“Too loose, will make blisters,” he admonished. “These just right.”
Jessamyn took a tentative step and winced. Just right? Maybe for someone who was used to such contraptions. Had she gotten them reversed—the left boot on the right foot? She glanced down. Her boots looked like all the other boots she’d seen in town. She’d bet they didn’t feel like all the others, though. Or did people in Wildwood Valley simply smile through their daily suffering?
Otto beamed at her. “I put on your account, Miss Jessamyn. And will send your other clothes over to your home.”
“Thank you, Otto.”
“What now you do?”
Jessamyn smiled at the concern in his eyes. “I—I guess I’ll walk over to the livery stable.”
The storekeeper bobbed his head and headed for the front of the store. Taking a last look at Jessamyn, he disappeared out the door, the bell over the entrance jangling as the sound of his steps receded down the board walkway.
Anna-Marie lumbered to the candy counter and emptied a scoop of ginger drops into Jessamyn’s trembling hand. “For luck,” she whispered.
Jessamyn slipped the candy into her shirt pocket. On impulse, she hugged the bulky young woman. With all her heart, she wished she could trade places with Anna-Marie at that moment. She would gladly waddle about the mercantile with a swollen belly, even endure the pain of labor and childbirth, if only she wouldn’t have to climb up on a horse.
A cold sweat started between her shoulder blades. Horses terrified her. So frightened she could barely swallow, she spun on her heel and clumped out the door in boots that squeezed her toes like pincers.
After a half-block walk toward the stable, she knew why cowboys always rode horseback. They’d do almost anything to take the weight off their cramped feet! She worked at not limping.
The main street appeared to be deserted. Both the doctor’s and the undertaker’s offices had Closed signs in the front windows. Even the barbershop was empty, the door shut and bolted. How odd, she thought as she strode onward. It was Monday afternoon. Didn’t men usually visit the barber for haircuts and shaves before a night in town?
Oh, Lord, you don’t suppose…
A gangly boy of about ten raced past her. “Hey, mister,” he yelled. “That tenderfoot lady from back East’s gonna try to ride a horse! Everybody’s gonna watch—come on! You’re gonna miss it!”
Jessamyn groaned out loud. Word of mouth spread like wildfire in a town this size. How she longed for the anonymity of civilized, populated Boston.
A vision of the coming ordeal flashed into her mind. A crowd gathered—like the ancient Romans at the Colosseum—to watch a spectacle. Only this wasn’t Rome, it was the livery corral in Wildwood Valley, Oregon, and she was the spectacle! She wondered if Ben Kearney had spread the word about town just to make the challenge harder for her. Would he stoop so low?
He would, she decided. She recalled the satisfied grin on his lips when he sauntered out of the sheriff’s office in that maddening, unsettling walk of his. That snake! She’d lambaste him the first chance she got. She’d blister him with words he’d never forget. She’d—
She’d learn to ride a horse, that’s what she’d do! That would show him. She wasn’t going to let Ben Kearney have the last word. Even in jeans and torture-chamber boots, she was still a Whittaker.
And a Whittaker, she reminded herself with a little half sob of fear, never gave up.
Ben eased his back against the split-rail fence around the stable corral and crossed one boot over the other. Satisfied with the private arrangement he’d made with liveryman and blacksmith Dan Gustafsen, he inhaled deeply.
He’d known Gus from his army days in Dakota Territory after the war. The big, quiet Norwegian had fought for the Union, but when hostilities had finally ceased, Gus had set politics aside. When Ben met him in Dakota, he found he could deal with him man-to-man. Both had been officers; both had been wounded. Gus wore a black patch over one eye.
“Pick a horse that’s not mean,” Ben had requested. “Just not too tired, if you take my meaning.” From the looks of the skittish bay dancing at the end of Gus’s rope, the stable owner had indeed taken Ben’s meaning. The horse was a beauty—sixteen, maybe even seventeen hands, a gelding with intelligent eyes and a precise, proud gait.
And, Ben could see at a glance, definitely not tired. He watched Gus pull the cinch tight, then give him a surreptitious nod. Even though he trusted Gus’s judgment, Ben’s gut tightened into a hard knot.
Townspeople began to gather along the perimeter of the fence. Ben nodded to Doc Bartel and the short, nervous undertaker, Zed Marsh, the physician’s constant companion. He tipped his hat to Addie Rice and, a few yards beyond the seamstress, acknowledged two of the girls from Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. Addie must have closed her dressmaker’s shop to witness the fun. Ben surmised the girls from Charlie’s were losing money, too.
Silas Appleby heaved his rangy form onto the fence next to Ben and hooked his boot heels over the lower rail. “I hear that newspaper lady’s a looker,” he remarked. “Since I’m in town, I thought I’d just as well check out the rumors.”
“You’re practically a married man, Si,” Ben reminded him.
“Hell, Ben, can’t hurt to look!” Appleby jammed a cigarette between his lips and flicked a match against his thumbnail.
Otto Frieder picked his way through a gaggle of young boys in various sizes and shapes and settled on Ben’s other side. A frown worried his shiny forehead. “You think Miss Jessamyn be all right, Sheriff?”
Ben fought a momentary pang of guilt at Otto’s question. He trusted Gus’s horse savvy. Jessamyn wouldn’t get hurt—not seriously, anyway. Just enough to bruise her backside a bit and open her eyes to the fact that she wasn’t riding into the hills with him tomorrow. Or any other day, for that matter. From what he had observed, hearsay had always been plenty good for most newspaper editors. Why should she be any different?
Because she’s Thad Whittaker’s daughter, that’s why. Hearsay was never good enough for Thad; that was probably what got him killed.
“She’ll be all right, Otto,” Ben assured the stocky storekeeper. “I’d worry more about the horse if I were you. Miss Whittaker finds it difficult to take no for an answer.”
Silas chuckled. “Looks to me like that gelding might have the same trouble!”
Ben watched Gus turn away toward a commotion at the far end of the corral yard, then glance back to catch Ben’s gaze. The skin around the wrangler’s one good eye crinkled in amusement.
Jessamyn crawled through an opening in the fence and sidled stiff-legged toward Ben, her backside hugging the fence so closely he could have sworn she’d pick up splinters on her rear.
“Sheriff Kearney?” Her words came out in a throaty whisper. “Is—is that the horse?”
“It is. Ready to mount up?”
Jessamyn licked her lips. “Isn’t it awfully big?” She kept her gaze riveted on the animal in the center of the corral yard.
Ben shrugged. “Some are, some aren’t. This one’s about normal.” For some reason, an unexpected pang of sympathy stabbedinto his chest. She looked terrified.
“I want you to know, Mr. Kearney,” she said in that same breathy whisper, “that I am not f-frightened in the least.” Again she ran her tongue over her lips. “Not even a little b-bit.”
She