Outlaw Hearts(31)

She went into the shed and to the place where she had hung his saddlebags and extra supply packs. She rummaged through one saddlebag to see if she could find the gun oil and cleaning brushes so that she wouldn’t have to carry all his gear into the house. She pulled out one heavy leather pouch, and curiosity got the better of her. She opened it to find it was full of coins and a thick roll of paper money. “Stolen, no doubt,” she muttered. “Oh, Randy, you’re such a fool!”

She angrily pulled more things out of the saddlebag, looking for the gun-cleaning supplies. Out came another leather pouch, and again curiosity got the better of her. She wondered why she hadn’t thought to do this when Jake was more ill and she would have had time to carefully go through all his gear, perhaps find something important, something that would have persuaded her to turn this man in.

She opened the pouch, her eyes widening when she pulled out its contents. It looked at first like just a beautiful piece of jewelry, a woman’s necklace. After studying it a moment, she realized it was actually rosary beads. She didn’t know a lot about Catholics, but a Catholic girlfriend back in Illinois had shown Randy her mother’s rosary beads and had explained that they were used in prayer.

Had Jake stolen this sacred object? After all, rosary beads were a very personal thing, as far as she knew. To steal something like this seemed just plain mean. Were they worth something? This particular necklace was beautiful, the beads a shiny black with what looked like tiny rubies spaced at intervals between the black beads. A breathtaking cross was attached to the beads, decorated with more rubies embedded in what looked as if it might be real gold. In the center of the cross was a little porcelain replica of Christ.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Miranda gasped and turned to see Jake standing at the doorway to the shed. She felt the color coming to her face as she quickly put the beads back into the pouch. “I was looking…for your gun-cleaning supplies,” she stammered. “I didn’t think it was necessary to carry all this gear into the house—”

He came closer, taking the pouch from her. “These belonged to my mother,” he told her angrily. “Stay out of my personal things!” He shoved the beads and other spilled items back into the saddlebag and picked up a separate leather bag that had been attached to the saddlebags with a rawhide cord. He untied the cord and hung the saddlebags back over the hook where Randy had first put them. “This is all I need. Where are my rifle and my shotgun?”

Miranda, near tears, moved past him and dug the guns out from under the straw where she had hidden them. He grabbed them from her, looking disgusted at how dusty they were, then turned and walked out of the shed. Randy followed, closing and latching the shed door and walking to catch up with him.

“Jake, I was just—”

“You were trying to decide which things were mine legally and which were stolen,” he grumbled. “Did you find my money?”

“Yes.”

He stopped. “Take any?”

Her eyes widened in indignation. “Of course not!”

He turned away and kept walking. “Of course not,” he repeated sarcastically. “But you’re wondering if I stole it! Fact is, I did—some of it, anyway, from a sonofabitch who tried to attack me one night when I was camped alone. He figured he’d knock my brains out and steal my food and gear, but before he could raise a hand to clobber me with the rock that was in it, he found a pistol resting against his forehead, right between his eyes. Now there was one scared man, let me tell you! He handed over his own money right quick, money he’d stolen himself, he said, from a traveling salesman hawking everything from jewelry to pots and pans. I tied the guy to a tree so I could get some sleep, let him go the next morning before I left. He’s damn lucky I didn’t put a bullet in his head for sneaking up on me like he did!”

Miranda hurried to keep up with him, surprised at how briskly he was walking after being so sick. She supposed it was because he was angry. They reached the porch and he stopped and turned.

“I don’t steal things like rosary beads,” he told her angrily. He turned to go inside and she touched his arm.

“Jake, I’m sorry. I really was looking for your gun oil. I just…I’m curious to know more about you, and I couldn’t help—” She turned away, putting her hands to her flushed face. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“You know all you need to know about me. What the hell difference does it make anyway?” He went inside.

Miranda followed him in to see him shove his bowl and cup aside and drop the leather pouch on the table beside the revolver he had left there. He laid his rifles across the table, then went into the bedroom for a moment, returning with a pair of socks, one gun belt, and his second revolver. “Where in hell are my boots?” he asked. “I’m tired of going around barefoot.”