The Texan (27 page)

He turned to his wife, and she pressed herself tighter against the wall. He made an irritated sound in his throat. “I don’t know what they did to you in that damned sanitarium, but you’ve been jumpy as a bullfrog ever since you got home.”

“It was not a nice place, Jackson,” she said as she edged past him and headed back toward the bar. “I will never forgive you, either, for your part in sending me there.”

“You don’t have to forgive me. Just give me a divorce.” The words were out. And he had no desire to take them back. “I’ll give you half of everything. I just need enough time to pay it out without selling the ranch.”

He waited for her answer while she poured herself a second drink.

She turned with the glass in her hand, drank it in a single gulp, then said, “I don’t want a divorce. Why would I make it easy for you to give me one?”

“You don’t love me.”

“Who says I don’t?”

“More to the point, I don’t love you.”

“I’ve known that for a long time,” she said. “But I’m not giving you up. You’re mine.”

“Like a beef on a spit,” he said angrily.

“A very nice beef,” she said, appraising him as she would a powerful bull on the hoof.

Her look left him physically stone cold. But it raised the hairs on the back of his neck, as though he were facing some dangerous predator. “You cheated on me, Eve. I’m not going to forget—or forgive you for—that.”

“How dare you! When you—” She cut herself off and turned back to the bottle to pour herself a third drink.

He stared at her. What had she started to say? Could
she possibly know about Dora Coburn? It simply wasn’t possible. He’d been faithful to his wife both before and after that single lapse. Except for those few weeks when he’d considered, and then actually consummated his affair with Dora Coburn, he’d come every night to his wife’s bed to slake his fierce appetites. And she’d never refused him.

But that was before Jesse had died. That was before he’d known there was a chance he could have the woman he’d always loved.

“Why make us both miserable?” he said. “Let me go.” She drank the third scotch as neatly as the second and set it down, then turned to him and put her hands behind her on the bar, making her breasts press against the soft white suit. “No, Jackson. I still want you. It’s been a very long eighteen months.” “I’m not interested.”

He saw the rage flare in her eyes. Maybe if he’d seen distress or pain, he’d have found a way to soften the blow. But it was time she faced facts. “It’s over, Eve. I’m getting out.”

“Over my dead body.”

He snorted. “Don’t think it couldn’t be arranged.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?” “That isn’t my style. If I were going to do it, you’d already be dead.”

She laughed gaily. “Oh, I do love fighting with you, Jackson.” She picked up her gloves and said, “Will you join me for brunch?”

Acid churned in his stomach. “I’m not hungry.” She was almost out the door, when she stopped and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “By the way, if you’re looking for Summer, I believe she told me this
morning that she was going to visit Bad Billy Coburn. I guess, since Dora brings Emma to church with her, that means your daughter and that hell-raising boy spent the morning together … alone.”

“I get the picture,” Blackjack said in a voice as gritty as sand. “I said I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

It was the goad he needed, and he was sure she knew it. That didn’t stop him from picking up the phone to call the bunkhouse and arranging to have a few handpicked cowboys meet him in back of the house. He surveyed the men he’d chosen, rough men, loners who’d drifted in and stayed, because they had nowhere else to go.

“I’m going to teach a man a lesson, and I’m going to use force to do it. You have a problem with that, you’re welcome to stay behind.”

One man tugged down his Stetson. Another blew out a breath of smoke. The third stared at the toe of his boot, which was digging into the dirt. The fourth stuck his thumbs in his pockets.

“All right,” Blackjack said. “Let’s go.”

They piled into the extended-cab pickup with him, and he drove the twenty-five miles to Bad Billy Coburn’s ranch. He saw his daughter’s cherry-red Silverado parked in the shade of a live oak near the house. A quick search revealed his daughter and Bad Billy standing by the stable near two saddled horses. It wasn’t clear to Blackjack whether they were just leaving or just returning from a ride.

