The Heart of a Hero
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Judith Stacy
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Chapter 1
Wyoming, 1886
"I’m here to take the kids away.”
Jess Logan eyed the woman blocking the doorway. Warmth radiated from the neat, well-kept parlor behind her, but her face looked as cold as the wind biting at his ears. He’d expected as much.
Alma Garrette’s brows rose to a haughty arch. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face here in Walker after all these years.”
“I’m here for my sister’s kids, Mrs. Garrette. Sheriff told me you had them.”
“Humph! Your sister has been by herself for nearly three years now since her husband ran off. And where have you been? You couldn’t have gotten here a month ago when she was ailing and needed the help? Or three days ago when she passed on? Or yesterday for the service?” Her gaze raked him from head to toe.
Jess ran his hand over his week-old beard. “I got here quick as I could.”
Her mouth curled downward as if she doubted it. “I’ll tell you right now, Jess Logan, I don’t like this one bit. I told the sheriff so myself. Those poor babies have never even laid eyes on you. What do you know about raising children, a man with your... past.”
Beneath his poncho, Jess’s hands curled into fists. “Would you just get the kids? It’s nearly dark. I want to get them home.”
“Your sister’s home, you mean.”
His jaw tightened. “Their home.”
She gave him a final scathing look and shut the door in his face. He knew it wasn’t the mud on his boots or the rain dripping from his Stetson that kept her from inviting him inside.
The door swung open quickly and a stoop-shouldered man squinted up at him. “Jess Logan? Is that you, boy? It’s me—Rory Garrette.”
“Mr. Garrette?” Jesus, what had happened to the man? He’d gotten so old.
Rory chuckled and leaned heavily on his cane. “Been a long time, boy. What? Fifteen years?”
“Yeah, about that.” Jess shifted his wide shoulders. On the trail these past weeks, every bump and sway—every memory—caused his thirty-two years to weigh more heavily on him. Now, seeing Rory Garrette, the burden lifted a little. “How you been, Mr. Garrette?”
“Tolerable, I reckon.” He nodded toward the muddy roadway and the misting rain. “Things in Walker have changed, though. It’s just not the same, not like when you were here.”
Jess didn’t answer, the past being the last thing he wanted to discuss.
“Yes sirree, them were the days. You boys were something. Fighting, drinking—kept the saloons in business yourselves, you and the Vernon boys. And the girls...land alive, weren’t no girl safe with you boys loose on the streets.” Rory laughed aloud. “And always into mischief, too. I remember the time you boys set fire to old lady Murray’s privy with her inside, she come a-running—”
“That was a long time ago, Mr. Garrette.”
“Yeah, that’s for dang sure.” His smile faded. “Town’s done gone respectable now. Got us a regular preacher over to the church, a full-time sheriff and deputy, too. Got enough ordinances and laws to choke a horse. New schoolmarm just got here, some widow woman from back East. All the ladies in town been wringing their hands since your sister took sick, wondering how we’d get us another teacher way out here. I guess you’ve seen some changes here in Walker already, huh, boy?”
He’d seen his sister’s grave. That was enough.
Alma stepped into the doorway, sending Rory on his way with a disapproving glare. She passed a small carpetbag to Jess. “Here’s their things.”
Beside her stood the children. His sister’s children. He’d never seen them before.
Little Maggie looked up at him with solemn eyes. Eyes older than her eight years. Jess knelt in front of her. The picture of her mother, with big brown eyes and blond curls. A lump of emotion rose in his throat.
“Mrs. Garrette says you’re Mama’s brother.”
“That’s right, Maggie. I’m your Uncle Jess.”
“Mama’s dead.”
His chest tightened. “I know, honey.” He turned to the little brown-haired boy peeking around Alma’s skirt. “Hey there, cowboy.”
“His name is Jimmy,” Maggie told him. “He turned five last week, but we couldn’t have a party or anything ’cause of Mama.”
Jess held out his hand. “Come here, Jimmy. You want to go for a ride with me and your sister?”
Jimmy drew back and hid his face in the folds of Alma’s skirt.
“Jimmy doesn’t talk,” Maggie said.
Alma glared down at Jess. “The child hasn’t spoken since his mother passed on.”
She made it sound as if that were his fault, too.
Jess rose. “I’m obliged to you, Mrs. Garrette, for looking after them until I got here.”
She jerked her chin. “They’ll be back. I don’t doubt it for a minute. There’s plenty of good Christian folks in this town who’d be more than glad to take these young ’uns in—you best remember that.”
Jess drew in a deep breath. “Come on, kids. Let’s go.” Carpetbag in hand, he crossed the porch.
“Aren’t you going to put his hat on for him?” Maggie asked.
