Читать книгу The Outlaw's Return - Victoria Bylin - Страница 10

J.T. was thinner than she recalled and harder because of the leanness, a sign he’d been living on jerky and bad coffee. His brown hair had gold streaks from the summer sun, and his blue eyes still pierced whatever they saw. She felt the sharpness of his gaze and remembered…. She’d once loved this man, and she’d hated him when he’d left.

With the changes in her life, she couldn’t give in to bitterness. She knew how it felt to be forgiven, and she had a duty to forgive others. She’d treat J.T. the way she’d treat a stranger, except he wasn’t a stranger. She knew how he liked his coffee, and she’d seen the scars on his body from bullets and knives. None of those memories mattered. This man posed a risk to her reputation. If her friends saw him, they’d ask nosy questions.

She had to make him leave before someone else left the church. She gave him a curt nod. “Hello, J.T.”

He tipped his hat. “Hello, Mary.”

Unnerved by his husky drawl, she fought to steady her voice. “This is quite a surprise.”

“Yeah.” He eyed the batwing doors. “For me, too.”

Was he surprised to see her or surprised to see her leaving a church service? Mary didn’t know what to think. Why would he seek her out after all this time? On the other hand, what were the odds he’d visit Brick’s Saloon on a Sunday morning by chance? One in a million, she decided. Josh’s little church was unusual and well-known. Any saloon keeper in Denver could have told him she sang here on Sunday morning.

That meant he’d come to see her, but why? No one stirred up memories—both good and bad—like this handsome, hard-edged man. Ten minutes ago Mary had been singing “Fairest Lord Jesus” from the depths of her heart. Looking at J.T., she couldn’t remember a single word.

Help me, Lord.

With the dog at her feet, she spoke as if nothing were amiss. “The saloon’s not open. I was here for—”

“Church,” he said. “I know.”

“How—”

“I heard you singing.” He glanced at the mutt at her side. “So did my dog.”

“Your dog?”

“Yeah.” He looked sheepish, as if he’d admitted something embarrassing. She supposed he had. A man like J.T. traveled with the clothes on his back and his guns. He’d carry bullets before he’d pack an extra can of beans, yet here he stood looking at a dog as if it were his only friend.

When he held out his hand, the dog licked his fingers. “You crazy thing,” he murmured.

At the sight of such tenderness, Mary’s forgot to breathe. In Kansas she’d seen J.T. beat the daylights out of a man who’d disrespected her. He’d worked as a hired gun to ranchers wanting to chase off rustlers, and he didn’t think twice about it. He was hard, tough and mean, except with her. Then he’d been as soft as butter, tender in the way of a man who knew a woman’s need for love while denying his own.

But then he’d left her. She’d forgiven him for leaving, but that didn’t mean she’d forgotten the coldness of the parting. J. T. Quinn couldn’t be trusted, not with her heart and not with knowledge of the baby. He’d disrespected her. She refused to allow him to disrespect a child that had never been born. In Abilene he’d left her in the middle of a conversation. Today she wanted answers. Why are you here? What do you want? Any minute people would start leaving church. Since Gertie and Augustus were with Adie, the café would be empty. She thought of yesterday’s stew in the icebox. J.T. looked hungry, and so did his dog. She’d never been good at turning away strays.

“I own a restaurant,” she said. “You look like you could use a meal.”

“No, thanks.”

He sounded confident, but he had the air of a boy trying to be tough. Her heart softened more than she wanted to admit. “Are you sure?”

“No, thanks, Mary. I just…” He shook his head, but the gesture didn’t answer her questions.

A terrible foreboding took root in her belly. Had he heard the talk in Abilene? Did he know about the baby but not the miscarriage? She couldn’t stand the thought of the scandal finding her again, nor did she want to open old wounds. Trying to appear casual, she tipped her head. “What brings you to Denver?”

“It’s not important.”

She didn’t believe him. Whatever his reason for being at Brick’s, he’d made an effort to find her. She felt cheated by the lie, just as she’d felt cheated in Abilene. “If it wasn’t important, you’d answer the question.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

When he smirked, she saw the man who’d left her pregnant and disgraced. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, J.T.?”

His eyes were even bluer than she recalled, and his cheekbones more chiseled. The sun, high and bright, lit up his unshaven jaw and turned his whiskers into gold spikes. The man was untouchable, unreachable.

