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Chapter 11

Slowly Megan lowered her feet to the porch floor and rose from the defenselessness of her no-longer-comfortable canvas chair. Instinct had to be moving her feet and legs, because she knew there was no way she could consciously do so.

With one hand on Deacon's head and the other wrapped securely around the porch post, Megan waited silently at the top of the steps for the two uniformed men to approach.

God, she'd grown to hate uniforms! To resent them. To fear them.

And what were these two doing here, a less than comfortable walk in the midday sun inside a locked gate?

The heavier one was sweating profusely. She saw the stains already spread across the tight khaki beneath his arms, and even though his eyes were shaded by the cream-colored western hat he wore, she'd bet the ranch that his face was dripping too.

Good!

The other one was not happy. He watched her as carefully as she watched the two of them. At first glance he seemed to be all swagger and good-old-boy determination, but when he reached the bottom of the steps and looked up at her, his eyes told a different story. Back down, they seemed to say. You're supposed to be afraid of us, and by God, you'd better act like you are.

For some reason, seeing that expression in the deputy's eyes stiffened Megan's spine as none of her own prompting could have.

She was safe; she had to believe that. This was, after all, still the United States; the raid had been a mistake, a horrible mistake that wouldn't be repeated. And Jake was asleep just inside the house. One yell from her and he'd be on these men like ducks on a June bug, like flies on a cow patty, like—

Megan clamped down on her wildly spiraling imagination. Jake would defend her if necessary, but was it necessary to wake him from the first rest he'd had since these men, or at least one of them, had stormed into her life?

Pressed tightly against her leg, Deacon growled softly. Megan traced her fingers across the smooth cap of his head but didn't say anything, not to the dog, not to the men. They had gone through a great deal of inconvenience to see her; obviously they had something to say. And just as obviously they didn't know how to go about saying it if she didn't cooperate by speaking first.

"Miz Hudson," the heavy one said, sweeping his hat from his head and wiping his forearm across his face.

Megan looked at him. She had been right. His sweat-stained hair lay plastered against his head, and moisture gleamed and dripped across his reddened but too-pale features.

"Miz Hudson," he said again, and waited.

Waited for what? she wondered. For her to speak? For her to acknowledge him? Well, she supposed she could give him that much. She nodded.

He returned the nod, shifted his hat to his other hand, and glanced warily at the dog by her side.

"Your daddy," he said. "Your daddy the senator seems right upset by that unfortunate episode of three nights ago."

So her father knew. How? Dr. Kent? Probably. Unless he was keeping closer tabs on her than she had thought.

"Your daddy seems to think we have overstepped our authority by exercising our legal responsibilities to the best of our ability."

Her father wasn't the only one who thought that, Megan reflected. Marvelous. At last they agreed on something.

"Miz Hudson, you have not yet filed a formal complaint. Not having done so, it appears to me you have acted in a highly improper manner by taking your story to the press and to your father without giving our office a chance to refute your accusations or explain our position.

"Miz Hudson," he said, his voice taking on a decided note of exasperation as she remained silent, "do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Not really, Sheriff," she said quietly. "Because it appears to me that you have been talking to a lot more people than I have."

"Mrs. Hudson." The other one—what was his name? She ought to know it. She had been watching him with her peripheral vision, the way she suspected someone would watch a threat not yet close enough to be a real danger. Now she turned her head, to acknowledge him and to look more closely at him.

He glanced over at Jake's Jeep and back to her, and his eyes were so cold she had to suppress a shudder. "Is Kenyon around?"

"Is your business with him or with me?"

Apparently deciding that meant Jake wasn't there, the deputy glared first at Deacon and then at her. "We don't need you to pretend innocence or ignorance," he snapped, gathering confidence and courage from the thought that she was alone. "What the sheriff is saying is that we have a dozen people who can swear to your hysterical overreaction to an honest mistake on the part of people sworn to protect the law in this county. A dozen people who have lived here most of their lives. A dozen people who do not have a history of falsely accusing those in authority of mistreating that authority.

