A Hard Ride Home (11 page)

Warren said nothing, his hands still mapping out the foal's muscles and spindly, wobbly legs. When he'd felt her all over, he stood slowly and held his hand out to help Jesse up. By the weight of Warren's grip, Jesse knew what he was in for. Warren led him down the clean, quiet hall. He had the most newfangled stable in the country. The stall doors gleamed, the wood polished as fine as any parlor table.

"I can stop by the kitchen, sir." Jesse matched Warren's pace easily, but he found himself dragging behind as if his feet had turned to stone. "Won't take me but a minute."

"Something on your mind to make you forgetful?" Warren asked, his tone casual and easy. He stopped at the last empty stall and guided Jesse to take the iron bars in his hands.

"Like I said, you scared me good. Haven't been thinking straight." The bars were cold and solid.

"Keep your hands there, or I'll lash them there." Warren brushed the dust and horse sweat off his fingers by wiping them down Jesse's ribs.

It tickled, the feeling a sweet, funny lurch that made Jesse's stomach turn. "Walk back with me; I'll get ready and get you a drink and we can go slow. You'll like it more," Jesse said. He never sounded like this, not this unsteady. He'd have been better off staying quiet, but now he truly was nervous, and it prickled in his throat and made him want to talk until things were right again.

"I believe you're getting spoiled." Warren wrenched Jesse's trousers down and squeezed his ass with both hands. "Bedding those soft, easy women. Making eyes at the sheriff. You're forgetting your place, boy."

Jesse closed his eyes tightly, listening for some sign that the vial had broken or shifted when his trousers pooled around his ankles. He heard nothing but Warren's breath.

Then Warren spat on him and pushed the cold spit into him.

"Fuck, Warren," Jesse hissed, keeping as still as he could so he didn't kick at his trousers and knock the vial out of his pocket and into the sawdust. "That ain't enough, you know it—"

Warren opened him with a blunt, slow press of his cock, and Jesse stopped talking. He bit his lip until his teeth tore the soft flesh and blood filled his mouth in a tangy burst, and he meditated on his own cold hatred as Warren tugged him back, over and over.

*~*~*

When they settled into the library an hour later, Jesse poured Warren's whiskey from a crystal decanter and added the clear liquid from the vial. His hands didn't even shake. Anger made him bold, made his bones feel stronger and his skin feel hot and prickly all over.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Warren asked, voice fond and warm. He pulled Jesse down into his lap in his easy chair and sipped at the whiskey.

"Not past fixing," Jesse said with a shrug, too riled up to ease into lazy flirtation.

"Is there some salve you whores concoct for dealing with rough handling?" Warren watched Jesse over the rim of his glass, his tone utterly serious.

"General Store sells arnica. S'good for any ailment." Jesse guided Warren to take another long sip before he kissed him deeply, knowing Warren only liked kissing when he was starting to feel the haze of good whiskey. It would calm Warren down, would make him feel gentle and slow and ready to sleep.

Jesse drew back after a long, deep kiss—tasting the bite of the whiskey and feeling the burn of Warren's stubble on his chin. He smiled, watching Warren's eyelids start to shutter slowly, rhythmically. It was soothing to watch.

He caught the glass when it fell out of Warren's hand, and as he set it on the table, he considered just curling up on the plush rug at Warren's feet to sleep with him until the ache and sting at his backside subsided.

When Jesse rested his cheek against Warren chest, he felt the sharp outline of the key Warren wore under his shirt. He wrinkled his nose, annoyed by how rough and uncomfortable it felt.

"Oh, shit. Shit," he whispered, climbing out of Warren's lap abruptly. The floor rose up to smack him and he groaned, slapping at his cheeks to try to wake himself up. He could picture Milton lecturing him. What kind of fool went kissing a man he'd just drugged?

At least he could still keep his eyes open, and his feet more or less steady as he hung onto Warren's knees and pulled himself up to Warren's chest. His fingers fumbled, numb and inaccurate, but it didn't take him too long to slide the key and its chain up over Warren's head as Warren snored.

"Keep awake now," he told himself, pinching the thin skin at the underside of his elbow.

The safe was under a false-front of books. He'd seen it before. Warren opened it because he didn't think Jesse was a threat, didn't think Jesse was worth a damn, didn't think it mattered when he hurt him.

