Spirit's Song (15 page)

Kaylynn sighed as she put her arms went around him, her spirit soaring like the red-tailed hawks that glided over the Black Hills as Jesse held her close. It filled her with a sense of wonder she had never known before to think that this man, this strong, beautiful man, needed her. Wanted her.

They sat there for a long, quiet time. Jesse held her close, knowing that, in the last few moments, the entire course of his life had been changed.

Kaylynn rested her cheek on Jesse’s shoulder. If only she could stay here, locked forever in his arms. Wrapped within the safe haven of Jesse’s embrace, she knew she need never fear anything, or anyone, again. Nothing could hurt her now. Not Alan. Not anyone.

She closed her eyes as Jesse stroked her hair, his touch gentle, tender. How wonderful it was, to feel so safe, to know the touch of a man’s hand, not in anger or violence, but in a soft expression of caring. For he must care. Surely he would not kiss her so tenderly, hold her so sweetly, if he didn’t feel some degree of affection for her.

And what, she wondered, did she feel for him? Was it only gratitude because he had agreed to take her home, or was it the first gentle stirring of something deeper, richer, more lasting?

She had thought herself in love with Alan. What if she was wrong again?

She felt Jesse’s lips move in her hair, felt his hands roam lightly up and down her back. His touch, light yet sensual, made her shiver with delight.

“Kay?”

“Hmm?” She smiled at him. No one else had ever called her Kay. She rather liked it.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

“No.” She snuggled a little closer. “I like it here.”

Jesse glanced up at the sun. They still had a couple hours until it was time for the stage to pull out.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked, not meeting his gaze.

“I reckon you can ask me anything.”

“You won’t get mad?”

“No.”

“How did you get that scar on your face?”

He drew in a breath, his arm tightening around her waist.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s all right.”

In a voice devoid of emotion, he told her about Abigail, about the night they had planned to run away, and how her father had caught them. He told the story as though it had happened to someone else, but she heard the underlying pain in his voice, the sense of helplessness and loss.

“And you never found her?”

Jesse shook his head. “No.” He shrugged. “I guess I never will.”

“I’m sorry,” Kaylynn said, and knew it for the lie it was. If Jesse had found his Abigail, he wouldn’t be here, with her, now.

“It was a long time ago. I’m no longer the man she fell in love with.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t matter,” Kaylynn replied. “Not if she loved you.”

Jesse laughed softly, bitterly. “I’m sure it would.” The boy Abigail had loved had died that night, and there was no going back. Even had he wanted to, there was no way to turn the clock back, no way to erase the bitter memories, or wash the blood from his hands.

“Jesse.” His name was a whisper on her lips as she reached out to caress his scarred cheek.

“Don’t.” He caught her hand before she could touch him, imprisoning it tightly in his.

“Let me.”

He gazed deep into her eyes and then, very slowly, released her hand, his body stiffening as her fingertips traced the long, white scar that was a constant reminder of a night he would never forget. Her touch left him feeling weak, vulnerable, needy for more.

“Kay…”

Taking her hand in his, he kissed her palm. And then, very lightly, he ran his tongue over her skin. Heat sizzled through her, awareness flooded through every nerve ending, making her pulse race and her heart beat fast. Excitement fluttered like butterfly wings in her stomach.

“Jesse.” She gasped his name. “Oh, Jesse.”

“It’s all right.” He wrapped her in his arms again, holding her close, closer. He had promised to take her home, he thought, and wondered how he would ever let her go.

Chapter Twenty

Alan Summers sat back in his chair, his voice deceptively low and calm, his eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me you lost her?”

Amos McCarthy shuffled his feet nervously. “Yes, sir.”

Alan swore a pithy oath. His temper had grown considerably shorter as the weeks had gone by.

“What kind of men are you hiring these days, that they can’t hold on to one woman?” Alan asked disdainfully.

McCarthy felt his cheeks grow hot. “One of my men spotted Mrs. Summers in a little town called Red Creek. He was about to close in but…” McCarthy cleared his throat. “A bounty hunter by the name of Vance Sandler beat him to it.”

“I don’t want excuses,” Alan snapped. “Why didn’t your man just take her from Sandler and be done with it?”

“Well.” McCarthy ran a pudgy finger around the inside of his shirt collar. “The truth is, she got away from Sandler. I heard she left him afoot out on the plains.” McCarthy started to smile, but one look at his employer’s face changed his mind.

