Sherri Shackelford – Winning the Widow's Heart (страница 9)

The ax missed its target.

Jack windmilled his free hand, managing to right himself just before he tumbled into the woodpile. Straightening, he darted his gaze to the house. No mocking faces appeared in the square windowpanes. Satisfied his gaff had gone unnoticed, he slung the blade over his shoulder.

“Guess that about does it,” he muttered to himself.

With his thoughts focused on the multitude of tasks to accomplish before his journey, he barely noticed the frigid, knee-deep snow on his trek to the barn. He’d saddle up Midnight, say his goodbyes and be gone. Simple as that.

A rare thread of regret tugged at his heart. He forcibly pushed aside the nagging concern. Mrs. Cole had survived this long on her own, there was no need to think she needed his assistance. He was a lawman, not a nursemaid. He had a job to do.

Jack slid open the barn door, relieved to find the cavernous space empty. He inhaled the pungent aroma of hay and feed. The scent reminded him of home, of his youth. He’d grown up mucking out barns, working from dawn till dusk on his family’s cattle ranch. The familiar sights and sounds released an unwelcome longing to work with hands, to build something lasting, to recapture the camaraderie he’d once shared with his brothers.

Chickens clucked and a cow lowed. Midnight, one of two horses in the four stalls, whinnied.

A sound outside the usual barnyard racket caught his attention. Jack paused, tilting his head to one side as he heard it again. He recognized that sound all right.

His jubilant mood fled. Someone was crying. Not the pained howling of a body in agony, but a quiet whimper of despair.

Jack groaned. There was only one person on the homestead who’d hide in a stall rather than cry out in the open. Determined to slink away before he got sucked into another emotional conversation, he backed to the door. He’d already dealt with one weeping female this week. His problem-solving skills were limited to things he could shoot or arrest.

He had one hand on the door when another faint sniffle doused his annoyance. Compassion for Jo dragged his feet to a halt. The code of honor ingrained in him as a child reared its ugly head. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. He’d tackle this one last obstacle, and then he’d leave. After all, he’d comforted Elizabeth.

He was practically an expert on women now.

Chapter Four

Jack had an idea where to find the weeping girl. He crept through the barn, his boots silenced by the hay strewn over the floor. He should be saddling Midnight instead of chasing down the source of those muffled sobs, but his conscience drove him forward against his good sense.

Dust motes stirred in the shaft of light sluicing through the hayloft. The wind had blown the door open almost half a foot. No wonder he’d nearly frozen to death these past two nights. In his haste to escape Jo’s trap, he hadn’t fully latched the hayloft. He’d been so cold he’d almost hunkered down next to the milk cow for warmth.

He added another chore to his growing list. Better for him to climb that rickety ladder than risk having one of the women break a leg. The third rung from the top was nearly rotted through. Unfortunately, sealing his impromptu exit had to wait until he dealt with his current problem.

Stalling, Jack lifted his shoulders and stretched, easing the cramps from sleeping on the hard-packed floor. He tugged his gloves over his exposed wrists. The barn had given him shelter and little else. A feather bed in town called to him like a prayer.

He peered into the first stall, his gaze meeting the sloe-eyed stare of the caramel-colored milk cow. He inched his way to the second stall, glancing over the half door. Jo huddled in the corner, her thin arms wrapped around her legs, her forehead pressed against her bent knees. Two long braids brushed against the tops of her boots.

Midnight whinnied, stretching a velvety nose out the last enclosure. Jack saluted his companion with a finger to his brow. “Soon, I promise.”

The girl jerked upright, her face averted.

Jack rested his elbows on the half door, chafing at the delay. He adjusted his hat forward before reminding himself this wasn’t an interrogation, then set the brim back on his head in the “I’m friendly and approachable” position.

He didn’t even know what was wrong, let alone how to fix the problem. Once again he cursed the mistake that had led him here. Why hadn’t this homestead been teeming with hardened outlaws instead of weeping women?

He recalled Jo’s mention of influenza. She was probably just concerned over her ailing family. Jack added the sheriff’s failure to inform him of the influenza outbreak to his growing list of gripes against the incompetent lawman.

