Wildwood. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “None of your business,” Ben returned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

      “How was she crippled?” Jessamyn interrupted. “From birth?”

      Ben expelled a long breath. “She was crippled because she’s a Modoc. The Klamath and the Modoc tribes have been enemies for generations. Walks Dancing made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man—a Klamath brave. She left her tribe and went with him. Her people found them the next spring. They killed him. Then they broke both her legs by running their horses over her and left her to die. She didn’t. Black Eagle adopted her.”

      Jessamyn felt the blood drain from her upper torso. Suddenly dizzy, she dropped the pad and grabbed for the edge of Ben’s desk. “How horrible.”

      “Sorry you asked?”

      “Yes,” she murmured. “I mean, no! How else am I going to find out what’s happening?”

      “Know what my father used to tell me? ‘Keep your eyes and ears open—”’ He leaned toward her and lowered his voice “’—and your mouth shut’” He looked as if he especially relished the last part.

      Jessamyn winced. His barb hit home. Very well, she’d do things his way. “Just one more question, Sheriff.” She mustered as steady a tone as she could manage. “What are you finding out about my father’s murderer?”

      Ben studied her for what seemed an endless minute. “Damn little that’s for publication.”

      “But what are you doing?” she persisted.

      Goaded by her tone, Ben answered without thinking. “I’m going to talk to Black Eagle.”

      Jessamyn gasped. “About my father?”

      “Maybe. СКАЧАТЬ