Alan drummed his fingers on his desktop, his anger growing.

“Where. Is. She?”

“Well, according to my last report, Mrs. Summers is now in the hands of another bounty hunter.” McCarthy pulled a small black leather-bound book from his inside coat pocket. “Name of Jesse Yellow Thunder.”

“Dammit!” Alan surged to his feet. “Where the hell is she now?”

McCarthy took an involuntary step backward. “Still with Yellow Thunder, last I heard. Two of my best men, Andrews and Porter, are in Red Creek keeping an eye on them. Yellow Thunder is sticking to Mrs. Summers like a tick on a dog. My men can’t get close to her.”

“Imbeciles!” Alan exclaimed, his voice rising. “Incompetents!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but from all we’ve learned, Jesse Yellow Thunder is a man to be reckoned with.”

“So am I.”

“Yes, sir.” McCarthy cleared his throat. “Do you want Porter to take your wife if the opportunity presents itself?”

Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, Alan ran a hand through his hair. “Get out of here, McCarthy.”

“Sir?”

“Get out.”

“Shall I take my men off the case?”

Alan considered that a moment, then shook his head. “No. Stay in touch with them. Now get out.”

With a curt nod, Amos McCarthy left the room.

Alan slammed his palms down on the desktop. He didn’t know where his foolish little wife had been hiding since she ran away, but it was obvious to him that she was on her way back to New York, running back home to Daddy like a scared little girl.

Rounding the desk, he began to pace the floor. Now that he knew she was alive, he needn’t bother with McCarthy and his incompetent fools any longer. He knew where Kaylynn was headed. He would tie up the loose ends at the bank, and then take a little vacation.

Going to the window, he stared out into the night, hands clenching and unclenching as he anticipated his reunion with Kaylynn.

She would never leave him again. He would see to that.

Chapter Twenty-One

Kaylynn climbed into the coach and settled her skirts around her. The stage, which was to have left at half past one, hadn’t arrived until almost three. It was a good thing the stage hadn’t left on time, she mused, or they would have missed it. Thinking of the reason why they had been late getting to the depot made her blush.

She glanced around, glad the Concord wasn’t crowded. Though designed to seat nine people, there were only three other passengers besides herself and Jesse: two dark-haired businessmen in city suits who introduced themselves as John Porter and Bill Andrews, and a rather stout traveling salesman who stammered that his name was Saul Jackson. It made her uncomfortable, being the only woman in the coach, and she sat close to Jesse, reassured by his presence. The window shades, meant to keep out sun, rain, dust and tobacco juice spit by passengers on the roof, were up. From past experience, she knew they were totally inadequate.

She wasn’t looking forward to the trip. The last one had been long and uncomfortable. Rumbling along over rutted roads, when there had been roads, stopping every twenty miles or so to change horses, stopping twice a day to eat. The food, which had usually consisted of boiled beans, salted meat, hardtack and coffee, had cost a dollar a plate, and the passengers had been given seven minutes to eat it. Sometimes dinner consisted of tough beefsteak, boiled potatoes, stewed beans and dried apple pie. She didn’t know which menu was worse.

She put the memory aside, reminding herself that it would be worth it when she was home again.

She slid a glance at Jesse. Dressed all in black, he looked like the angel of death. She noticed the other men in the coach were careful not to meet his gaze. It was hard to remember that she had once been afraid of him, that she had been repulsed by the scar on his face. Looking at him now, she saw only the man she loved…

The revelation struck her like a bolt from the blue. She loved him. Acknowledging it filled her with a sense of rightness, of peace. She loved him. Oh, but it was impossible. Like it or not, she was married to another man. Not only that, but they were worlds apart. He was a man of the West, a man of violence. As much as she had enjoyed the Indian people, she was anxious to return to the East, to the myriad comforts and luxuries of civilization. Even if Jesse loved her in return, even if they could bridge the differences between his world and hers, Jesse had no home, no roots, nor had she ever heard him express a desire to settle down in one place. She didn’t think she could be happy living like a vagabond, with no place to call her own.

She pushed her doubts aside. Alan had given her a home, clothes, jewelry fit for a queen. None of it had made her happy. She looked up at Jesse, wishing they were alone so she could tell him how she felt. Would he be pleased? What if he didn’t feel the same? What if he kissed every woman he met the way he had kissed her? She dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred to her.

If only they were alone, she could nestle against him and feel the strength of his arm around her, but she couldn’t snuggle up to him, not now, not with three other men in the coach.