“That’s right,” he finally said. “I haven’t changed a bit.”

“I have.” She lowered her voice. “What happened between us in Abilene is in the past. I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my privacy.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t see me again.”

His surrender shocked her to the core. She wanted to know why he’d given in so easily, but she couldn’t risk lingering outside the church and being seen. To protect her reputation, she’d have to live with yet another unanswered question. With her head high, she stepped off the boardwalk. To her consternation, the dog followed her. In the middle of the empty street, she stopped and turned back to J.T. “Call your dog.”

His jaw tightened. “Come on, dog.”

Mary scowled at him. “You named her Dog? No wonder she’s not obeying you!”

“That’s not her name,” he muttered.

“Then what is it?”

He looked straight at her. “Her name is Fancy Girl.”

Air rushed into Mary’s lungs. Fancy Girl had been his name for her. He’d called her his Fancy Girl, because she’d liked to dress up for the stage. She’d enjoyed the makeup and the flamboyant dresses, particularly the costumes that had freed her from the dullness of Frog’s Landing. “You named her after me?”

“Yeah.”

She should have been insulted. The fool man had named a dog after her! Yet she knew it hadn’t been an insult. He loved his dog. A long time ago, even though he hadn’t said the words, Mary had thought he’d loved her. She’d been mistaken. J.T. didn’t love anyone. “It’s been nice seeing you,” she said in a courteous tone. “But I have to get home.”

“I understand.”

She doubted it. He didn’t know her at all anymore. Reaching down, she rubbed the scar between the dog’s ears. “Goodbye, Fancy Girl.”

After a final scratch, she continued across the street. When the dog tagged along, J.T.’s voice boomed behind her. “Fancy Girl! Get over here!”

Hearing her old name in J.T.’s baritone stopped Mary in her tracks, but Fancy Girl ignored him. Mary rather enjoyed the dog’s rebellion. People usually did what J.T. ordered. Occasionally they did it with a gun aimed at them, but mostly they obeyed because he spoke with authority. He wasn’t in charge now.

As he called the dog a second time, a man came out of the church, looked long and hard at J.T., and went on his way. Any minute the congregation would be in the street and he’d be a spectacle in his black clothing. Needing to persuade him, Mary flashed a smile. “I promised Fancy Girl a plate of scraps. It looks like she’s holding me to it.”

His eyes twinkled. “She’s a smart dog.”

“Would you like to come with us?”

He snorted. “For scraps?”

“Scraps for her. Pot roast for you.” She tried to sound businesslike. “I really do own a restaurant.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“The best in town. It’s called Mary’s Café.” She raised her chin. “It’s mine, and I’m proud of it.”

“You should be.” Still he didn’t move.

“Come on.” She aimed her chin down the street. “Your dog won’t take no for an answer.”

A smile tipped on the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like you won’t, either.” Looking pleased, he stepped off the boardwalk and strode to her side. With Fancy Girl between them, they headed to the café with Mary hoping they hadn’t been seen.

J.T. smelled like dirt and mistakes, and he knew it. Apparently so did Mary. Her nose wrinkled as he stepped to her side, so he widened the gap between them. Fancy Girl smelled better than he did. He didn’t understand why his dog had taken such a strong liking to Mary, but he felt the same urge to follow her home.

As they walked down the boardwalk, she made small talk about the weather. J.T. responded in kind, but his mind wasn’t on the July heat. He couldn’t think about anything except the changes in Mary. She still had a saucy attitude, but the lines around her mouth had softened into an easy smile and her brown eyes had a sheen of happiness. She wore her hair differently, too. The curls were still honey-blond, but she’d tamed them into a simple twist. Her dress, a demure lilac, could have belonged to a schoolmarm.

Six months ago, he’d have mocked her plain dress and the prim hairstyle. He’d have teased her into being his Fancy Girl again, maybe into his bed.

Not now.

Not today. He thought back to how he’d left her and he had to wonder… What would have happened if he’d stayed with her? Would they be running a saloon with Mary singing and J.T. pouring drinks? He could resist the temptation to drink if it meant proving himself to Mary. His other worry—being called out by an old enemy, someone like Griff Lassen—would never leave, but time would ease the threat. Today, though, everything had changed. Mary didn’t need him at all. With no reason to stay, he decided to buy supplies and ride west. Whether or not those supplies would include whiskey, he couldn’t say.

