Outlaw Hearts (8 page)

“Yes.” Miranda stirred the dumplings, then picked up a hot pad and took hold of the kettle of hot water. “There's nothing left for me here but bad memories.” She poured some of the water into the wash pan she had set out. “My mother died from injuries from a fall when I was fourteen, and my father blamed himself for not being able to help her. For all his skills as a doctor, there was nothing he could do. That was back in Illinois.” She hung the kettle back over the fire. “Father—his name was Doctor Lawrence Baker—moved here to start fresh, get away from his own bad memories. He gave up doctoring, tried to farm. I met Mack in Kansas City. Mackenzie Hayes was his full name. He was a boot-maker. We married, and two weeks later he volunteered for the war like all young men his age. He fought for the Union, of course.” She glanced at Jake, saw a look of near guilt in his eyes. “I don't suppose you fought in the war?”

He folded his arms. “No. I was a gunrunner—smuggled rifles and ammunition to the Confederates for gold.”

She paled slightly. “I see.”

“I don't think you do. By the time the war started, I was already well on my way to living on the wrong side of the law and getting money however I could get it, legally or illegally. What did I know about the reasons for that war? All I saw were a lot of young men blowing each other's guts out for what they thought were noble reasons. What was really happening was that the men in power were using those poor young men as their little pawns in a political struggle. I wasn't about to die for that, but I didn't mind making money off their war, so I robbed Union trains and stole guns from the North, then sold them to the South. Some of that led to robberies after the war ended. That's when I fell in with Kennedy and his bunch—Confederates bent on continuing their revenge. When that's the only kind of people you've ever known, Randy, you just end up in that kind of life.”

Miranda dipped a large ladle into a bucket of cool water and carried it over to the wash pan to poor it in and cool the hot water already there. “I would like to understand, Jake, I really would. Sit down here and I'll wash your hair. Maybe at supper you can tell me more about yourself.”

He took the chair. “It would be pretty hard for a woman like you to hear it.”

“I'm stronger than you think.”

Jake put his head back. “You were telling me about yourself.”

“Nothing much more to tell.” She took the ladle and poured some of the water over his hair, letting the excess run back into the pan. She began soaping up his hair then. “Mack never came back. I married him in sixty-two, got the telegram about his death in sixty-three. He didn't even die from a wound. He died from cholera. In sixty-four, my brother left and it was nearly a year before he bothered to write and tell us he was in Nevada. I haven't heard from him since. That's his picture over there on the stand by the cot.”

She began scrubbing his hair. “A few weeks ago my father was killed by raiders and we lost everything of value, which left me with this excuse of a farm and the draft horses my only collateral. Since the farm isn't worth much, all I really have left is some money my father had in the bank and what I can get for the two draft horses of mine. I intend to load most of my furniture into the wagon in a few days and take it and the wagon and horses into Kansas City and sell everything. The bank is going to take over the farm and sell it for what they can get, and I'll be on my way to Nevada.”

Jake enjoyed the gentle massage of her hands. He struggled against growing feelings for this woman whom he admired for her courage and fortitude. She was no fainting flower, in spite of her size. She had strength and determination, and she was not easily frightened. Never had he fought manly urges as much as he was right now, for besides his great admiration for her, he also could not help feeling a sexual attraction. She was bending close, her nicely rounded breasts not far from his face. He wanted to take hold of her, touch those full breasts, taste them, take pleasure in her mouth, feel her body against his own. It had been a while since he was with a woman, and he'd never bedded one like Miranda Hayes, a woman of virtue and gentleness, the kind of woman who only gave herself to a man out of love and devotion. He almost laughed out loud at the idea of her thinking of him that way.

“You're quite a woman,” he told her. “Most would have gone into town a long time ago just for the protection of civilization, maybe married the first man who came along who could provide for them.”

“I'll find a way to provide for myself. I married Mack because I had deep affection for him. He was a good man. It had nothing to do with wanting someone to look after me. I wanted to take care of him, give him children.” She began rinsing his hair. “Have you ever thought of settling, Jake? Having sons?”