He drove past the ramshackle house and pulled up in front of the weathered barn. “Tom, you take my daughter and put her in her truck and take her home.”

“Yessir, Boss,” the cowboy said.

“Hurt a hair on her head, and I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to you on a platter,” Blackjack warned.

“I hear you, Boss,” Tom said.

Tom would have to bear whatever punishment his daughter dished out. Summer wouldn’t strike out at him, once she realized he wasn’t fighting back; she was too fair-minded for that. Once she was gone, Blackjack would be free to deal with Bad Billy Coburn.

Summer looked surprised—and delighted—to see him when he stepped out of his pickup. That delight turned to alarm when she saw the other four men get out of the truck.

“Tom is going to take you home,” he announced to her.

She took a step backward and sideways, so she stood between him and Bad Billy Coburn. “What are you doing here, Daddy?”

“I have business with Bad Billy,” he replied.

She opened her mouth to argue with him, but Billy put a hand on her shoulder and said, “This is between me and your father, Summer. Go on home.”

She looked at him again, then at Billy. “You really have business with Daddy?” she asked suspiciously.

Billy nodded. “Now go on home. I’ll see you later.”

Blackjack felt his gut twist when he realized his daughter was going to do what Bad Billy Coburn asked without a bit of fuss.

With a defiant look at him, she turned and gave the tall, lean cowboy a kiss on the mouth. “All right, Billy. Just don’t let him buffalo you. Daddy’s more bark than bite.”

One of the cowboys snickered, and Blackjack shot him a look that shut him up.

When Tom started after her, Summer turned to him and said, “I can get home on my own.”

Tom touched the brim of his hat and said, “Gotta go with you, Missy. Boss’s orders.”

She rolled her eyes in disgust, then turned and marched toward her truck without stopping, Tom on her heels.

Blackjack waited until there was nothing but a trail of dust to show she’d been there, before he turned to one of the cowboys and said, “Get the rope.” Then he focused his gaze on Bad Billy Coburn.

He hadn’t realized how tall Johnny Ray’s boy had grown. The kid was lanky, all muscle and sinew. His crow-black hair needed a cut and hung over his frayed collar beneath a dirty gray felt Stetson that was stained with sweat around the braided leather band. His deep-set eyes were dark, his mouth sullen, and his stance defiant. Not a character you’d want to meet on a dark night, Blackjack thought.

“I want you to stay away from my daughter,” Blackjack said.

“I’ll see Summer so long as she wants to see me,” Billy replied.

“I thought you’d say that. I’m here to change your mind.”

He watched Billy survey the three hard men arrayed against him. “Is this all the help you brought?” the kid said with a sneer.

Blackjack couldn’t help admiring the kid’s guts. But he had a point to make. He’d discussed what he wanted done during the drive. All it took was a nod for two of the cowhands, Hardy and Marcus, to reach for Billy’s arms, while the third man, Leon, who’d returned with a lariat, tried to get a noose over Billy’s head.

He had to hand it to the boy. He didn’t go down easy. Billy broke Leon’s nose and kicked Marcus in the balls, before the three men were able to wrestle him to the ground and get the rope cinched around his neck.

The kid had dished out plenty of hurt himself, and when Marcus raised his boot to repay Billy by stomping him in the groin, Blackjack caught him by the collar and yanked him away. “This is my fight, not yours.”

Marcus shot him a surly look but stepped aside.

“Get him on his feet,” Blackjack ordered.

When Billy stood before him again, his hat was gone and his shirt was torn. The boy’s nose was crooked and spurting blood, probably Leon’s vengeful handiwork. One eye was swollen, and the boy had a split lip. He was breathing hard, and he was mad as a peeled rattler, but he wasn’t begging for mercy. He wasn’t saying a damned thing.

“I’m gonna give you one more chance to save your hide,” Blackjack said. “I want your word you’ll stay away from my daughter.”

Billy glared at him from his one good eye and said, “You can go to hell.”