"Now if you will just call your father, have him halt his inquiries, and explain to him that you are all right—that seemed to be his major concern—and if you will see to it that Phillips at the Banner gets an accurate rendition of what happened, we won't find it necessary to rake up old mud about your previous unfounded accusations."

Megan clutched convulsively at the fur at Deacon's neck but spoke with studied calm. "Why, Deputy," she said, "that sounds amazingly like a threat."

"No, ma'am." He smiled and turned those cold eyes of his on her again. Back down! Back down! They warned her. "It doesn't sound like a threat; it is one. But since there's no one but us to hear it, I reckon you won't be able to prove it. Now are you—"

Reacting to the tension of her hand on his neck or to the threat in the deputy's voice, Megan didn't know which, Deacon snarled a warning of his own and bared long teeth that so far she had seen exposed only in an endearing, lopsided grin.

"Call him off," the deputy said quickly.

"Why, Deputy," she said, knowing she probably shouldn't but knowing this was something she had to do, "I reckon that poor little innocent, ignorant me just doesn't know how to do that. But I'm pretty sure, if you two leave now, I'll be able to hold him long enough for you to get on down the road and climb back over that locked gate."

With horror, Megan watched as the deputy's hand inched toward the gun at his belt.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she advised with a calm she didn't feel. "If you think you have awkward explanations to make now, they're nothing compared to what they will be if you come onto my locked property a second time without provocation and shoot either me or Jake Kenyon's dog for protecting me."

"Damn it, Mark, let's just get out of here for now," Sheriff Pierson protested.

"Yeah, Mark."

Megan jerked around to face the Jeep. Jake stood partially behind it, at attention. His voice carried every bit as much threat as Deacon's, and with his face shadowed by the dark of his overnight beard, he looked every bit as dangerous. "I think it would be a real good idea for you to leave. And I think it would be a real good idea for you to remember what locked gates mean in this country."

"Kenyon, this is between us and Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, no," Jake said pleasantly. "That's my dog you're getting ready to draw down on, and it was my gate you climbed. I guess that makes it as much my business as anyone's. Now I think I heard Mrs. Hudson ask you nicely to leave."

"Damn, Kenyon. One of these days you're going to stick your nose in just a little too close."

"Oh, I have already, Mark. And it seems your office hasn't been able to do anything about that either.

"Rolley P," Jake said abruptly, nodding toward the road, "leave my dog alone. Take yours and get out of here."

Sheriff Pierson held his hands up, as if acknowledging defeat, settled his hat on his head, and turned toward the road. After one last defiant glare, the deputy turned and fell into step beside him.

Cautiously, Jake eased something through the open window into the interior of the Jeep and walked to the porch. "Good boy," he said, ruffling Deacon's fur. "You did fine. I'll take over now."

Deacon whined a soft welcome and butted his head under Jake's hand before moving away from Megan's side. Jake stepped up beside her and slid his arms round her, but the two of them stood facing the drive and watching the direction the two men went until long after they had disappeared onto the lane.

Then Jake turned toward her and hauled her into his arms. Megan went willingly, feeling all the strength leave her legs. She clung to him as reaction set in, as slow tremors racked her. "What horrible, horrible, horrible people," she whispered.

"Yes."

"I'm so glad you were here."

"You did fine," he told her, and his voice was as warm and as convincing as when he had said those same words to Deacon, who she knew had really performed well. "You did just fine. But I'm glad I was here too."

"How did you—"

"Deacon woke me. I wasn't sure what was coming, so I sent him out to you while I did a little reconnaissance."

She exhaled a shaky breath, remembering his furtive movements at the Jeep. "And armed yourself?"

"That too."

"Jake, what could they hope to accomplish by coming out here like this?"

She felt his hand in her hair, felt the other on her back as he pressed her closer to him. She didn't resist. She needed his closeness. "They could scare you into not filing a formal complaint about what happened."

"But I don't intend to do that anyway."

"Megan." His hands tightened on her, then shifted to her shoulders as he stepped back. "You have to. Especially now. You can't let them get away with what they did three nights ago. Or with what they tried today."

