Linda Ford - Claiming the Cowboy's Heart

“It’s all I have,” he’d said, his voice hard with anger.

The thief had jammed the money into his pocket. “You know that’s not all I want.” He’d waved the pistol. “Where’s the key?”

Jayne had glanced about, hoping for rescue but no one turned down the street toward them. No one noticed the robbery.

“I want it back,” the robber had growled.

Jayne had swallowed hard. People passed at the intersection a few yards away. She tried to call for help but her voice failed her.

Oliver had continued to say he had nothing more. He’d even turned his pockets out.

“Where is it? I can’t prove it but I know you cheated. You took everything I have.” The thief had lurched toward Oliver.

She’d never seen Oliver move so quickly. His arm slashed across the man’s wrist. The pistol dropped to the cobblestones and he’d kicked it toward Jayne.

“Pick it up. Shoot him,” Oliver had ordered as he and the thief tussled.

Jayne had stared at the gun just two feet away but she couldn’t move. She’d never touched a gun, let alone shot one. She didn’t even know how.

Oliver’s head had hit the ground with a thud and he’d lain stunned.

The thief had grabbed the pistol. A metallic click had rung through Jayne’s racing thoughts.

“Get up,” the thief had ordered.

Oliver had staggered to his feet.

“I’m done playing around. You know what I want. Give it to me.”

Oliver had swayed.

Someone from the nearby intersection had called out. “He’s got a gun.”

Then everything had happened so fast Jayne couldn’t say what came first. A shot had rung out. Oliver had pitched to the pavement. The thief had raced down the alley. A crowd had surrounded them.

Jayne had hovered in the doorway, too frightened to move while blood pooled around Oliver. Someone had leaned over him. A man had looked up, seen her and waved her forward. Her legs numb, her heart beating erratically, she’d managed to make the few steps and knelt at Oliver’s side. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” She hadn’t believed the words she’d uttered.

He’d caught her hand. He’d struggled to speak past the gurgling in his throat. Something about gambling and winning from the man who had shot him. Then his words ended in a gasp. Gentle hands had pried her away. Someone had taken her home.

For days she’d sat in a straight-backed chair beside the cold fireplace and replayed the scene in her mind. The skin on her face had grown taut every time she’d come to the spot where Oliver had kicked the gun toward her. Fear as deep as the English Channel had shaken her insides. Oliver was dead because she hadn’t been able to act. Hadn’t known what to do with the gun that lay so close to her. All over some gambling money. The world had gone crazy.

One day Bess, her quiet younger sister, had pulled a chair to Jayne’s knees and taken her hands. “Jayne, I have always admired you for your determination and sensibleness. It amazes me you sit here day after day. I beg you to get up and start living again.”

Jayne had looked into Bess’s sweet face and made a decision. She would not be defeated by this event. With God’s help she’d use it to grow stronger. She’d pushed to her feet and hugged her sister. “Bess, you are right. Never again will I feel so helpless. So useless.”

Bess’s smile had widened with relief then faltered at the conviction in Jayne’s voice. “What are you going to do?”

She had no firm plan at the moment. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to be a helpless woman.”

That conviction had carried her away from home and across the North American continent to a new, inviting country.

Now she lifted her arm and looked at her two friends in the grove of trees. “I will learn to shoot.”

Mercy steadied Jayne’s hand. “Hold it like this. Brace with your other hand. Look down the barrel to the target.” She guided Jayne into position then stepped back.

Jayne’s arms lowered until the gun pointed at the ground. “If I hadn’t been so scared of guns I might have grabbed the one Oliver kicked toward me. He might still be alive.”

“Exactly,” Mercy said.

“Or you might both be dead.” Sybil covered her face with her hands as if she couldn’t bear the thought.

Jayne wished she could as easily block the sight of Oliver’s death from her mind, but it wasn’t possible. Any more than it was possible to forget she was twenty-one, no longer planning a wedding, and not ever wanting to think of such things again. Oliver had taught her that life was too fragile to make dream-filled plans.

“You don’t want it happening again,” Mercy insisted.

Jayne cringed. “I don’t have another fiancé, you know.”

Mercy laughed. “Not yet, you mean.”

“Not ever.” Oh, she’d likely marry. Everyone did. But nothing on earth would convince her to again open her heart to such fear and pain and disappointment. Any more than she would ever again let herself become so weak and dependent on others. Though she’d only begun the journey toward living strong and free. “But you’re right about needing to learn to protect myself.” And people she cared about. Never again would she stand by, shaking in fear, while someone died. “I can do this.”

Mercy repeated her instructions on how to hold the gun, aim it and fire it.

Sybil crossed her arms and looked like she’d sooner be anywhere but there. “How do you know all this?” she asked Mercy.

“I sweet-talked one of the cowboys in Fort Benton to teach me.”

Jayne and Sybil looked at each other and shook their heads in unison. Mercy was notorious for sweet-talking men into doing favors for her.

Mercy saw their exchanged glances and simply laughed. “Jayne, pay attention. Aim, squeeze and fire.”

Jayne lifted the gun, steadied it as she squinted down the barrel toward the target. She closed her eyes and squeezed. The gun jerked upward, the noise of the shot making her squeal.

Mercy gasped. “You’re supposed to keep your eyes open and focused on the target.”

“Hi yii.” A yell came from a distant spot.

Jayne eased open one eye. Through the trees she saw a man leaning low over the neck of his horse as he raced away. Her heart clambered up her throat and stuck there like an unwelcome intruder. “Did I shoot him?” Her voice barely croaked out the words.

Sybil fell back three steps. “He might be after us. We better get back to the ranch.”

Jayne shook her head. “First, we have to check and make sure I didn’t injure him.” Her stomach turned over and refused to settle. “All I wanted to do was be ready to defend us against bad people. But if I’ve hurt someone instead—” The blood drained to her feet, leaving her ready to collapse in a boneless puddle. Much like it had when Oliver was shot. So much blood. Such a dark stain.

Tremors raced up and down her spine. Cold as deep as the worst winter day gripped her insides.

Mercy wrapped an arm about her waist. “I’m sure you only frightened him and he decided to get out of range of your deadly aim.” She laughed like it was no more than a silly joke.

“We need to check.” Jayne lifted the hem of her black taffeta walking skirt with its stylish Edwardian hoop underskirt and forced her milky legs to take one step forward and then another. Mercy marched at her side. Sybil hung back then, realizing she would be alone, rushed after them.

They passed the untouched target, pushed through some low bushes, wended between tall poplars with their leaves fluttering noisily in the breeze. The wooded area gave way to a grassy slope with a faint trail skirting boulders. Allowing her legs no mercy, she hurried to the trail and bent over, looking for clues.