Outlaw Hearts(65)

“No!” he yelled. He let go of the horses’ ropes and let them wander to graze. “Damn it, woman, it’s got nothing to do with whether or not I love you! It’s got to do with who I am, the things I’ve done! For Christ’s sake, Randy, I’m a wanted man! I have killed and I’ll probably kill again! I’ve robbed trains, stolen guns, robbed banks; I’ve run with some of the worst, gambled with them, drank with them, slept with their whores, and shot down men just for cheating at cards! I killed my own damn father!”

“Why, Jake? Why did you kill him?”

“Because,” he roared, “he was raping her! He was raping Santana! She was my friend, and she was only twelve years old and he was raping her!” His eyes suddenly teared, and he turned away. He put his hands on his hips and threw back his head, breathing deeply. “I’ve got to get a fire started.”

Randy let him go, wishing there was some way she could erase the memory, but knowing there was not. She was glad to have gotten this much out of him, knew he would tell her more when he was ready.

For the next hour she said as little to him as possible. She straightened the inside of the wagon, folded the blankets. Jake brought her some hot water, and she washed and dressed. She climbed down from the wagon to see a pan of bacon and beans cooking over the fire, thought how self-sufficient he had learned to be, living on his own over the years. She longed to make a home for him, cook nice meals for him, create a whole new life for him, and with him.

She stirred the food, watching him in the distance rounding up the oxen and goading them back to the wagon, where he hitched them. He told her then he wanted to wash too, and he climbed into the wagon, emerging several minutes later wearing clean denim pants and the blue shirt he had worn the night before. He carried his Winchester and laid it beside him when he squatted near the fire.

“I’ll wait till tomorrow to shave,” he told her. “We’ve lost a lot of time this morning. I was thinking of staying here all day, but that would be foolish. Every day is precious when you’ve still got mountains to cross.” He picked up one of two plates Miranda had set near the fire and he spooned some beans and bacon onto it. “I didn’t know what else to fix. We’re getting low on food. We can stock up at Fort Laramie. From there maybe we’d better see about joining up with a wagon train or supply train for the rest of the trip. I doubt I’d be recognized way out here, and they say the trip over the Rockies is pretty rough. I don’t think we should try it alone. We’re lucky we’ve come this far without Indian trouble. I know a lot of Indians down in Indian Territory, lived with some Cherokee and Osage when I was hiding out sometimes. But these Plains Indians, that’s a different matter.”

Miranda thought how his talk rambled more than usual for a man normally of few words. He was avoiding the subject they really should be discussing. She scooped up a spoonful of beans for herself, not really very hungry. “There are probably plenty more travelers only a few days behind us.” She sat down on an overturned bucket he had set out for a chair.

“Probably.” Jake finished eating and set his plate down, pouring himself a cup of stiff coffee heated from the day before. He rose and walked a few feet away. “I told you about my father being a drunk and a wanderer,” he said.

Miranda waited, knowing it was wiser to say nothing.

“He was born in Connecticut, did I tell you that? He ran away from home and wandered all the way down to Mexico, ended up with the troops at San Jacinto. It was during that time he bought my mother off a drunken Mexican. I guess I already told you that too. He liked them young. She was only fourteen, fifteen when she had me. As I grew older and began to understand things, I realized it broke her heart never to have been legally married. I know now that her first night with my father must have been nothing more than rape. After that she felt obligated to stay with him, or maybe she was just too damned ashamed and too damned scared of him to try to run away. She used to cry a lot, used to pray with those beads a lot. My pa’s name was John Harkner, and he was big like me. My mother was small, like you.”

He took another swallow of coffee, then turned, staring at the fire. “From what I told you back at your cabin, you can guess what life was like with my father. Sometimes I think he was just plain crazy, and it scares me to think I could turn out like him, scares me when I lose my temper. I was eight when he killed my mother and my little brother. He beat me for crying about it. By the time I was ten he had me stealing for him so he could buy whiskey and women. I did whatever he told me, because I knew what he would do to me if I didn’t. I was scared he’d find me and kill me if I tried to run away, and I was too small to fight back. Fear can make you do a lot of things you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”