning to seem that summer might last until Christmas, autumn blew into Annsboro with one blustery gust. And that same wind, Jake decided, would be at his back as he blew out of town.

He’d waited too long already. And after last night, he feared Cecilia would be hot to figure out some new way to expose him.

He had cried sick while the others were bustling off to church, and now he dashed about the empty boardinghouse snatching things to take with him. He would keep Pendergast’s clothes, which finally matched the weather, his gun, a few things from Dolly’s larder and the little flask of whiskey Dolly had hidden there. All this basically added up to the clothes on his back, which was fine with him. It was best to travel light.

He looked out his second-story window at the deserted town, then noted Buck’s horse tethered by the shade tree to the side of the house. Dolly had dragged a woebegone-looking Buck, who’d spent the night folded onto the parlor settee, off to services this morning. Poor man. All he was going to receive for his holiness today was a stolen horse.

But at least Jake could count on his leaving being the answer to someone’s prayers. He could just imagine Cecilia jumping for joy the minute she discovered he was gone for good. She would have her coveted job back, and her precious room, and she probably wouldn’t have to launder another shirt as long as she lived.

The thought of Cecilia’s happiness at seeing the back of him made him smile wistfully. Because of her, he would have almost wanted to stay in Annsboro. Almost. He liked her spirit—but that same spirit was exactly why he needed to hightail it out of town as quickly as possible.

After last night, there was no telling what Cecilia would do next to get rid of him. In spite of the sweet way she kissed, he knew she wasn’t about to surrender her ultimate goal. The woman had the tenacity of a snapping turtle; once she sank her teeth into something, nothing could shake her loose.

Maybe even the way she had responded to that kiss had been just another tactic of hers. Who knew? The woman had him so off-balance he couldn’t be sure. He remembered the way she’d laced her hands behind his neck and pressed herself against him, and he groaned in response. Good thing he was leaving—much more of that kind of treatment and she would have him under her thumb.

No, that wasn’t true. He was already completely under her spell. For weeks his thoughts of Gunter and Darby had been completely usurped by his dreams of Cecilia. And, of course, his worry that she would finally figure out a way to prove he was a fraud.

He shook his head in awe. Perhaps he was the only man in Annsboro who could truly appreciate Cecilia Summertree. For over a year he’d been on the run, dodging bullets and staying up nights wondering whether he’d live to see daylight again. Lying low in this peaceful small town was supposed to be a rest for him, a relief, but his time around Cecilia had been as stressful as dodging Darby and Gunter.

In fact, Cecilia’s campaign against him had been so successful that leaving town would almost seem like a relief. He was fairly certain, at least, that Gunter wasn’t out there looking for him. He estimated Otis Darby’s ranch to be about a two-day ride to the south, and he intended to go there straight off and face his enemy down. The man would probably think he was seeing a ghost, but that could work to Jake’s advantage.

Trouble was, if Gunter had rejoined his father-in-law, traveling to Darby’s ranch meant it was going to be two against one. For a moment Jake considered enlisting his old mentor Burnet Dobbs in his cause, but then he dropped that idea just as fast. He’d gone it alone this long, he might as well finish it up by himself, as well. He did have the element of surprise in his favor.

He crept quickly and stealthily down the stairs, then slowly opened the door. He still had some time before the church service was finished, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself as he rode out on Buck’s horse.

As he stepped out onto Dolly’s porch, prepared to dash over to the animal and sneak out of town, Jake heard Lysander Beasley call his name.

“Pendergast! Look what I have for you!”

Oh, hell. Of all the times...

Jake looked up to see Beasley and another well-dressed man approaching through Dolly’s yard. As they came closer, Jake hurriedly took in physical details for clues as to the stranger’s identity. The man wore a bowler hat, and his build was slight; perhaps to compensate, he sported a thick bushy mustache and fussy muttonchop whiskers. This was not a person from around here. Overall, the closer the man came, his hand already thrust outward for a hearty shake, the more his appearance made Jake nervous.

But not nearly as nervous as Jake’s appearance seemed to be making
him.
His hand still extended, the man’s expectant smile froze, then disappeared altogether, replaced by a narrow-eyed look of confusion. “Pendergast?”