"Will shoot you full of holes," he muttered, sifting through heavy parchment papers to find the hand-drawn map to the mine where Warren stockpiled his stolen ammunition and grain stores and explosives. He folded it up and tucked it down into his boot. He closed the safe up and locked it and sat on the floor for a while, waiting for the room to stop tilting back and forth like a raft at the river crossing.

He was creeping out the door on his hands and knees when Miss Catherine stopped him, her hand ice cold on his neck. "You forgot to give the key back," she whispered, eyes gleaming. Her dress had a busy pattern. It reminded him of a butterfly or a flower. "Give it here, and I'll put it back around his neck. Now, you get."

"You're helping me," Jesse said, his thoughts leaking out his mouth.

Catherine's eyes narrowed to slits. "I put some coffee in a mug on the porch. Drink it up quick and don't take the pony, for God's sake. You'll break your neck."

"You're talkin' fast."

"Hurry, fool. Go!"

*~*~*

As the day stretched on, Emmett's only comfort was knowing he wasn't worrying alone. Charley decided to clean out the jail cell, changing the straw and whitewashing the walls and swearing under his breath as he sweated. When Emmett couldn't stand watching anymore, he walked down the street.

At the Weeping Willow, the girls were out on the porch, legs bare and going pink in the sun as they sprawled like river birds trying to stay cool on the unseasonably hot day. They didn't call out or wave, save for Delia, who ran out into the street and threw her arms around him.

"Hush now," he said, tugging one of her braids carefully. "Don't be making a scene, Miss Delia."

"Yes, Sheriff."

She looked up at him and he kissed her forehead, whispering, "Don't know who's watching. Run on back and tell Miss Devaux to bake her geese on the back porch. This town has standards for decency."

"Sheriff!" They both turned toward the sound, and Emmett set off at a run when he saw a rider slowing in front of the jailhouse with a slender figure slumping down from behind his saddle.

"Whoa, whoa," the man called out, sliding out of the saddle to grab Jesse as he sank into the dirt.

"Ira!" Emmett yelled, recognizing his new deputy cradling Jesse on the ground. He ran until his lungs hurt, and hit the ground hard beside them, his hands jutting out to press at Jesse's chest and stomach, to see where he'd been shot.

"Sheriff, it's all right, he's not hurt that I can tell," Ira said, glancing up and down the street worriedly, as if they'd been chased.

"What's wrong with him?" Emmett's heart wouldn't stop thundering like hoof beats.

"Help me get him inside. He was walking, more or less, 'fore he fell asleep like this."

"Asleep? He isn't moving," Emmett said, grabbing under Jesse's arms to pull him inside while Ira hefted his legs.

"He's got whiskey on his breath. Think he's drunk?" Ira asked, closing the latch on the front door once they had Jesse inside.

"Drunk? No… He. Oh God." Emmett laughed, sprawled out on the floor with Jesse bunched up against his chest.

Ira crouched and fanned his hat at Jesse's face. "What is it?"

"He's just drugged, most likely. Find Doc Milton, will you?"

Ira took off for Milton's place while Emmett pressed his lips to Jesse's hair and willed his body to stop trembling.

Charley gave them a long look and said he'd stay outside on guard, in case someone up at the big house had gotten wind of what had happened.

When Milton and Emmett carried Jesse to Emmett's bedroom and stripped him down to get him cooled off, they found the map in his boot.

"Sorry you had to see to this, Doc," Emmett said gruffly, tucking the folded map into his pocket. "Don't want you in danger on account of our dealings."

Milton sat on a low stool next to Emmett's bed and pinched Jesse's wrist, his expression far-away. After a few breaths, he grunted something that sounded like approval and stood as if his knees were made of driftwood.

"Is that it?" Emmett asked, frowning at Jesse's motionless features.

"He'll sleep for another hour or so, I'd wager. If another individual ingested the majority of that tincture," Milton said vaguely, "I'd imagine he'd sleep for a whole day."

"We'll ride before dawn," Emmett said, standing to shake Milton's leathery old hand.

"And I'll be prepared for your return, Sheriff."

*~*~*

Ira and Charley stood guard at the jailhouse, playing a jittery game of cards on Emmett's desk while Emmett rode to the Weeping Willow.

"Is he all right?" Roscoe asked in low tones, meeting Emmett in the back lot before he could even get inside.