“Tie him to the corral,” Blackjack said.

Billy struggled, but he was no match for the three hard men who hog-tied him to the corner post of the corral.

“Teach him I mean business, boys,” Blackjack said.

In the truck he’d told them he wanted the kid roughed up, but he didn’t want him in the hospital. But Blackjack hadn’t figured on Billy getting his licks in first and enraging the three men he’d brought along.

When Blackjack heard Billy’s ribs crack, he said, “That’s enough.”

Marcus raised his fist to punch Billy again, and Blackjack laid him flat with one blow. “I said that’s enough.”

He crossed to Billy, grabbed hold of his hair, and yanked his head back. “I don’t want you near my daughter. You’re not to take her calls or see her if she comes here. Otherwise, I’ll be back to finish you off.”

“Fuck you,” Billy said.

Blackjack admired the boy’s grit. But he couldn’t afford to let that offense go unpunished. “Someday, you’ll learn when to keep your mouth shut.”

Blackjack nodded to Hardy, who hit Billy one last time, knocking him unconscious.

“Let’s go, boys,” he said, as he took one last look at Billy’s bloodied face. “We’re done here.”

DORA HAD BEEN WASHING LAUNDRY AND
hanging it on the clothesline out back because the dryer was broken. She was coming out the kitchen door with another basket of wet clothes, when she realized Jackson Blackthorne’s pickup was parked near the barn. It wasn’t hard to recognize, with the Circle B brand painted in white across the black cab door. She wondered what he was doing here. And what business he could possibly have with Billy.

Dora frowned, as she watched Blackjack getting back into his pickup—along with three burly cowboys. As they drove away, she suddenly knew why they’d come. She shrieked Billy’s name and took off at a run for the barn.

“No no no no no no,” she cried. And then, “Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.” And again, “No no no no no no.”

Dora stopped in her tracks when she saw her firstborn child tied to the corner post of the corral, his face bloody and his body battered. She felt her insides clench and twist. It had always hurt inside whenever Billy had come to her with a cut or a scrape from playing. Or a bruise that Johnny Ray had put there with his fist.

“Billy,” she whispered. “Oh, Billy.”

She awkwardly dashed the rest of the way, clutching the stitch in her side, heaving for breath, because she hadn’t run this far in twenty years. When she was standing before her son, Dora felt a chill of dread go through her.

He looked dead.

His own father killed him. Beat him to death because I complained to that Blackthorne bitch. I should have known better! I should have found some other way to keep the two of them apart. This is all my fault
.

The words poured out of her, an apology for all the wrongs it was too late to repair. “I’m so sorry, Billy. So sorry. I should have left the first time Johnny Ray laid a hand on you. I should have stopped him from hitting you. But I was afraid. I was always so afraid. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

She was afraid to touch him, because she might hurt him. Her throat was swollen closed with grief. Because no one could ever hurt him again. Jackson Blackthorne had ended his pain forever.

Dora gently placed her hands on either side of her son’s head and lifted his face so she could look at him. She moaned when she saw the damage Blackjack’s men had wreaked. “My beautiful baby boy. What have they done to you?”

“Cut me down.”

The words startled Dora, and she let go of Billy’s head, which flopped forward on his chest. “You’re alive!”

“Get me … down,” he whispered.

Dora fumbled at the knots in the rope, which had drawn impossibly tight with the weight of Billy’s sagging body. She wedged her shoulder against his chest to ease the tension on the knots and heard him groan.

“I need help,” she cried. “Let me go get Emma.”

“No.” He gasped with the pain of breathing, but said, “Don’t let her … see me … like this.”

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” Dora whispered.

“Just get me … down.”

Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, and she couldn’t get a good hold on the rough hemp knots. “I can’t do it!” she wailed. “They won’t come free.”

“Keep … trying.”

Tears blurred her vision as she clawed at the knots. She cried out in joy when the top one came loose. Billy fell toward her, and she quickly braced both palms against his chest to catch him.