Wildwood

“Jes’ like yer pa,” Cora sniffed as she bustled out the news office door. “Rather fuss over that newspaper than eat proper.”

Nodding her agreement, Jessamyn bit into the ham sandwich the housekeeper had brought over for her lunch. She massaged her stiff neck muscles and continued her study of the morgue of old Wildwood Times editions her father had meticulously collected. Just a few more issues to skim and she’d be caught up.

So far, she’d found nothing extraordinary. Ohio Ratifies 14th Constitutional Amendment. Nebraska Admitted to Union. Impeachment Resolution Again Introduced in Washington.

In Douglas County Frieder’s Mercantile’s shipment from Chicago was again delayed by a blizzard. Rancher Silas Appleby reported twenty head of cattle missing; Klamath River Indians were suspected. Lizzie Bartel, the doctor’s wife, delivered her second set of twins in five years, on Valentine’s Day. Coos Bay wagon road was surveyed as a possible railroad route to the coast..

Jessamyn shook her head. Still nothing out of the ordinary for an Oregon frontier town—except perhaps having two sets of twins in one family. Mrs. Bartel would be far too busy to receive callers now; Jessamyn would tender her congratulations to the doctor, whose office she’d finally discovered just three doors down the street. Next to the undertaker, she noted. How convenient.

As soon as she could, she intended to visit all the townspeople, introduce herself and solicit ads for the newspaper. Then she’d sell each of them a yearly subscription for a dollar.

She swallowed the last of her sandwich and closed the cabinet drawer. Now, to plan her first issue. She munched on a crisp Red June apple as she laid out the first page in her mind. This afternoon she’d make the rounds, gathering the local Wildwood Valley news. Tomorrow she’d hire a buggy and drive over to Little River where the express riders brought the mail and wire service bulletins up from Steamboat Landing. And then…

Then she would dip her pen into a fresh bottle of ink and start her feature story on Ben Kearney and her father’s murder. Surely the sheriff wouldn’t object to her choice of topic? After all, it was news. She drew in a deep breath and stretched her arms over her head.

She allowed a slow smile to settle across her mouth as an idea began to take shape. Inept the sheriff was certainly not, judging from the battlefield heroism described by his deputy. But his lackadaisical attitude seemed to fit right in to the town’s don’t-upset-the-ship philosophy. A mercantile with no kerosene, cracked and peeling paint on the undertaker’s and barbershop storefronts, saloons that stayed open all night long and on Sundays. Wildwood Valley could surely use some improvement.

To get things started, she’d light a fire under Sheriff Kearney. Why hadn’t he found her father’s killer yet? What was he waiting for? Surely he should be busy gathering evidence or clues or something? She exhaled in satisfaction. She’d give the good sheriff a roasting he’d never forget.

Already composing the lead sentence in her mind, Jessamyn attacked a second sandwich. Good ideas made her ravenous! As she chewed, she glanced idly out the front window.

A sorrel horse stepped daintily into view, an Indian girl perched on top, her back straight, her buckskin dress encrusted with shells and feathers arranged in an intricate design. The pride in her carriage riveted Jessamyn’s attention.

Townspeople stared, but the girl looked neither left nor right. Purposefully, she stepped the horse forward. As she drew closer, Jessamyn glimpsed a clear view of her face and gasped out loud.

The girl was beautiful! Straight black hair fell in a single shining braid down her back, and her slim, elegant body moved sinuously with the mare’s gait, almost as if she were dancing atop the horse. Fascinated, Jessamyn watched her come to a halt in front of the sheriffs office.

The girl swung her leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground, dropping the reins where the animal stood.

And then she took a single step. She positioned one small, moccasined foot and then, crablike, hauled her body forward, her hip twisting in an awkward, lurching rhythm.

Jessamyn’s heart caught. She was crippled! And she looked so young—no more than eighteen or twenty, her skin an unblemished, warm bronze, her face serene. The girl took another step, and another, laboriously working her way past the horse toward the board walkway at the edge of the street.

Two women crossing the street pulled their skirts aside in apparent distaste. The Indian girl paid no attention. When she reached the bottom step of the sidewalk the sheriff’s door opened, and Jeremiah emerged. Grasping her elbow with one giant hand, he half lifted her up the step onto the walkway.

Wide-eyed, Jessamyn watched the sheriff’s office door swing shut. Hoping for another glimpse of her, she waited by the window, nibbling the remains of her sandwich crusts.

Fifteen minutes dragged by. Jessamyn stepped away to refill her cup, then settled herself at the window again. She sipped the dark brew, her gaze swinging back and forth between the dingy office door across the street and her father’s wall clock.

All at once Jeremiah surged out of the sheriff’s office, followed by Ben Kearney with the Indian girl in his arms. Jessamyn lowered her cup. What in the world was he doing?

She peered out the window. Ben strode toward the sorrel as Jeremiah retrieved the reins and held the animal steady. She noticed that the deputy never took his eyes off the girl’s face.

With no apparent effort, the sheriff swung her up and settled her on the saddle blanket, then lifted the reins from his deputy’s hands and laid them across her palms. Removing his hat, he tipped his face up toward her. His lips moved.

The girl nodded, made a sign and nudged the horse forward. Ben raised his hand. She looked back, hesitated an instant and then smiled. She called out something, kicked the mare and stepped her horse on down the street. Jeremiah stared after her.

Who was she? Jessamyn burned to know. And what did she want with the sheriff? Or was it the other way around— one of them wanted something of her? From the way she smiled at them, Jessamyn would guess one of them could have just about anything he asked for. But which one?

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!”