"Can't I?" she asked. "Didn't you hear what he said? The national press has already tried and convicted me of being a hysterical or maybe even a vindictive liar about what happened at the clinic. I'm not going through that again. I'm not sure—God, Jake, after what I told you this morning, I'm not sure I could stand up to any real investigation into my mental stability."

He shook her, not gently and yet with a compassion mirrored by his words.

"You're as sane as I am," he said. "Probably more so. And if you're having reactions to the horror you've been through, that only proves your sanity. For God's sake, Megan, you can't let these petty little tyrants dictate to you, or you'll never be able to reclaim your life."

"Do you think that's what I'm trying to do?" she asked. "Reclaim my life?"

"Isn't it?"

Was it? Suddenly his touch was as unbearable as the questions she knew she had to answer, at least for herself. She jerked away from him, walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against the rail, holding on tightly, needing something real and substantial to grasp, even if it was only wood.

"I'm not sure," she said, taking a deep breath. "I'm not sure I ever really had a life to reclaim. I think if I'm doing anything, I'm trying to find a life. And I only hope the one I find is mine."

Eventually, Jake returned to his vehicle and retrieved something he immediately stashed in a brown paper bag, and they took Megan's little red sports car up the hill to Jake's house to pick up his truck to go after the horses. They left his Jeep parked beside Megan's house so that anyone who came in, if anyone came in, would see it and think he was still lurking somewhere nearby.

"An import?" he asked, as she struggled to hold the little car between the washed-out ruts of the road. "Isn't Congress in a 'Buy American' mode right now?"

Megan flashed him a grin. "It's new, can't you tell? It was reaction, not reflection, and maybe rebellion against my father's betrayal, that gave me the incentive to go ahead and splurge." She bit down on her lip as the car lurched into a hole. "However," she said, "maybe a good old American army-issue tank would have been better for this part of the country."

She had waited apprehensively in Jake's living room while he showered and shaved and changed clothes, but no women appeared, no voices, no quilting frame: nothing but Deacon, who immediately stretched out on the cool stone of the hearth and began snoring gently.

"Some guard dog you are," Megan muttered. "I wonder, is there training for ghost watching?"

"You say something?" Jake asked, walking into the room.

"No." Megan jumped up from the chair almost as fast as Deacon scrambled to his feet. "Not really. I was just talking to a sleeping dog."

Jake grinned at her. "Are you ready to go get some horses? If you're real nice, I'll let you talk to them too."

Riding downhill in Jake's beat-up, shock-sprung pickup wasn't much smoother a ride than the one uphill had been. In self-defense, Megan dug the seat belt fastener out from the crevice of the seats, buckled herself in, and held on to the dashboard for dear life.

Jake's humor had definitely taken a vacation by the time they reached the gate. He got out to unlock it, and Megan followed.

"At least they didn't shoot the lock off," he said, when his key worked smoothly.

"What? And risk letting you know they were coming?"

"Right." He lifted up on the gate and began swinging it open. "Will you drive through so I can shut this behind the truck?"

Megan nodded and climbed back in the pickup, managing, somehow, to reach all the pedals and work all the levers, even though they were adjusted for Jake's length and strength.

"Have any trouble?" Jake asked as he opened the driver's side door.

Megan shook her head and slid across the bench seat. "Piece of cake," she told him.

"Which reminds me. Is the Prescott Mall all right for lunch?"

"Lunch? You're feeding me again?" she asked as she buckled the safety belt in place.

Jake nosed the truck out onto the county road and accelerated before he grinned at her. "Look at it this way. Sarah needs the business and I need the nourishment, so you're really helping the two of us by suffering through some of Sarah's really awful cooking."

"Right," Megan said. "And if what I saw you eat there yesterday fits your definition of nourishment, I don't suppose you'll be around to make me suffer very long."

Jake laughed, but his attention was on the road, on a deep pothole that seemed to have gotten wider and deeper since yesterday, when a meaning Megan had never truly intended for her words struck her.

Not be around? Jake? But he was indestructible, wasn't he?

Maybe not. Even on this rough road, instead of gripping the steering wheel with his right hand, Jake merely rested it there while giving the majority of control to his left hand. The scar was an ugly thing—too ugly to be old, too well healed to be new enough for the wound to be bothering him still, unless the damage to nerves and muscle might never completely heal.