Not knowing how else to respond, Jake clasped that hand and pumped it for all he was worth. His skin prickled with dread as he mentally relived his early-morning conversation with the real Pendergast over and over for clues that might reveal who this man was. But Pendergast had mostly talked about himself; besides, they’d both been drunk. Stupidly, Jake realized now, he had never considered that Pendergast actually knew anyone in Texas; the man had seemed such a fish out of water. Unfortunately, this person’s voice had no trace of an accent that Jake would recognize, so it was impossible to say where Pendergast had met him.

The stranger finally retrieved his hand and stepped back to get a better look at him. Jake turned his profile to the man, hoping avoiding eye contact would fool him. Maybe he really hadn’t known Pendergast that well....

“Well, well!” Jake said jovially to Beasley. “This
is
a wonderful surprise!” Just when he’d been about to get out of town for good, too!

Beasley beamed a red-cheeked smile. “Man showed up on my doorstep right before church asking about you. I thought we’d probably find you at the school.”

“I was just on my way,” Jake lied.

“Us, too,” Beasley said. “I felt I had to offer our friend a cup of coffee, however, which is why we’re late. Cold morning and all.”

“Yes, finally.” Jake felt his throat growing drier and tighter the longer the stranger remained silent. Who was he and why wasn’t he telling Beasley that Jake was an impostor? Maybe, Jake thought, grasping at any hope, he really looked more like Pendergast than he remembered. After all, Gunter had been confused....

“You certainly have changed!” the man exclaimed, dashing Jake’s desperate hopes.

“I...yes, I have,” Jake said. What was the point in denying it? Pendergast
was
a completely different person now, as this man was certain to figure out in mere moments. He screwed up his courage and looked the stranger straight in the eye. “So have you.”

“I have?” The man, who had been squinting curiously, now stepped back in amazement.

“The whiskers,” Jake guessed. No man, not even this one, would bother with such a troublesome-looking appearance for long.

The stranger laughed and rubbed his hand thoughtfully along his cheek. “Do they make me look more like a sport?”

More like a lapdog, Jake thought, but agreed, “Absolutely, old man,” and clapped the fellow on the back.

“How do you like Annsboro, Eugene?”

Jake nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled. “Fine, fine.” In spite of the brisk temperature, he could feel nervous beads of sweat popping out on his brow. He reached into his pants pocket for a handkerchief but felt only Buck’s whiskey flask.

If only he’d left five minutes earlier!

Beasley chuckled to fill the lengthening silence. “Watkins here was saying you had quite a reputation for oration at your university, Pendergast.”

Watkins!

“And I was telling Watkins that pretty soon we’ll have a university out here....”

Watkins. The smile that Jake had so carefully frozen on melted. This was worse than he could have imagined. Pendergast and Watkins had been school chums, then; there was no way on earth he could keep his disguise going for more than a few minutes more.

His stomach flip-flopped anxiously as he thought of the repercussions of this stranger’s visit. The citizens of Annsboro would run him out of town. Word of his subterfuge would spread. Within days, Darby and Gunter would be able to sniff out his trail and the chase would begin again.

Jake felt sick, literally sick. What would he say to Cecilia, to everyone? Could he get down to Darby’s ranch before word broke? The jumble of thoughts made him feel dizzy.

Suddenly, a possible solution to his dilemma occurred to him. Maybe Watkins had a bad memory, or bad eyesight. Surely this man would not stay in Annsboro indefinitely, which meant that all Jake needed to do was avoid contact with him as much as possible. And the best way to do that was to put himself out of commission.

Beasley stopped rambling in mid-sentence, his expression suddenly filled with concern. “Say, Pendergast...are you all right?”

Jake lifted a hand to his realistically sweaty brow. “I...I...” Knees, waist, shoulders and neck went limp, then collapsed to the porch steps in turn.

“Pendergast?” Watkins said.

“Pendergast!” cried Beasley. The two men lunged forward too late to catch his fall.

Not a bad faint, if Jake did say so himself.

* * *

“We were just standing there, and then he fainted!”

