“Randy knows,” Peter said. “I can tell by the look on her face. And I’ll bet Lloyd knows too, doesn’t he? But they love you so much that if you tell them never to speak of it, they won’t.”
“Lloyd doesn’t know his full name.” Jake stared at the hardwood floor. “Only Randy knows all of it, because I owed her that. For some ungodly reason, she chose to spend her life with me. Before I could let her do that, she needed to know all of it so she could be damn sure she really wanted to live with a wanted man with a madman’s blood in him.” He took a deep breath, still staring at the floor. “Suffice it to say for now, I was fifteen and…I had no choice.”
The room hung silent for what seemed hours.
Jake finally straightened, a dark, intimidating look in his eyes. “I am having a lot of trouble not coming across that desk right now and putting my hands around your throat, Peter, but for my wife’s sake, I won’t. Besides that, you don’t deserve it for asking what you have a right to ask, and for that I do apologize. Maybe I can get you the name later.”
Peter nodded. “You don’t need to apologize. It’s something that’s hard to talk about, and I sure as hell don’t blame you.”
“I had a run-in with Hash Bryant this morning that didn’t go too well, and my wife isn’t well, and I’m not real happy about coming to you of all people for help—and we both know why that is—so combine all of it together, and this is the best job I’ve ever done of controlling my temper.”
“Jake—”
“He knows what I’m talking about, Randy, and so do you.”
Jeff still sat frozen in place.
Peter sighed, resting his elbows on his desk and putting his head in his hands. “Jake, please explain then why you did come to me. Guthrie is growing by leaps and bounds, and there are at least fifteen or more other lawyers in this town. The only thing growing faster is the number of saloons.”
Jake remained quiet again for a moment. “I came to you because I trust you with this. I trust you because whatever you do, it won’t be for me. It will be for Randy, because I firmly believe you care about her happiness over your own feelings. Because of that, I’m trusting you to try your best to do something else for me…for us…Randy and me.”
Peter glanced at Randy, who blinked back tears and looked at her lap.
“What is it you want, Jake?” Peter asked.
Jake took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “You know that I’m a federal marshal because a judge sentenced me to it, but most federal marshals aren’t married men. When I was given this job, I didn’t take into consideration how hard it would be on my wife and family, let alone the danger they’d be in for even being related to me. It’s bad enough being Jake Harkner, but when you’re a United States Marshal, you make a lot of new enemies—something I sure as hell don’t need. This thing that happened a couple of weeks ago was extra hard on Randy, and my little grandson could have been killed. Lloyd is only doing this because he’s a devoted son who insists on staying by my side out of loyalty. I know he’d rather be doing something else, and he has the money to buy a ranch or whatever else he’d like to do. Looking death in the face practically every day is not exactly a fun way to live, Peter, and we’re both only human. Someday the right bullet will hit the right spot and that will be the end of it. It almost happened this last time. If Jeff hadn’t gotten to that jail before me and warned me he saw Bryant and his men go inside, I’d already be a dead man.”
“What are you getting at, Jake?” Randy asked.
Jake glanced sidelong at her, then turned away and rubbed the back of his neck, obviously still very tense. “You and I were happiest those years back when I had that ranch in Colorado, before all hell broke loose and I landed in prison.” He faced Peter again. “We loved it there. I want to go back. I want to take Randy to some little mountain town where no one gives a damn who I am and there is hardly any crime. I want to lie in bed with my wife till noon, if we want, with no goddamn reason to get up. I’m in a lot more pain from old wounds than even Randy knows, and I refuse any kind of painkiller because they are all mostly whiskey. I can face ten men with guns, but I’m scared to death that if I drink, I’ll end up an alcoholic—the rotten, mean kind, like…” He didn’t finish. “And I’m damn tired of never being able to step outside the door without wearing guns and wondering when some bastard’s stray bullet meant for me will end up hurting or killing someone I love. I want to build us a cabin in the foothills and raise horses again. And on the side, I can clean and repair guns and even customize them for people. I customized my own .44s to shoot smoother and faster.”