With Fancy Girl in front of them, he kept pace with Mary as she turned down a side street. In the distance he heard the blast of a train whistle. They were near the depot, a good spot for business from hungry travelers. She indicated a storefront between a tailor and a telegraphy office. It was painted butter-yellow and had green trim. A sign read Mary’s Café.

“This is it.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Stepping inside, he saw cream-colored walls, tables set with red-checked linens and an assortment of chairs that didn’t match but somehow went together. Every surface sparkled, even the floor. A man could relax in a place like this. Apparently so could a dog. Fancy Girl ambled to a corner near an unlit potbelly stove, circled three times and curled into a ball.

J.T. took off his hat and hung it on a hook by the door. “You’ve got a nice place.”

“Thank you.” She raised her chin. “I’ve worked hard to get it started.”

In her eyes he saw the old Mary, the one who’d fight for what she wanted. He also saw bluish circles fanning down her cheeks. She was still beautiful, but he’d never seen her look so weary.

How hard did she have to work? Did anyone help her with the cooking and the washing up? The woman he’d known in Kansas hadn’t been the least bit inclined to kitchen chores. Thanks to J.T.’s faro winnings, they’d ordered lavishly at the Abilene Hotel and he’d bought her pretty things for the fun of it. She’d grown up poor, and he’d liked surprising her. He wondered how she’d gotten the money to open a restaurant. Was she beholden to the bank? Or maybe she had a business partner, a man with money. The thought made him scowl.

She’d clam up if he quizzed her, so he beat around the bush. “How’s business?”

“Good.” She indicated a table by a wall decorated with paintings of mountains. “Have a seat. I need to light the stove.”

Instead of sitting, he followed her into the kitchen. In the crowded space he saw two massive iron stoves, a row of high tables against the back wall, three baker’s racks full of pies and bread, and cooking utensils hanging from rods suspended from the ceiling. Basins were leaning against the back wall, clean and ready for the next load of dirty dishes.

J.T. saw the pride Mary took in her business, but he also saw hours of drudgery. In Abilene she’d slept until noon, even later sometimes. Judging by the aroma, she’d baked the bread before church.

Maybe he did have something to offer her. He couldn’t promise her a life of leisure, but running a saloon would be easier than serving full meals. He wanted to blurt the invitation to come with him to California, but first he had to rekindle the old sparks between them. Leaning against the doorframe, he crossed one boot over the other and watched her set a match to the banked coals. When they caught fire, he shook his head. “You must work day and night.”

She shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with hard work.”

“No,” he replied. “It’s just…tiresome.”

She gave him a quelling look, then removed a jar from the ice box, poured the contents into a pot and carried it to the stove. Facing him, she said, “This will take a few minutes. Let’s sit out front.”

As she stepped through the doorway, her skirts brushed his boots. He followed her to the table, then moved ahead of her and held her chair. He didn’t know what it would take to sweep Mary off her feet, but fancy manners had always impressed her. He slid in her chair, then moved to sit across from her.

The instant he hit the chair, Mary popped to her feet. “You must be thirsty. I’ve got sweet tea or cider. Coffee is—”

“Mary, sit,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you serving me.”

She sat, but she looked uncomfortable.

At last, J.T. had the upper hand. Hoping to put her at ease, he used the crooked grin that had never failed to charm her. “What brought you to Denver?”

She shrugged as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Denver is famous for its opera houses. I wanted to see it for myself.”

Her gaze stayed steady, but he saw a flash of pain. He survived as a gunslinger because he could feel danger coming. What he saw in Mary’s eyes troubled him deeply. “I’m surprised you’re not singing somewhere.”

“It didn’t work out.”

J.T. knew this woman. Short answers weren’t her style. Unless he’d lost his instincts, she was hiding something. He kept his voice mild. “But you love to sing. You’re good at it.”

She moved the fork a quarter inch. “I sing in church now. That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t think so.”

Suddenly wary, she turned to the window and stared out the shining glass. When she didn’t speak, J.T. thought back to the early days of his search and his visit to the Abilene Theater. The new manager had heard of Mary but didn’t know where she’d gone, and her acting friends had moved on. When she’d left the rowdy cow town, she’d done it fast and quietly. He’d assumed she’d run from a broken heart. Now he wondered if she’d had another reason. “Talk to me, Mary.”