He chuckled. “Me? I've given it a thought a time or two, but a wanted man isn't one who can settle, let alone find a woman who would be willing to be on the run the rest of her life. As far as children…” He paused for a moment, losing his smile. “I got no teaching in how to handle children. I'd be too afraid that somehow I'd be like my own father. I'd shoot myself if I ever found myself doing that to my own kid. The way I was raised, and the way I've lived, I'd make a pretty rotten father. I'm better off leaving things just like they are.”

Miranda took a towel and motioned for him to sit up straight. She began drying his hair with the towel. “Where will you go when you leave here?”

“I don't know. Indian Territory, I expect. That's the best place for wanted men to hide out. I might go on farther west from there. It's a lawless land out there. A man can make his own rules. I was on my way when that bounty hunter found me.”

Miranda went to her father's washstand near the cot and returned with a comb and a pair of scissors. Pulling the comb through Jake's tangled hair, she said, “Do you want to know something funny?”

“What's that?”

“I think I'll miss you a little when you go. I don't even fully trust you yet, and I am firmly against the way you live. But I have actually enjoyed taking care of you. It has kept me busy, kept my mind off my grief. You have brought a strangely exciting element to things lately—I've never shot a man before, never taken a bullet out of a man, never known a real outlaw. It's too bad it was your kind who killed my father. I could never fully forgive that, but I truly would like to understand it, if you would share your past with me. I feel it might be good for you to talk to someone about it. And where is the harm?”

She began snipping at his hair, thinking how full and wavy and pretty it was, so black it almost looked blue. “Once you leave here, you'll never see me again, so why not use me as a sounding board? You already did a while ago when you lit into me about how your father treated you.
Were
you a bastard, or was that all in his head?”

Jake thought about his mother, as beautiful a woman as any man could want, a dark, exotic beauty. “My father was white, from Connecticut. He came from a very poor family. His own father abused him, kicked him out when he was twelve years old, or so he told me. I used to feel sorry for him, until he kicked or beat out any feelings I had for him.” The last statement was spoken bitterly, and he paused a moment before continuing.

“At any rate,” he finally spoke up again, “he wandered to Texas, worked for a while, joined Houston's army to fight for Texas's independence. He was at San Jacinto when Santa Anna surrendered. After that he wandered around northern Mexico and southern Texas, bought a young Mexican girl off her drunken father and lived with her, never married her.”

“Your mother?”

Again Jake paused before answering. “Her name was Evita, and from what I can remember, she was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. But from my earliest memories, my pa seemed to enjoy beating her. He accused her of sleeping with other men, was jealous of her beauty. I wouldn't blame her if she
did
sleep with other men, the way my pa treated her. But I don't believe in my heart she ever did. She just wasn't that type. I felt so sorry for her when I got older and realized she never had any choice in living with my father. He paid money for her, like a common whore. I'm sure she hated that. At any rate, it wasn't long before my father turned on me, believing I was the bastard son of one of my mother's lovers. I can't begin to describe what it's like, being seven, eight years old and having your giant of a father come after you with his big fists or a wide belt that leaves welts and scars.”

Miranda combed through his hair again, deciding to be careful with her words. He was being unusually open, and he spoke with near trembling emotion. She was not sure how long this spell of revealing his true feelings would last. “Your back?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He sighed deeply. “Scars from a three-inch-wide belt with a big buckle on the end.” He stopped to swallow and clear his throat, as though the next words were too difficult to speak. “I had a younger brother once. Pa beat him one time until he was unconscious. He was only six. I tried to stop him, but Pa turned on me and wrapped a piece of thin cord around my neck, twisting it until I choked to the point of blacking out. It cut into the skin and left a scar. You probably noticed it when you were nursing me.”

“Yes. I wondered about it.” Miranda fought tears. She never dreamed one man could be capable of such horror against his own children, let alone that a child could survive such a thing and remain sane, if Jake Harkner could be considered sane.