A twinge of jealousy made Emmett's next step feel uneven, and he frowned deeply, unaccustomed to being caught unawares by those sorts of feelings. "Yes, he drugged himself somehow, it seems."

"Sounds like Jesse." Roscoe laughed, opening the door for Emmett. His relief echoed what Emmett felt on the floor in the jailhouse. But it irritated Emmett. None of this was funny. It was deadly serious.

"Yes, well. He'll sleep it off at the jailhouse where he'll be safe for the night."

"Good plan, Sheriff," Roscoe said, walking up the stairs ahead of Emmett.

"In my bed," Emmett added.

Roscoe stopped at the first landing and turned, studying Emmett. "I'd go to my grave for anyone under this roof, Sheriff. They took me in when I was in a bad way."

"That isn't important right—"

"I've never bedded him, and I don't intend to," Roscoe said, no mirth left in his gaze.

Emmett felt his face heat and gritted his teeth, knowing Roscoe could see it. With his damnable freckles, he'd never been able to hide a flush.

"There's no going back from what we're starting, I figure," Roscoe went on, once he could tell Emmett wasn't doing much but swallowing. "I'll follow you, and fight for these girls, but if you—"

"I won't hurt him."

Standing there, feeling pinned by the Weeping Willow's bartender of all the damned people, Emmett understood that this was Jesse's family. These were the last people he should cross, and the first people he should turn to if he was going to figure out this courtship business—if they could make it through the next few days alive.

Roscoe gave him a long look. "I believe that."

*~*~*

"Jesse's all right," Emmett said immediately upon entering Evelyn's bedroom. He couldn't help but think that the last time he'd been there he'd been buying Jesse's time. It ached, low in his gut, to recall the simplicity of those sweet kisses—or the fact that his biggest problem at the time had been the magnitude of his desire.

"Don't you think I've already heard that?" Evelyn bent over her desk, her fingers spread wide across the book where she kept the saloon's figures in narrow rows. "Delia was right there in the street with you."

"Well, he got the map. I recognize the land. Won't be long if we ride hard."

Evelyn sat back in her chair and studied him, as if expecting something. Even when they'd been children, Emmett had found her scrutiny unsettling. It was something about the alley-cat sharpness of her gaze. After the silence began to feel as tense as the air before a summer storm, Emmett sighed, drew the map from his pocket and carefully unfolded it on her desk.

She asked a few questions about the landmarks and notations, likely memorizing it to make additions to the little book she kept tucked in a hidden pocket sewn into her dress.

"Evelyn, something's been weighing on me," Emmett said.

"I've noticed."

"Not…" Emmett scrubbed his hand across his mouth. "Not that. It's the map. Do you think the map is genuine? What if it's a ruse? What if he knew Jesse would tell us about it?"

"The mayor hasn't made a good decision about Jesse since the day he laid eyes on him, Emmett," Evelyn said, her voice cold in a way that made Emmett wonder when they'd both stopped calling him Father, when he'd stopped feeling like blood and started feeling more like a bruise. "If he thought Jesse would betray him, Jesse wouldn't be alive right now. Or he wouldn't want to be."

"Does he love Jesse?" Emmett asked, remembering asking Evelyn nearly the same question before, when he'd been blinded by foolhardy jealousy.

Evelyn made a soft, weary sound. "In his own way. There were times… I thought. I suppose I hoped it would become something Jesse might want. Warren's tender with him once in a blue moon, but he's… There's something wrong with that man. I might not be a God-fearing woman, but I believe Warren's soul is blackened. If he's got a soul at all."

"Was it always… did it start…" Emmett couldn't finish the question—couldn't bear to consider Jesse being compromised as a boy, as a child.

"My mother still ran the Willow when Warren left him here with us. There wasn't a damn thing any of us could do."

The way she delicately side-stepped the question was all the answer Emmett needed. He took a deep breath, as if that would clear the tightness out of his lungs. "Doc said he ought to wake up before morn."

Evelyn abruptly went back to the figures in her book, leaving Emmett standing there feeling unwelcome and unsettled.

"What if Roscoe rides Jesse out to Ira's place, or just down the creek to the river crossing? They can rough it a few nights, lay low," Emmett said, leaning against the side of Evelyn's desk as she tapped the tip of her quill against the ink pot.