“Huh?” He froze and looked back at her confused face.
“Aren’t you going to help Jimmy?”
Jess felt Alma’s glower and cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure.”
He fished the battered hat from the boy’s jacket pocket and pressed it down on his head.
“He can’t button his buttons either,” Maggie told him.
Jess fastened the jacket, his big fingers awkward on the buttons. He turned to Maggie. “Anything else?”
“No.” She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and took her brother’s hand.
Jess stood. “All right, then, let’s go.”
A hand crept into his. Tiny warm fingers curled against his palm, sending a rush up his arm. He looked down at Maggie clinging to him.
“Where are we going, Uncle Jess?”
He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Home.”
“Uncle Jess doesn’t like people coming around the house, Mrs. Wakefield. He says they’re all a bunch of nosy busybodies and ought to stay home looking after their own children.”
Sarah Wakefield held tight to Maggie’s hand as she picked her way around the mud puddles in the road. “This is different. I’m your teacher.”
The little girl shook her head, her blond curls bouncing. “Uncle Jess isn’t going to like it.”
Despite the dire warnings Maggie had given her since leaving the schoolhouse, Sarah pressed on, holding up the hem of her dark skirt, dodging puddles. Like the gray clouds overhead ready to burst with rain, Sarah had a few things she intended to say to Mr. Jess Logan, and she wouldn’t wait another day.
Maggie stopped and pulled her hand from Sarah’s. “This is where me and Jimmy live with Uncle Jess. We lived with Mama...before.”
Breath left Sarah’s lungs with a sigh of profound envy as she gazed at the cozy little house. White with green shutters and a sturdy roof, a neat picket fence bordered with shrubs and bushes, twin maples in the yard. Gray smoke billowed from the chimney, blending with the gloomy afternoon sky.
Sarah shuddered at the thought of the leaky, drafty cottage a short distance down the road near the school—her house. She told herself for the hundredth time since arriving in Walker that she should be happy with the house the school board provided. It was a place to live. And, it was a very long way from Missouri.
Maggie took her hand once more. “We always go in through the back. Mama said to keep the front clean for company.”
Sarah followed the child through the front gate and around to the rear of the house. A clothesline stretched across one corner of the yard and several weatherfaded outbuildings stood a short distance from the house.
“That’s my Uncle Jess.” Maggie bounced on her toes and pointed.
At the three-sided woodshed a man draped in a poncho slammed his axe into a log, splitting it cleanly in two. He stopped suddenly and spun around, his face shadowed by a black Stetson and a stubble of whiskers. Even from across the yard, Sarah felt the heat of his gaze upon her. She backed up a step.
“Hi, Uncle Jess.” Maggie skipped across the yard to him.
Jess knelt and gave her a one-armed embrace. “Did you do all right at school today?”
She nodded, then pointed back at Sarah. “This is—”
“Go on in the house, Maggie.” Stern, but not angry, he stood and gestured toward the back porch with the axe clenched in his fist. Maggie looked back at Sarah and waved before disappearing into the house.
For an instant, Sarah wanted to call the child back as she stood alone, facing Jess Logan. She’d heard the talk about him. Generally, she disregarded other people’s opinions in favor of making up her own mind. Now, she questioned the wisdom of her decision.
He took a step toward her, the shroud of the poncho widening his big shoulders and increasing his height. Sarah gulped.
“What do you want, lady?”
Sarah straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Logan, I’m—”
“I don’t care what your name is. What do you want?”
Not a shred of tolerance warmed his tone. She expected townspeople here to be different from the folks in Missouri, but she hadn’t expected a Jess Logan so soon after her arrival. “I want to talk to you about Maggie. She—”
“Goddamn it!” Jess slammed the axe into the chopping block. “How many more of you nosy heifers is the church going to send over here?”
Her eyes widened. “Pardon me?”
“Look, lady, don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what I mean. I’ve been here less than a week, and every goddamn time I turn around one of you good-intentioned Christian busybodies is poking your nose in around here. I’m telling you for the last damn time—”
“Uncle Jess! Uncle Jess!” Maggie pushed open the back door. “Something’s on fire again!”
He spat a mouthful of curses and raced across the yard. Not bothering with the steps, he leaped onto the porch and pulled Maggie from the doorway. “Stay out here.”
Sarah hurried onto the porch. Surprisingly, the child looked unconcerned. She dashed into the house, Maggie on her heels.
Black smoke coiled from the cookstove as she stepped into the kitchen. Jess pulled the door of the oven open with the toe of his boot, grabbed a towel from the sideboard and fanned the billows of smoke pouring into the room. He reached into the oven and pulled out a pan full of charred remains. Coughing, he threw open the window above the sink.
