Читать книгу Wildwood - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 13

Ben eased his back against the split-rail fence around the stable corral and crossed one boot over the other. Satisfied with the private arrangement he’d made with liveryman and blacksmith Dan Gustafsen, he inhaled deeply.

He’d known Gus from his army days in Dakota Territory after the war. The big, quiet Norwegian had fought for the Union, but when hostilities had finally ceased, Gus had set politics aside. When Ben met him in Dakota, he found he could deal with him man-to-man. Both had been officers; both had been wounded. Gus wore a black patch over one eye.

“Pick a horse that’s not mean,” Ben had requested. “Just not too tired, if you take my meaning.” From the looks of the skittish bay dancing at the end of Gus’s rope, the stable owner had indeed taken Ben’s meaning. The horse was a beauty—sixteen, maybe even seventeen hands, a gelding with intelligent eyes and a precise, proud gait.

And, Ben could see at a glance, definitely not tired. He watched Gus pull the cinch tight, then give him a surreptitious nod. Even though he trusted Gus’s judgment, Ben’s gut tightened into a hard knot.

Townspeople began to gather along the perimeter of the fence. Ben nodded to Doc Bartel and the short, nervous undertaker, Zed Marsh, the physician’s constant companion. He tipped his hat to Addie Rice and, a few yards beyond the seamstress, acknowledged two of the girls from Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. Addie must have closed her dressmaker’s shop to witness the fun. Ben surmised the girls from Charlie’s were losing money, too.

Silas Appleby heaved his rangy form onto the fence next to Ben and hooked his boot heels over the lower rail. “I hear that newspaper lady’s a looker,” he remarked. “Since I’m in town, I thought I’d just as well check out the rumors.”

“You’re practically a married man, Si,” Ben reminded him.

“Hell, Ben, can’t hurt to look!” Appleby jammed a cigarette between his lips and flicked a match against his thumbnail.

Otto Frieder picked his way through a gaggle of young boys in various sizes and shapes and settled on Ben’s other side. A frown worried his shiny forehead. “You think Miss Jessamyn be all right, Sheriff?”

Ben fought a momentary pang of guilt at Otto’s question. He trusted Gus’s horse savvy. Jessamyn wouldn’t get hurt—not seriously, anyway. Just enough to bruise her backside a bit and open her eyes to the fact that she wasn’t riding into the hills with him tomorrow. Or any other day, for that matter. From what he had observed, hearsay had always been plenty good for most newspaper editors. Why should she be any different?

Because she’s Thad Whittaker’s daughter, that’s why. Hearsay was never good enough for Thad; that was probably what got him killed.

“She’ll be all right, Otto,” Ben assured the stocky storekeeper. “I’d worry more about the horse if I were you. Miss Whittaker finds it difficult to take no for an answer.”

Silas chuckled. “Looks to me like that gelding might have the same trouble!”

Ben watched Gus turn away toward a commotion at the far end of the corral yard, then glance back to catch Ben’s gaze. The skin around the wrangler’s one good eye crinkled in amusement.

Jessamyn crawled through an opening in the fence and sidled stiff-legged toward Ben, her backside hugging the fence so closely he could have sworn she’d pick up splinters on her rear.

“Sheriff Kearney?” Her words came out in a throaty whisper. “Is—is that the horse?”

“It is. Ready to mount up?”

Jessamyn licked her lips. “Isn’t it awfully big?” She kept her gaze riveted on the animal in the center of the corral yard.

Ben shrugged. “Some are, some aren’t. This one’s about normal.” For some reason, an unexpected pang of sympathy stabbedinto his chest. She looked terrified.

“I want you to know, Mr. Kearney,” she said in that same breathy whisper, “that I am not f-frightened in the least.” Again she ran her tongue over her lips. “Not even a little b-bit.”

She poked her chin into the air and visibly straightened her spine. “But if I—or rather, when I live through this, you p-puffed-up, know-it-all snake in the grass, I’m going to make your life so m-miserable you’d wish you were back in that Union prison in Illinois!”

She stomped away toward Gus.