Lysander Beasley had repeated his version of the incident about ten times by the time Jake was finally hauled up the stairs and into his own bed, where he immediately turned, deliriously, onto his stomach, stuffing gun, flask and two pears beneath the mattress while everyone was turned to listen to Beasley’s retelling of his meeting with Watkins.

Watkins—he couldn’t believe his bad luck. Foolishly, he’d stopped worrying about such a person when it became clear that there was no one in town named Watkins. He never dreamed the man, who it turned out was the superintendent of schools in the area, would make a surprise appearance.

At each retelling, Beasley inflated the details of the story to heighten the drama of Jake’s having passed out cold on Dolly’s porch. Which suited Jake just fine. The sicker everyone thought he was, the less strange they would think it was when Watkins got around to mentioning the fact that he looked suspiciously unlike the fellow he went to the university with. Jake’s biggest blessing so far seemed to be the fact that Watkins was apparently a closemouthed type.

There was a racket of someone taking the steps two at a time, then Cecilia whisked into the room. Apparently, she’d just heard the good news.

“What’s the matter with him?” she demanded, displacing a hovering Dolly from his bedside and slapping her hand against his temple to check his temperature.

“He felt feverish to me,” Dolly informed her.

“Feels fine to me,” Cecilia said flatly.

Dolly was still fretting. “Oh, he told me he was sick before church! I should have stayed with him.”

“Hmph.” Cecilia removed her hand and said nothing for a moment. “Should he be lying on his stomach?”

“I tried to turn him, but he kept flopping back over.” Dolly clucked her tongue. “I suppose if he feels like lying on his back, he’ll turn himself.”

Not a chance. Jake wasn’t about to let Watkins get another good look at his face, even if he had to suffocate to death by having his face smashed into a pillow. He would have loved to have seen Cecilia’s expression, to gauge what she thought of this whole business, but he didn’t risk peeking.

Of course, her eager, breathless voice had spoken for itself—the sicker he was, the better. He felt her hands moving along his limbs in a quick examination.

“Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken,” she said with disappointment. “Where’s Dr. Parker?”

“Mrs. Landers out to the east is having a baby. I’ve sent Walters after him,” Beasley said.

“A baby! That could take forever,” Cecilia muttered.

But then, when it came to finding out whether her nemesis was truly at death’s door, Jake doubted whether any doctor could have been speedy enough for Cecilia.

* * *

All afternoon, Cecilia kept up her bedside vigil. Something suspicious was going on here, and she didn’t intend to budge until she figured out what it was. Despite Dolly’s observations, Cecilia had seen no evidence of a fever, nor did Pendergast appear to have a head wound.

And why would a man faint away right on Dolly’s porch? It wasn’t even hot outside anymore!

All morning she’d been praying for divine intervention on her behalf, and now it looked like she might have gotten it. Oh, she would admit when she’d first heard about his illness she had felt a moment of worry...but anyone with half a brain could tell this man wasn’t sick!

Certainly judging by his kiss last night, he was just fine. Perhaps it had made
her
feel feverish and fitful, but when it was all over he had looked as smug and happy as ever.

Which was why this was all so strange. After the debacle with the schoolbooks, she would have thought he really had the upper hand, so why this subterfuge? And again, why had he been wandering around in the middle of the night in the first place? And if he was sick—which he wasn’t—why had he been out on Dolly’s porch when he could have been in bed?

The long quiet hours were punctuated by Chadwick Watkins wandering into the sickroom, staring at Pendergast’s back, then wandering out again, shaking his head. After the second time this happened, Cecilia began to suspect that perhaps Pendergast’s ailment had something to do with Watkins’s arrival. But how could that be? According to Watkins, he and Pendergast had been university acquaintances together in Pennsylvania. Their loose association had been the reason Pendergast had heard about the teaching position in Annsboro.

On his third time around, she was ready for him.

“Mr. Watkins, I’m curious,” she said. “Why do you keep looking at Mr. Pendergast and shaking your head?”

He came forward, rubbing his muttonchops thoughtfully. Personally, the man had always given Cecilia the willies.