She got up to wash, thinking about that smile. Since they had come here, Jake had become more relaxed about not being followed by anyone. She realized it had been months since she saw that old look of wild anger in Jake’s own dark eyes. He seemed to be healing emotionally, and most of the time he wore that smile that had nearly startled her the first time she saw it on the old troubled and unhappy Jake Harkner. That smile just seemed to totally change his looks. He seemed to feel better about himself, had learned to read and to work with his hands, even discovered he was a good farmer. It was good to see him so happy.
She washed herself and straightened her dress, then brushed her hair and tied it at the back of her neck. She went back into the main room to finish preparing lunch, cutting a few pieces of ham and thinking how good life was here in California. The weather was nearly always perfect, except for occasional earthquake tremors, to which they had become more accustomed. Their neighbors had explained that it was those who lived in bigger cities who had to be afraid, and that it seemed the quakes were more often and more violent farther north. Last year just about the only topic of conversation had been the devastating earthquake in San Francisco. For weeks the newspapers out of San Diego ran bold headlines about the loss of lives and property. The destruction and fires had been terrible, and Miranda was glad Jake had decided to come south.
She set the ham on the table, thinking about some other headlines that for several weeks had changed her Jake back to the old, restless, scowling man she had first met. In the north, especially along the winding mountain roads to mining camps, there had been several stagecoach and payroll robberies by an outlaw gang whose leader, according to surviving victims, was called Bill. Another of the outlaws was described as a scarred Mexican called Juan who had done horrible things with his knife and had raped several women.
Jake had stormed about, had hardly spoken to her, and would not play with Lloyd. He had even threatened to head north and “wipe out” Kennedy and his gang before they could come here and do the same to them. The words had struck fear in her heart that he would never come back, that he would be gunned down and she would never see him again.
Jake had no doubt it was Kennedy and his men who were the culprits. His worst fear, that Kennedy would come west, had been realized. Miranda had finally convinced him that it was most likely they had come to California only because things were too dangerous for them back in Missouri. They were wanted there, and now that the war had been over for four years, lawless men could no longer enjoy the freedom they once had. She had finally convinced him and herself that Kennedy’s coming west had nothing to do with hunting Jake. How could the man possibly know Jake had come west? Even if he did, he would never find them in this peaceful little valley few people frequented. Jake’s last name was Logan, now, and he was a farmer and a rancher. He never even wore his guns anymore, except to carry his rifle to go hunting for meat or to protect himself from wild animals when he rode into the foothills. That was certainly not the Jake Harkner Kennedy would be looking for. And how could he know? The regular trail to California did not go through Virginia City, and that was the only place Kennedy might have heard about Jake and put things together.
She sliced some bread and went to the door to call out to Jake to draw some water from the well and come in to eat. He was walking around with Lloyd on his shoulders, and she smiled at the sight. After several days of going out every afternoon with his guns strapped on, practicing his draw over and over, target practicing, Jake had finally hung up the weapons again and decided it was highly unlikely Kennedy would ever find him here or even know he was in California. The Kennedy gang finally faded from the headlines, and a growing law enforcement in the San Francisco area was having its effects on thieves and murderers. The last article they read about Kennedy had said it was believed things had gotten too hot for him and his men. A trap had been set for them in which four of Kennedy’s men were killed.
“Brad Helmsley, Luke Stowers, Frank Smith, Bert Jackson,” Miranda had read aloud to Jake.
I knew all of them, he had answered. Bert Jackson was called Buffalo by his friends, if men like that can be called friends.
The article had said the rest of the gang had headed farther north, a couple more of them believed to be wounded. They were most likely headed for Canada.
There had been no more word of Bill Kennedy and his gang, and Jake had finally begun to return to the new Jake she loved even more than the old one, a hardworking man who had built this ranch on land purchased from their closest neighbor. Joe Grant lived two miles distant and wanted to sell off part of his land to reduce his workload now that he was getting old.