Silas guffawed. “Puffed up? Why, imagine that!” He slapped Ben on the shoulder. “’Makes you sound like one of Ella’s banty roosters. My, that little eastern lady has got some spit and vinegar!” Chuckling, he settled back to watch.

Spit and vinegar wasn’t all she had, Ben noted, watching Jessamyn’s jeans stretch tight over her derriere as she marched up to Gus. The wide black belt pulled the toolarge waistband snug around her middle, and the long sleeves of the red plaid shirt were folded back twice at the cuffs. She looked like a kid masquerading as her big brother.

A scared kid. A twinge wrenched his gut. Her bravado didn’t fool him for a second. He’d seen that same look on new recruits’ faces before their first battle. They fought— and died—because they were ordered to. Jessamyn didn’t have to do this, he told himself. She didn’t have to, but she wasn’t backing out In fact, at this moment she was about as unflinching as any soldier he’d ever commanded in the field. Her courage touched him in some way, as if a finger had been laid upon his heart.

Jessamyn looked up at the tall man holding the towering horse. He tipped his hat with his free hand and smiled down at her. “Daniel Gustafsen, ma’am. Everybody calls me Gus.”

“What’s the horse’s name?”

He hesitated. “Dancer Jack.”

Jessamyn nodded. “Gus, are all those people along the fence here to…to watch me try to—watch me ride this horse?”

Gus’s one blue eye softened. “Yes, ma’am, ‘fraid so. They all come out like grasshoppers on an August morning whenever a tenderfoot like yourself climbs up on a horse the first time. It’s kinda like entertainment for them. The Greenhorn Follies, they call it.”

“Entertainment!” She shut her eyes. She could almost hear the imagined roar of bloodthirsty Romans in her ears.

“Sure am sorry. Miss Whittaker, but it’s true. Things out here in the West aren’t civilized like they are back in the colony states.”

Or even in Rome, Jessamyn thought with a shudder. Still, she wasn’t beaten yet. “Gus, I’m going to ride that horse if it’s the last thing I do. I want you to tell me how.”

The wrangler nodded. “Now, Miss Jessamyn, just keep in mind you’re gonna get this horse to walk. He already knows how to run. First thing you do is talk to him, call him by name.”

Jessamyn moved toward the animal. “H-hello, Dancer Jack,” she breathed.

The horse tossed his head and moved a step away.

“Don’t be afraid, now. I’m not going to hurt you.” She edged forward. “What now, Gus?” she said softly.

“Now you touch him, all over. Let him smell you, get your scent.”

Jessamyn reached one hand toward the gelding’s moist black nose. “Dancer Jack,” she murmured. “It’s me, Jessamyn. Or maybe for you it’ll just be Jess.”

She ran her palm up the front of his face, then spread both hands along his jaw. “Good boy,” she said. “Good horse.” Under her fingers, the warm hide twitched.

The horse stood still. Jessamyn smiled at Gus, who gestured for her to continue.

She drew in a breath and laid her forehead against the gelding’s dark head. Please, please let this horse like me! she prayed. When the animal didn’t move away, she slowly smoothed her palm over the neck, then stepped to one side and rubbed its hard, warm shoulder and withers. Next she ran her hands down each leg. The horse’s limbs trembled as violently as Jessamyn’s did.

“You’re doin’ fine, ma’am. Just fine. Here’s his lead now. You hold him while I adjust the stirrups and go get a mounting block for you.”

Frozen, Jessamyn stood motionless as a statue until Gus returned with a portable wooden step. He took the rope from her, tossed the reins over the saddle horn. “Climb up on the step and put your left foot in the stirrup. Grab the saddle horn and swing your other leg up over his rump.”

Jessamyn stood on top of the block, raised her left foot until she thought she’d twist her thigh right out of the hip socket, and jammed her toe into the high stirrup. She reached for the saddle horn and pulled herself up to a nearstanding position. She clutched at the saddle for support and tried to swing her right leg over the horse.

She couldn’t get her leg high enough to clear the gelding’s backside. On her third attempt she slipped out of the stirrup, breathing hard. Behind her, she could hear the raucous laughter of the crowd.

“Try it again,” Gus urged. “This time, you give a little spring and I’ll boost you on up.”