The Last Outlaw(4)
“Yes.”
“I can tell right now you’re keeping something from me—something more than what happened last winter. You tell me when you’re ready.”
She clung closer, kissing his chest. “I will.”
He kept his arms around her because she demanded it, every night until she fell asleep. He closed his eyes against his own silent tears. Without that closeness they’d always shared, it was as though he didn’t even exist. Without this woman, who was Jake Harkner?
Two
“Buenos días, señor!”
“Buenos días, Sonoma!”
“And what is Señor Harkner having today?”
Jake stepped up to the long, varnished oak bar in the Silver Saddle Saloon. “Just a beer. You know I never go much further than that, Sonoma.”
“Sí.” The young Mexican waitress began filling a mug for Jake, eyeing him as she did so and wondering if men came any more handsome than Harkner. He commanded attention when he walked inside a room, his six-foot-four frame and dark reputation making others turn and look without saying a word. He was Jake Harkner, after all, and everyone knew about his past…and the way he could use those guns he wore.
It always excited Sonoma on the rare occasions Harkner came into the saloon. She liked to fantasize about him taking her upstairs, but rumor had it that, unlike some of the other married men who came in here, he was totally devoted to his wife. Jake was half Mexican himself, and she liked that she could speak to him in Spanish. And those eyes—he had a way of making a woman feel beautiful just by the way he looked and smiled at her. His son was even more handsome, but equally unavailable. “And how is the handsome outlaw today?”
Jake dropped enough money on the bar to pay for the beer and leave a generous tip. “Sonoma, I haven’t been an outlaw for years, and I’m getting too old to be called handsome.”
“Ah, señor, some men get better with age, and you are one of them.” She set a mug of beer in front of him and smiled her best smile. “I am guessing your wife is still very pleased with you.” She came from behind the bar and sauntered closer, leaning over enough to expose ample cleavage. “I know I would be.”
Jake took a swallow of the beer. “Sonoma, you’re a beautiful young woman, but no thanks.”
Sonoma smiled with pride and pleasure.
Jake turned away to take a seat at an empty table. He noticed the saloon was more crowded than usual due to businesses being closed for a spring flower show. It was part of the reason Randy had chosen today to come to Boulder and shop for a few needed items. They didn’t come into town often, because of the nearly three days it took to get here, let alone the fact that Randy no longer cared for being out and about among strangers. Even so, he resolved to bring her more often this year. She needed the diversion, something exciting to help keep her from sitting around thinking about her ordeal.
A few local businessmen and a couple of ranchers sat at a nearby table, all of them eyeing Jake. Some looked with curiosity, some in genuine friendship, and a couple of them with outright animosity—including Brady Fillmore. Fillmore was a big bully of a man whose ranch was located at the southwest corner of the J&L, the sprawling, nearly eighty-thousand-acre ranch Jake shared with his son Lloyd.
Jake suspected Brady of stealing calves during spring roundup time, and once he and a couple of the other ranch hands had caught the man with a rope around a J&L steer. Brady had claimed it had wandered onto his farm and he was just returning it, but Jake hadn’t believed a word.
Brady eyed him now, and Jake could tell from his look he was already drunk. “Just one beer?” Brady asked with a grin. “Doesn’t the famous outlaw get drunk once in a while?”
Jake didn’t answer right away, reminding himself to keep his temper. He was still under scrutiny by a judge in Denver, thanks to nearly getting himself hanged last summer. Trouble was, Jake had no respect for Brady Fillmore. The man had done a little less every year and had taken to gambling, even losing some of his horses and cattle to others to pay gambling debts. And now he was going broke and obviously wanted to “borrow” more than a tool or a wagon from his “friendly neighbors.”
“The little wife give you orders not to get drunk, Jake?” Brady goaded. “What’s wrong with her, anyway? She acted awful strange at the big spring cookout at the Holmeses’ farm. Acts like she’s scared of everybody. You beat her or somethin’? Tell her she couldn’t look at other men?”
Jake took another swallow of beer, putting his foot up on a nearby chair and eyeing Fillmore with disgust. “What my ‘little wife’ says or does is none of your goddamn business, Brady. And what are you doing drinking and gambling in town? Shouldn’t you be tending your ranch? It’s time for roundup and branding. Your family has to eat, and you’re sitting here losing more money.”