"Jake?"

He glanced over at her, and his eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"

"What did you mean when you told that deputy—"

"Henderson?"

"Yes, Mark Henderson. What did you mean when you told him you'd already stuck your nose in a little too close and his office hadn't been able to do anything about it?"

He swung his attention back to the road, this time to a skinny bridge and a narrow turn.

"You knew I came back home after I left the agency and was appointed as sheriff?" He hesitated a moment. "And that I was shot?"

"Helen wasn't particularly free with the details, but yes, I do know that much."

"I didn't want to have anything to do with law enforcement when I came back home, but the County Commissioners convinced me that they needed the 'expertise' I'd acquired while working with DEA. And I guess I still had a drop or two of crusader left in me. Surprised the hell out of me," he said, almost in an afterthought.

"The current sheriff, the one whose term I was going to fill, was under indictment for several felony charges. We were in the middle of what was, for Pitchlyn County, a crime wave, with more stuff on the street than some metropolitan areas see, and what looked like the organization of a major pipeline looking for a foothold somewhere in this area.

"I took the job. I didn't want to be one of those officious bastards who sweeps everyone out of a department and fills it with untrained and too often incompetent cronies; besides, I didn't have that many buddies who wanted to trade in their federal jobs for the insecurity of a county one. So I kept most of the staff. I only got rid of the ones who had been implicated in previous investigations. Mark stayed."

"He worked for you?"

Jake shook his head. "Mark never worked for anyone but himself, but that wasn't immediately apparent. He gives a pretty good impersonation of a concerned lawman.

"Anyway, I did manage to develop some leads on the drug pipeline, through a couple of carefully cultivated informants. I found someone who supposedly knew about a major drop site. Mark was my backup. He says I didn't give him the right directions, so he and the other agencies were two ridges away from my meeting, damn near to Arkansas. And my informant neglected to tell me that the drop site had recently been used, or that he was the one who used it.

"We went in on horseback, and like the greenest recruit in the world, I rode into an ambush. I did get one shot off before I was left for dead. Sometime after my informant left, my horse wandered back; even the best trained horses can be forgiven for running when the bullets start flying. I managed to get Deacon—he'd been shot too—and me back on the horse and hang on until we got to my place."

"Jake." Megan had twisted in the seat to face him as he talked. Now she laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. So close. He had come so close to death.

He lifted his hand to cover hers before again placing it on the wheel. "I called Patrick. He and Barbara saw that I got to a neutral hospital. My informant showed up later at the local hospital, dead, but with two gunshot wounds instead of just the one I managed to inflict. Rolley P was acquitted of all charges and resumed his badge, and no one in that office has ever come up with a single clue about who was behind the shooting. But it does look like the pipeline has decided to go around Pitchlyn County."

"Jake."

He gave a rueful laugh. "I'd ask you how you spent your summer vacation, but I've already heard that story and it isn't any better than mine."

"When did this happen?"

He glanced at her, lifted a brow, and lifted the corner of his mouth. "Two weeks before you left on your trip."

"God," she whispered. "You were still in the hospital?"

"Yes," he said. "Most definitely, yes."

"And Helen went on a junket?"

Now Megan did see his hand grip the wheel, and when she looked at his strong, clean, unmarred profile she saw a nerve twitch near the corner of his mouth.

"We're here," he said tightly.

Megan looked up in surprise. Prescott already? It was just as well. Amazing, she thought. Jake would talk about betrayal, violence, and near death, but the subject of his marriage was off limits. Well, a small, silent voice taunted her, isn't yours? Wouldn't you rather talk about almost anything than tell Jake just how bad your married life had been?

None of the spit-and-whittle crowd loitered on the store's porch today. A cowbell clanked merrily as Jake pushed the door open and held it for Megan to pass.

The alcove to the right of the door was empty. Megan glanced into the interior of the store to see Sarah straightening up from a cramped bend over a frozen food chest. She looked toward the door, smiled, and waved.

"Tea's in the blue pitcher," she called out. "Help yourselves and I'll be right there."