“Dammit.” Jess kicked the oven door closed. “Goddamn it!”
Calmly, Maggie ventured closer and peered at their burned meal. “It’s all right, Uncle Jess.”
“Sonofa—” Seeing Maggie he clamped his mouth shut and held in the curses until his cheeks puffed out. He yanked off his Stetson then grabbed a handful of his poncho and ripped it over his head, wadded the garment in a knot and flung it onto the sideboard.
Sarah took a step forward, then stopped.
He had on an apron. A pink, bibbed apron with ruffles around the edges, red hearts embroidered on the pockets and green vines twining up to two bluebirds kissing on his chest.
A giggle escaped Sarah’s lips and she slapped her hand across her mouth.
Jess glared at her, then looked down at the apron. Color rose in his cheeks, pink, like the apron, but he ground his lips together and drew himself up to his greatest height.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Maybe I could help you prepare something else for supper?”
“I don’t need any help, lady.” He snarled the words at her like a rabid dog. “I’ve got everything handled.”
Sarah’s gaze scanned the room. Crusty dishes overran the sink. A makeshift clothesline sagged above the table. Flour sifted across the shelf and onto the floor. Pots and pans balanced precariously on the sideboard.
She nodded. “Yes, I can see that you do indeed have everything under control.”
“Are we going to have to eat eggs for supper again, Uncle Jess?” Maggie looked up at him with solemn eyes.
He blew out a big breath, visibly calming himself. “I’ll figure out something, honey.”
“It’s okay if we do.” Maggie looked at her brother peering around the table. “Isn’t it, Jimmy?”
The boy scurried behind Maggie and ducked his head.
Sarah’s heart ached at the sight of the two children and she even felt a pang of compassion for their uncle. The red flannel shirt beneath his apron outlined his muscular arms and wide shoulders. His brown hair grew a trifle too long, and that gave it an unruly wave across the back. Dark trousers and boots emphasized his height. He should have been riding the range, not cooking a roast for two small children.
Jess plowed his fingers through his hair and turned to Sarah again. “Look, lady, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.”
His invitation to leave stirred her conscience again. “There’s a very nice restaurant on Main Street where you could eat tonight.”
He cringed and waved away her suggestion with both hands. “I don’t need your help and I don’t need your suggestions. I told you, I can handle anything. Anything.”
“Uncle Jess? Jimmy wet his pants.”
Jess groaned softly and his shoulders sagged.
Sarah tried again. “I could—”
“Just leave, lady. Okay?” Wearily, he held up one hand. “I’m sure you’re anxious to tell everybody in town what you. saw here, anyway.”
“Mr. Logan, I have no intention of telling anyone in town anything. I’m Maggie’s teacher.”
He froze, then his gaze impaled her. “You’re the schoolmarm? You?”
Heat Hushed her cheeks and ran the length of her as his bold gaze covered her. At once she was conscious of the mud on the hem of her skirt, the mend in her cloak, the press of her blouse against her throat, the wisps of her light brown hair loosened by the breeze. She felt her cheeks pinken and heard her heart pound in her ears.
Determinedly, she squared her shoulders and inched her chin higher, reminding herself that at age twenty-five and with several years’ experience, she was well qualified for the job; surely, that was the reason behind the look he gave her.
“Yes, Mr. Logan, I’m the schoolmarm. And I am here because today, for the third time this week, Maggie has come to school without a proper meal.”
His brows furrowed. “I sent her lunch pail today.”
“It was empty.”
His shoulders sagged farther. “I forgot to put food in it?”
“If you’re unable to send her with adequate nourishment, I will talk to the school board and see what can be arranged.”
His back stiffened again. “Now just a damn minute. Don’t you go talking to—”
“That’s all I came to say. Good day, Mr. Logan.” Nose in the air, Sarah glided out of the kitchen.
The cool, damp wind hit her square in the face as she rounded the house and went through the gate. What had gotten into her? What had she been thinking? First, offering to help with supper, then threatening to go to the school board? She’d broken her own rules—something she’d sworn wouldn’t happen.
Keep to herself. That’s the promise she’d made when she’d taken this job. She’d been lucky enough to find this position out here so far from everyone she knew—everyone who knew her—that she wouldn’t risk losing it. If that happened, where would she go next?
Sarah lifted her skirt and hurried down the road less concerned about the puddles than putting some distance between herself and Mr. Jess Logan. A man with a past. That was the rumor she’d heard. She shouldn’t provoke him. She was a woman with a past and she had far more to lose than Jess Logan if the good people of Walker found out what she’d done.
After all, who would want her for a schoolmarm once they found out how she’d killed her own husband?