She took a breath, a deep one. “You’re right. There’s more to the story. After you left, I had a run-in with Sam O’Day.”

J.T. knew all about Sam and his brother, Harvey. They were bounty hunters, and they behaved like animals. “What happened?”

“I shot him.”

“You what?”

“I shot Sam O’Day,” she repeated calmly. “Do you remember the pistol you gave me?”

“Of course.” The two-shot Deringer had over-under barrels, pearl handles and a gleaming nickel finish. They’d taken a buggy ride to nowhere, and he’d discovered she didn’t know how to shoot. He’d taken the pistol out of his boot, taught her to use it and told her to keep it handy. They’d kissed for an hour and he’d pushed for more. She’d said no, but a month later he’d convinced her to change her mind.

With her chin high, she described the encounter with O’Day. He’d been drunk enough to get thrown out of a brothel. When he’d seen Mary leave the theater alone, he’d called her names and cornered her in the alley. “He grabbed me,” she said calmly. “I told him to let go, but he wouldn’t.”

J.T. saw the fear on her face, the determination that had enabled her to fight for her life. He knew how she felt, because as a boy he’d been pinned down in an alley with a knife against his scrawny chest. His older brothers had been vicious. “It’s a bad feeling.”

“It is.” She took a breath. “I had your gun in my pocket. When he tore at my dress, I shot him. He died.”

“Mary, I—”

“Don’t say anything. What’s done is done.”

If J.T. had been around, O’Day wouldn’t have dared to touch her. He should have been with her…. He should never have left. What a fool he’d been to go off with Griff Lassen. He’d been looking for a fight to keep his own rep from slipping. Instead he’d made an enemy of Griff. He’d gotten Fancy Girl out of the deal, but he lost everything else and so had Mary.

Feeling bitter, he forced himself to meet her gaze. “What happened after you shot Sam?”

“I went to the sheriff. He believed me, but I had to stand trial for murder.”

He held in a cringe. “Did they lock you up?”

“For a time.”

Twice J.T. had spent time in a jail cell. No one knew it except Mary, but dark, closed-in places gave him nightmares. As a boy he’d been abused in an alley by his older brothers, often with a knife. More than once, Mary had comforted him when he’d been jarred awake by a nightmare. “I know what jail’s like,” he said. “It’s like being buried alive.”

“It was awful,” she admitted. “The jury ruled it was self-defense, but Sam’s brother didn’t agree. When he threatened to kill me if I stuck around, I decided to leave.”

J.T. let loose with a curse. “I’ll hunt him down. I’ll—”

“Don’t.”

“But, Mary—”

“It’s over and done.” She looked into his eyes. “I worried for a while that Sam’s brother would find me in Denver, so I traveled a bit before settling here. Harvey O’Day never found me, so I figured he went back to bounty hunting.”

“That’s most likely,” J.T. confirmed.

“As for Sam, I forgave him a long time ago. Frankly, coming to Denver was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I made friends at a boardinghouse called Swan’s Nest. I have supper there every Sunday. That’s where I’m going next.”

J.T. realized she hadn’t answered his first question. “Why not perform here in Denver?”

“Those last days in Abilene were awful,” she said mildly. “The theater world is small. If I act here in Denver, the talk will start again. I can’t stand the thought.”

He’d have chosen a whipping over the guilt he felt for leaving her. Not once had he considered Mary’s reputation when he’d set out to claim her. When she straightened her fork for the second time, he reached across the table and gripped her hand. His gaze dropped to their knuckles—hers red and rough, his scarred from brawling—and he felt the rightness of what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry I left. I should have—”

“Don’t waste your breath.”

When she tried to take back her hand, he held it tighter. “Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“I doubt that,” she said, tugging again.

He had some convincing to do, and he had to do it with tenderness, not fighting. He let her go. “I don’t expect you to believe me. Not yet. But I’ve missed you. That’s why I’m here. Remember the dream we had about opening a saloon? Our own place in California?”

She bit her lip, but her eyes said she remembered.

“Come with me, Fancy Girl,” he said in a hush. “We can pick up where we left off.”

She didn’t say yes to him, but neither did she slap his face. With his chest tight and his heart pounding, J.T. waited for her answer.