"Amazing," Megan murmured as they walked into the lunchroom alcove and Jake stepped behind the counter. "It's like another world."

"No," he said, scooping ice from a small chest into two glasses. "It's the way the world was before we got so crowded that people in the same neighborhood don't know each other. Here," he said, setting the glasses and the blue pitcher on the counter in front of her. "Why don't you fill these while I see if Sarah needs some help?"

Megan filled the glasses and studied the chalkboard menu on the side wall. Chicken salad wasn't on it, but then it hadn't been on it yesterday either.

She smiled when she heard Sarah's laughter mingling with Jake's in the back of the store. A friendlier world. She like the thought of that. A gentler world. A world where neighbors knew each other and helped each other. Her smile faded. But still a world where people like Rolley Pierson and Mark Henderson could gain footholds and threaten the peace of that world.

The laughter and then the murmur of voices died away. She heard Jake's heavier steps going toward the back of the store, Sarah's lighter ones coming toward her. Megan found a smile to answer Sarah's welcoming one as she rounded the corner into the alcove.

"Good," Sarah said, nodding toward the glasses. "I see you found it all right."

She stepped behind the counter and washed her hands, then took a large potato from a nearby bin, scrubbed it, and ran it through a hand-operated cutter, letting the strips fall into a fry basket which she plunged into the waiting fryer. Then she took a round ball of ground meat from the refrigerator, pressed it into shape, and dropped it on the small grill.

"Now," she said over her shoulder, as she again washed her hands. "What can I fix for you today?"

"Chicken salad?" Megan asked hopefully.

Sarah shook her head but grinned. "Trust me?" she asked.

"After yesterday? You bet."

Sarah nodded and busied herself taking containers from the refrigerator and assembling something just out of Megan's sight around a corner of the counter.

"Where's Jake?" Megan asked.

"Oh, some of his deliveries came in. He's putting them in the truck. Is he ever going to get that mill in working order?"

"What?"

"The sawmill. I told him when he bought it from Tom Haney's grandkids that it was probably too far gone to salvage, but nothing would do but for him to haul it up the hill to that shed behind his house and start reconstructing it. I swear, he could have bought a new one for what he's put into this one. Of course, you can't really count all the time it's taken. He was barely able to get around for weeks, let alone do any physical labor."

Megan paused with her glass halfway between the counter and her lips. Jake had a sawmill?

Had she known about it before? Had Jake and Sarah talked about what kind of deliveries he wanted to have made here? Had he mentioned to Megan what he was doing during those times he had something he had to do on his own place?

No. Megan was certain. Hadn't she wondered, just this morning, how he meant to spend the rest of his life?

Of course, a home-based sawmill didn't make a career, but it was a start. . . .

"Here you go," Sarah said cheerfully, not at all aware of Megan's mental turmoil as she slid a platter and a small plate in front of her and turned to the grill and fryer to finish preparing Jake's meal.

"Is it okay?" Sarah asked over her shoulder.

"Oh." Megan looked at the platter. A medley of sliced fresh fruits and cheeses on a bed of lettuce surrounded a small crystal dish of cottage cheese and a matching dish containing a scoop of lime sherbet. The bread plate held two dark, grainy rolls and a curl of chilled butter. "Oh, my, yes." Megan said. "I never expected something like this. Thank you!"

Sarah flashed her a smile. "And I never expected to be able to serve something like that in the Prescott General Store. Thank you, Megan."

Jake entered from the front door just as Sarah finished assembling his cheese burger and poured the fries from the basket onto the side of his platter.

Without asking, she handed him a towel, and he walked behind the counter and washed his hands. He leaned forward to examine Megan's meal. "Looks good," he said. "Where's the beef?"

Sarah spluttered and winked at Megan. "See what I mean?" she said. "And he's one of my more enlightened patrons."

Jake looked at her, all questioning innocence.

"Go sit," Sarah said, waving him from behind the counter. "Eat, and I'll get your mail."

"It does look good," Jake repeated as he seated himself on the adjacent stool. Reaching over with his fork, he speared a slice of cantaloupe and bit into it. "Tastes good, too. Want a French fry?" Without waiting for her answer, he scooted her bread plate near his platter and transferred a half dozen or so fries with his fork. "That'll put some meat on your bones."