Sucking in a breath of a chill air to fortify himself, he contemplated his strategy. “Something bothering you?”

“Nope.”

Jack bit back a curse. Didn’t women love to talk? That’s what all the fellows complained about, anyway.

As much as he’d like to turn tail and run, his feet refused to move. Frustrated, he reached into the stall, yanked a length of straw from a tightly cinched bale and twirled it between his fingers. “Seems like there’s something bothering you.”

She swiped her nose with an exaggerated sniffle. “You’re touched in the head, Ranger.”

The spark in her voice encouraged him. Rage was an emotion he understood, and inspiring anger in a touchy female was easier than shooting tin cans off a flat stump. “Then why are you crying?”

She threw him a withering glare. “I ain’t no weeping female, so why don’t you do something useful, like ride on out of here?”

“Maybe I will.”

Undaunted by her harsh words, he continued to twirl the hay between his fingers. A chicken flapped through the barn, pecking at the dirt around Jack’s feet. He let the oppressive silence hang between them. People generally didn’t like silence. Most folks would rather fill up an empty space, even if that space was better left empty.

Jo kept quiet, a trait that won Jack’s increasing admiration. At least she wasn’t crying anymore, another positive sign. If she didn’t want to talk, then he sure wasn’t going to force the situation. Looked as if he was going to make it to town before lunch, after all.

She bumped her hand down the length of one dark braid, her gaze focused on the hay beneath her feet. “Mrs. Cole says you were chasing bank robbers when you barged in.” She shot him a sideways glance. “What if you make another mistake? What if someone gets hurt?”

His fingers stilled. He had the uneasy sensation this conversation had nothing to do with bank robbers. “You make a mistake, you make amends. That’s all the good Lord asks of us.”

“How do you make amends for lying?”

He busted the straw in two pieces. Everybody lied, he reminded himself. Just not for the same reasons. “You make up for lying by telling the truth. You wanna start now?”

“I told Mrs. Cole I could deliver that baby. But I couldn’t.” Her chin quivered. “I was so scared I wanted to run away.”

Relief shuddered through him. He’d been expecting to hear something much worse. She was barely more than a child herself, no wonder she’d been terrified. He was making a fast slide past his thirtieth year, and he’d considered running away himself. “You delivered a baby. That’s a grave responsibility. Being scared doesn’t mean you lied, just means you’re human.”

“You ever get scared?”

“Every day.” He barked out a laugh. “You wanna know a secret?”

She scrambled to her feet, brushing at the baggy wool trousers tucked into the tops of her sturdy boots. A voluminous coat in a dusty shade of gray completed the tomboy uniform. She flipped the braid she’d been worrying over one shoulder.

Her clear, green eyes searched his face. “What secret?”

“Truth is, I might have beaten you to the door. I wanted to hightail it out of that room faster than a jackrabbit out of a wolf den.”

“Truly?”

He chuckled. How many times had he done the same? Judged someone’s face, watching for subtle hints to test the sincerity of their answers? “I was terrified.”

Midnight butted against the neighboring stall, reminding Jack of his purpose, of the unfinished business weighing on his conscience.

As Jo absorbed his confession, her shoulders relaxed.

He mentally patted himself on the back for his inspired handling of the situation. A few more words of assurance to wrap things up, and he could leave. He’d have to regroup in Cimarron Springs and interview the sheriff once more. Judging by the lawman’s lazy work habits, the task of gathering information was going to take all afternoon, further postponing his trip.

He’d decided to visit Wichita earlier that morning. Every two-bit thief in Kansas wound up there at some point or another. The frontier city was the key to locating the outlaw, Bud Shaw.

“You’re a brave girl for sticking it out,” he encouraged.

He’d settled Jo’s fears. He’d be in Cimarron Springs by this afternoon.

Jo looked him up and down. “You still chasing them outlaws?”

“Outlaw. There’s only one left.”

“What happened to the rest? How many were there all together? Do you always chase outlaws?”