“When I came around, I was still lying on the floor, blood everywhere. My little brother lay not far from me, dead. My mother was in the next room, also dead. Pa had beat her for trying to help me. I didn't see it, but I know that's what happened. Pa was outside digging graves. When he came in and found out I was still alive, he told me I'd better never tell anybody what really happened, or he'd kill me, and I damn well believed him. He told others that my mother and brother had taken sick and died from cholera. That was in a little town in northern Mexico, and most of the people there were afraid of him, so nobody questioned the explanation. Pa was a big man, like me. That's where I get my size from, but my coloring, my looks, that comes from my Mexican blood.”

“I wondered. I knew you had either Spanish blood or perhaps Indian.” She finished trimming his hair, then rubbed in a little of her father's hair oil to smooth it back and combed through it. She came around to stand in front of him, struck by what looked like tears in his eyes. She decided he would hate it if she acknowledged those tears, so she put on a smile. “You look wonderful. Do you want to go look in the mirror in my bedroom?”

He grinned almost bashfully. “Sure. Lord knows this is the last time I'll be clean and groomed for a while.” He rose, scooting back his chair and walking into the bedroom.

Miranda wanted very much to ask him about Santana, about the circumstances of his father's death and how he had ended up living the life of an outlaw. But she had learned a woman had to tread cautiously around a man like Jake Harkner. If he wanted to tell her, he would tell her. She couldn't pressure it out of him, and she knew now that it was probably something very difficult for him to talk about. He had already told her more than she ever imagined he would.

“Looks fine,” he told her from the bedroom. “I hardly recognize myself.”

Miranda laughed. “Maybe that's the look you should keep. Maybe others won't recognize you either. Besides, you're an exceptionally handsome man, Jake Harkner. You shouldn't hide under all that dirt and hair.”

There came no reply. She picked up the pan of water and held it against her waist with one hand as she opened the door. She walked out onto the porch and tossed the used water into the grass in front of the cabin. It was then she saw them, three riders coming. She recognized Sheriff McCleave's horse, and her heart rushed faster. The sheriff! Jake!

She hurried back inside. “Stay in the bedroom!” she called out, hurriedly shoving Jake's boots under her cot. She grabbed the comb and scissors and put them back with her father's things, pushed the chair back in place. Jake came into the main room.

“What is it?”

“Sheriff McCleave. He's coming here! I can't believe he'd come when it's nearly dark like this!”

Jake hurried into the bedroom, and Miranda ran in behind him to see him quickly loading his revolvers. “No!” she shouted, grabbing at his arm.

Jake gave her a shove, sending her stumbling backward. “I didn't go through all this to turn around and get hanged!” he growled.

Miranda grabbed his arm again. “He's a
friend
, Jake, and a good man! I don't want him hurt!”

Jake whirled, grasping her wrist and pulling her hand away. He cocked the revolver. “He's the
law
!”

Desperate tears began to fill her eyes. “He's just a friend come to check on me. I can keep him outside, Jake! Even if he comes in, all your things are either in the shed or in here. I already put up the horses. He'll never know you're here if you just stay crouched down on the other side of the bed!” Her eyes teared. “Please! If you hurt him and the men with him, it will be like I did it, don't you see? If I hadn't put you up, or if I had just turned you in, none of it would have happened! Please, Jake! You
owe
me!”

Jake studied the blue-gray eyes that lately had haunted his thoughts and desires. He was becoming much too fond of this woman he could never have, beginning to feel emotions he had thought were long buried or even destroyed. “I owe you
nothing
!” he muttered. “You might have saved me, but you're also the one who shot me, so we're even.”

“I also could have turned you in for five thousand dollars, so we're not even!”

“And how do I know you won't do it now?” he said bitterly. “Here's your chance, lady! Five thousand dollars can send a woman to Nevada in style. You could even hire someone to go to Nevada and find your brother, while you stay here and live in safety and comfort. It can buy you some damn fancy dresses and a nice little house in town!”