Megan groaned. "Oh, come on, Jake. The next thing I know, you'll be calling me 'little lady' and patting me on the head."

"Now that's not exactly where I'd want to pat you. If I were to pat you, that is." He smiled at her, but it wasn't humor she saw in his eyes, it was something much needier, and it was gone in an instant.

Sarah didn't return to the lunch counter until Megan had surrendered her plate to Jake and he had just speared the last slice of apple.

"Mail," she said, setting a stack of catalogs and envelopes in front of Jake. "Sorry, but it looks like nothing but bills," she told Megan as she set a small pile in front of her. Megan shrugged and smiled at Sarah. She hadn't really expected anything different, but it was amazing how much having her expectations met hurt.

As before, Sarah poured herself a glass of tea and leaned a hip against the counter. "So, is that all your deliveries, Jake? Or can I expect another couple hundred pounds tomorrow? What did you do anyway? It was only yesterday that you asked. You sly dog, you'd already told them to bring your stuff here."

Jake shook his head. "Nothing so devious, Sarah. I knew what delivery service this company uses. I called them yesterday afternoon and made a driver very happy by rerouting my deliveries here until further notice.

"Good meal," he said, finishing the apple. He lifted his tea glass in her direction, and Sarah filled it wordlessly. She gestured in the direction of Megan's glass, but Megan shook her head.

Jake lifted his glass and saluted them. "What mysterious good-looking guy did you two talk about behind my back today?" he asked, raising a mocking eyebrow.

Sarah looked at him as though he had lost his mind. "Tom Haney? Have you had too much sun today?"

Jake choked and coughed out a startled laugh.

Even knowing what Jake wanted to pursue, Megan couldn't help smiling.

He grinned at her, and if she thought she saw an apology in his eyes—well, she supposed that with all the other things she had been seeing, it was all right.

"I guess old Tom might be considered mysterious, he was kind of a hermit, but I really was interested in the one you talked about yesterday. The one who's been dead for years and years. Help me out here, Megan. What was his name?"

"You don't mean Sam Hooker, do you, Jake?" Sarah asked.

"Yes," Megan said. A weird, wild connection struck her, one so obvious that she was amazed she hadn't made it before: the prowlers. "Sam Hooker and the legend of the railroad gold."

"Oh, Jake, you know about him," Sarah said.

Jake shook his head.

"You mean you didn't go treasure hunting when you were growing up on that mountain? Everybody else did."

"Well, of course I went treasure hunting. Patrick and Barbara and I dug up half the county. But Sam Hooker? I don't think I've ever heard of him. What was he, a train robber, a stagecoach robber, or a bank robber? Some of all of those are supposed to have buried their loot somewhere in the county."

"Hush now, he was none of those, and you'd know it if you just thought. He was a lawman like you. Well, maybe not like you. He was a Lighthorseman, but I don't think he was assigned to Peter Conser. I think he worked specially for the Principal Chief of the Nation. At least that's the way I remember the story. The treasure was an army payroll stolen from the train at Limestone Gap."

"And how did it get all the way over here?" Jake asked. "Toward Fort Smith, Arkansas, is the wrong direction for any self-respecting outlaw to be carrying army gold stolen from damn near the Texas border."

"That's the mystery," Sarah told him. Her eyes widened and her voice deepened, as she lost herself in the rhythm of the story. "Or part of it. The other part of it is, did Sam Hooker recover it and, if so, where did he hide it?"

"And of course it has to be around here somewhere, doesn't it?" Jake asked in a gentle mimic of Sarah's voice.

"Well, wherever else?" she asked. "After all, he lived in these hills."

Megan watched as Jake made the same connection to the prowlers as she just had and then discarded it—but not quite.

"I don't suppose you know where?" he asked.

"I don't." Sarah leaned back, pleased with herself for at last catching his attention, and took a long swallow of her tea. "But Miss Mattie might. Rumor has it he was related either to her grandfather or great-grandfather. You know, Megan, your place is somewhere near where their old homeplace used to be."

 

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