With a sigh, she looked out the window. She was going home at last. For some reason, the thought didn’t make her as happy as it should have.

Jesse stared out the window, trying to ignore the curious stares of the other passengers. None of the men dared to meet his gaze, yet he was aware of their furtive glances, their speculation as they wondered about his scarred face. More maddening than their covert looks was the open admiration in their eyes when they looked at Kaylynn. Not that he could blame them. Dressed in the dark-green traveling suit she had bought, she looked good enough to eat. It was, he thought, the best money he had ever spent. She had promised to repay him when they reached her home in New York. As if he’d take it. Money was the last thing he wanted from her.

He swore a silent oath, knowing that the one thing he did want was the last thing he was likely to get.

He would never fit in her world, and she couldn’t live in his, and yet people changed. He certainly had. He would be willing to change again, for her, if she would have him.

* * * * *

They pulled into Twin Bluffs the following afternoon. There was a short layover at the depot, during which time a fresh team of horses was hitched to the coach. They also took on two new passengers. Bill Andrews went to sit topside, while the salesman who had been sitting across from Kaylynn moved to sit beside her so the new arrivals, obviously newlyweds, could sit together. They introduced themselves as Ben and Doris Whiteside.

Kaylynn offered them a tentative smile. Doris Whiteside was tall and thin. She had pale-blue eyes, and fine honey-gold hair that she wore in a tight bun at her nape. She looked like she was about sixteen. Ben Whiteside looked like he could have been her brother. He had the same pale-blue eyes, the same honey-gold hair.

Jesse looked out the window, wondering if Ravenhawk was in town. It didn’t sit well with him, that his bounty had gotten away. In the last seven years, he had brought in every man he’d gone after. He glanced back at the livery as the driver stowed the newlyweds’ baggage in the boot, wondering if old Ron Hays was still running the stable. It had been awhile since he’d seen the old man. Hays was one of the few men Jesse considered as a friend.

Kaylynn shifted on the seat beside him as the coach lurched forward, drawing his mind back to matters at hand. The most important thing to him now was taking Kaylynn back home, where she belonged, making sure she was happy.

His gaze moved over her. When had he fallen in love with her? How had she come to mean so much in such a short time?

She looked up, a shy smile curving her lips as her gaze met his.

He hadn’t been afraid of much in his life, but he was suddenly afraid of her, afraid of the power she had over him, a power she didn’t even realize she held. A word, a gesture, and she could destroy him.

She rocked against him as the coach went over a deep rut in the road. Instinctively, he put his arm around her and drew her up close. And knew again that he never wanted to let her go.

For a moment, nothing else in the world existed but the two of them. He forgot about the newlywed couple who were staring adoringly into each other’s eyes, forgot about the other two men inside the coach.

Hungry for the touch of her, the taste of her, he lowered his head and kissed her lightly, hardly more than the brush of his lips over hers, yet he felt the spark ignite deep within him, knew, by her sudden intake of her breath, that she had felt it, too.

When he drew back, he felt as if his heart would break. She was a wild rose among thistles, a delicate flower like those that grew wild on the prairie. He had no right to pluck that flower and make it his own, no right at all. Looking into her eyes, he saw his dreams, his vision of a future that could never be, and though pain gripped his heart, he knew he loved her too much to ask her to stay.

“Are you newlyweds, too?”

“What?” Jesse looked at the woman across from him.

“I asked if you were newlyweds, too.”

Jesse glanced at Kaylynn. She was staring down at her gloved hands. Her cheeks were bright red.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Engaged?”

He swore softly, wishing the woman would mind her own business. “Not yet.” It was a lie, but it was the only thing he could think of to salvage Kaylynn’s reputation.

“You look good together,” Doris remarked, then turned her attention back to her husband.

Jesse started to lift his arm from Kaylynn’s shoulder, but she placed her hand over his, holding it in place.

She looked up at him, cheeks still pink. “The road’s so rough, I’m afraid if you let go, I’ll slip off the seat.”

It was a lie and they both knew it. But it gave him all the excuse he needed to keep holding her.

* * * * *

Jesse blew out a sigh. It was late afternoon. They had been traveling almost nonstop for the last three hours, and everyone else inside the coach had fallen asleep.

He glanced down at Kaylynn, a surge of tenderness rising within him. What had he done to make her trust him so? He thought of the poetry she had recited to him, and wondered what had ever possessed her to do such a thing.

