Lynna Banning - Wildwood

A tiny arrow of unrest lodged in her belly. Was this girl the reason Ben Kearney seemed different from the other men in town? Could it be that the sheriff was courting an Indian girl? Worse, was he so preoccupied he’d forgotten about finding Thad Whittaker’s killer?

Well! She’d just see about that! Jessamyn plunked her cup down on the desk so hard the coffee sloshed over the edge. Hurriedly, she blotted it up with one corner of her work apron. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ben Kearney amble down the street in his lazy, loose-jointed gait.

Something ballooned in her chest as she watched him move. He reminded her of a big cat, a tiger she’d seen photographed once in a scientific magazine. She imagined its hunting prowess, the taut coiled strength ready to be unleashed in an instant. Ben’s movements had that same animal grace and economy of motion. It was frightening in some way.

Without a break in his slow, easy stride, the sheriff mounted the board walkway and disappeared into his office.

Jessamyn stared after him. Something about that languid, controlled body sent shivers sliding up her backbone.

Ben rubbed his hand over his eyes. His lids felt grainy, and a dull ache pounded at the base of his skull. All night he’d lain awake on the narrow bed in the back room, thinking about Thad Whittaker, trying to tie together the bits of information he’d uncovered. Nothing fit. It was like trying to work a puzzle with the key piece missing.

It hadn’t been a random shooting, that much he knew for certain. It had been too deliberate, too obvious. If his hunch was right, Thad had known something. The editor’s death was intended to not only silence the newspaper but serve as a warning of some sort. But a warning about what?

He’d have to search the Wildwood Times office again, sift through Thad’s private papers—every edition of the newspaper, every letter, even his account ledger. Maybe this time he’d find something he’d overlooked before, something that would tie things together.

He’d start tonight, after Jessamyn retired to Mrs. Boult’s for the evening. He’d let himself into the newspaper office and spend whatever time it took searching for that elusive nugget of information. At sunup tomorrow he’d do what Walks Dancing had asked—start for the mountains and Black Eagle’s hidden camp.

He wondered what the old chief wanted that was so important he’d send his daughter into town alone. Black Eagle wouldn’t risk sending one of his few remaining braves. The townspeople were convinced it was the Indians who were stealing cattle from valley ranchers, and feelings ran high. An Indian wouldn’t last ten minutes in town before he or Jeremiah would have to break up a lynching party.

Ben propped his boots on the desk, tipped his chair back on two legs. He closed his eyes, drew in another lungful of the warm June air and thought again about Thad Whittaker.

And Thad Whittaker’s daughter. Even without her bustle, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a smudge of grease on her nose, Jessamyn was still something to look at. Her backside rounded invitingly below the slim waist, and even when she held her spine straight as a Yankee ramrod, the curves of her top half filled out that ruffly blouse just right. He imagined the tips of her breasts brushing against the frothy white lace. He’d like to lay his hand there, feel her heart beating against his palm.

Sweat trickled under his hatband. He pushed it back with his forefinger just as the door burst open and Silas Appleby strode inside.

“Morning, Si.”

“Goddammit, Ben, it’s happened again! Twenty head just disappeared overnight.”

Ben’s chair thunked down on all four legs. “No trail?”

“Not a trace.” The tall, sunburned rancher swatted his dusty felt hat against his thigh so hard the silver conchas around the crown jingled. “Gotta be Indians, Ben. They’re holed up somewhere. Starving, I hear. I wouldn’t care if they took one or even two beeves now and again. Hell’s red feathers, I’d let ‘em have ‘em with my blessing. But twenty head? All told, I’ve lost more’n sixty cows in just the last two months.”

“Ranches on the east side of the river have been hit, too, Si. My brother Carleton’s lost over forty head. But I don’t think it’s Indians. At least, not Black Eagle’s band.”

“You don’t,” the rancher echoed, his tone indicating disbelief.

“I don’t.”

“Well, then, who the hell…”

Ben ground his boot heel into the plank floor. “Silas, when I find out, I’ll let you know. Until then, I’d suggest your boys spend their free time doing more night riding around your spread than poker playing in town.”

The tall man gave Ben an assessing look. “I’ve known you a long time, Ben. You never was one to sniff too long up the wrong tree, so I’ll have to trust you on this one. But I’m tellin’ you—”

“Save it, Si. We’ve been through it all before. Ranchers think Indians are responsible for everything that goes wrong. Indians think the same about the white man. You mind your herd and let me do my job. One of these days, whoever is stealing your cattle will make a mistake—leave a trail, a footprint, something I can go on. I’ll get him in the end. I always do.”

“Yeah,” the tall man grumbled. “You do. But waitin’ is costing me money!”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “And it’s costing me sleep at night There’s an old Indian saying, Si. ‘When in doubt, do nothing—the situation could get worse.’ Come fall, I’ll have this wound up and then you can get rich and I can get rested.”

Silas chuckled. Clapping his hat on an unruly shock of sandy hair, he turned toward the door. “I’ll buy you a drink if you pull it off by September, Ben. I’ll even stake you to a round of poker.”

Ben grinned. “Five-card stud and Child’s Premium. New shipment should be in by September.”

The door closed on Si Appleby’s laughter.

Ben struck his desk with his fist. Damn! If he found evidence of just one fresh beef carcass at Black Eagle’s camp, he’d skin the old fox alive. He swore again. The cat sleeping on top of his logbook cracked one eye open, stretched and offered an elaborate yawn. Before he knew it, the animal curled up in his lap.

The door bumped open a second time, and Jessamyn Whittaker marched into the room. A lacy white blouse that looked crisp enough to stand up by itself bloomed from the waistband of her swirling indigo blue skirt.

“Sheriff Kearney?” Her voice sounded as if it, too, had been starched.

“Miss Whittaker?”

She whipped open a notebook, pulled a pencil from behind one ear and leaned over his desk. “As the new editor of the Wildwood Times, Sheriff, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

Ben narrowed his eyes. The last thing he needed this morning was a grilling by a nosy Yankee newspaper reporter.

Jessamyn poised her pencil over the pad. “Who was that Indian girl?”

Ben stroked the purring animal in his lap. “Her name is Walks Dancing.”

She scribbled in her notebook. “What is the significance of her visit this afternoon?”

Ben frowned. “Depends. Significance to whom—you? Me? The town? Herself? Just what do you want to know?”

Jessamyn tightened her lips in exasperation. Couldn’t the man answer a simple question? “I mean, where did she come from?”

Ben plopped his hat onto the clutter on his desk and ran his hand through his hair. “She’s a Modoc. The Klamath chief adopted her as his daughter some years back. Black Eagle can’t risk exposing his braves—they’d be captured and sent to the reservation with the others. So he sent Walks Dancing into town with a message.”

“What message?” Jessamyn said, her words clipped.