Walk with me, Spirit’s Song, and sing to me gently in the night of your love…

If anyone else had said something like that to him, he would have laughed. His gaze moved over Kaylynn’s hair, as thick and red as a vixen’s winter coat, and he knew, in that moment, that Kaylynn was the answer to his vision. Mao’hoohe. Red Fox.

Before he could ponder it further, he heard a shout from the stagecoach driver, followed by several gunshots.

The passengers inside the coach came awake with a start.

Kaylynn jerked upright, her eyes wide. “What was that?”

“I think we’re about to be robbed.”

“Robbed!” Doris Whiteside shrieked. Sobbing hysterically, she clung to her husband, who didn’t look capable of defending himself, let alone anyone else.

John Porter drew a snub-nosed pistol from beneath his coat. The drummer huddled in the seat beside Kaylynn, his pudgy face drained of color.

Jesse slid his Colt from the holster as the stage shuddered to a stop. “Kaylynn, get down on the floor. You, too, Mrs. Whiteside.”

Wordlessly, Kaylynn did as bidden. The other woman clung to her husband, dragging him down on the floor beside her, where they huddled together like frightened puppies.

There was the staccato bark of gunfire from outside the coach. A man cried out, his voice edged with pain.

Jesse leaned forward and looked out the window. He could see five masked men armed with rifles. One of them had his weapon aimed upward, apparently at the driver.

Jesse glanced at the man sitting across from him. Wary of putting the women in danger, neither of them had risked shooting at the bandits.

“How many?” Jesse asked, his voice low.

“Two on this side,” Porter replied.

Jesse glanced outside again.

The man covering the driver shouted, “Throw down your weapons and no one will get hurt. You people in the coach, keep your heads inside.”

The driver tossed his pistol to the ground; Jesse assumed the guard had surrendered his shotgun.

“Throw down the strongbox.”

The box landed with a dull thud. Painted a dark green, made of Ponderosa pine, oak and iron, Jesse knew the box weighed about a hundred pounds. He shook his head. Nothing was quite as irresistible to outlaws as a Wells Fargo treasure box. They were invariably filled with gold dust, gold bars or payrolls.

Two of the bandits dismounted. One of them shot the lock, and then they began passing bags of money to their companions.

The box was nearly empty when there was a gunshot from the top side of the coach and a sharp cry of pain, quickly followed by a second gunshot. Kaylynn gasped as Bill Andrews’ body toppled over the side of the coach.

“Kill ’em all!” The cry came from one of the bandits.

“Like hell!” Jesse muttered as he drew his gun and fired at the nearest outlaw. He swore as a man mounted on a flashy Appaloosa rode into view. Ravenhawk!

Jesse swore again as he fired at the man and missed.

For a moment, their eyes met, and then Ravenhawk rode out of sight.

Jesse fired again, grunted with satisfaction as one of the outlaws tumbled from the saddle.

John Porter thrust his pistol into the drummer’s hand. “Defend yourself!” he said, and reaching under his seat, he withdrew a rifle and began firing out the window.

The sound of gunfire and the stench of gun smoke filled the air.

One of the outlaws hollered, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Jesse threw himself across Kaylynn as a hail of gunfire exploded into the coach. Pieces of cloth and splinters of wood rained down on them, covering Jesse with a layer of debris. Jesse felt the drummer’s foot jerk spasmodically, but his only concern was for Kaylynn, and he knew he would die before he let anything happen to her.

There were more gunshots and then an abrupt silence.

Jesse waited a moment; then, rising to his knees, he risked a look outside. The outlaws had fled. He caught a glimpse of the last rider, slumped over his horse’s neck, heading north, toward the river.

Inside the coach, the drummer was sprawled across the seat. Blood trickled from a neat hole in his left temple. John Porter was cradling his shoulder.

His gaze moved over Kaylynn. “Are you all right?”

She looked up at him, her face pale, her dress badly rumpled, her hat askew, the delicate black feather bent at an odd angle.

“Never again,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “I’m never riding on a stagecoach again.”

She had been through hell and she was making jokes. He could have kissed her.

“What about you?” Jesse said, looking over at Porter. “How bad are you hit?”

“I’m all right. Just nicked me.”

Jesse holstered his Colt, then opened the door to the coach and stepped outside. Turning, he offered Kaylynn his hand and helped her out. A faint dust cloud hung in the air.