Do Not Forsake Me (14 page)

“Jake Harkner.”

“You bet your beautiful body. Now lie down and sleep beside me. You've been sleeping on the sofa so you don't disturb me, but I miss you in my bed. You sleep here tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Randy moved to settle in beside him. “I guess I could use a little nap.”

Jake grimaced as he turned to his side and managed to pull her into his arms. “Let me hold you. Tomorrow I'm going to start doing things on my own. You've done enough.”

“But, Jake, you aren't ready—”

“You've done enough.” He leaned down and kissed her once more. “Who did you say you belong to?” he asked again.

“Jake Harkner.”

“Every inch of you. Every private place, every nook and cranny, every hair on your head. And from here on,
I'm
taking care of
you
again.”

“It's still too soon—”

“Go to sleep, Randy. That's an order.”

She closed her eyes and relished the pleasure and relief of being in his arms again.

They rode hard. Thirteen men, all with the same purpose in mind—break Marty Bryant loose and go after Jake Harkner and his son, Lloyd…maybe even their families. Dell Bryant led them, his heart pounding with anticipation. The horses' hooves spewed up sod and sounded like thunder as Dell led the hired men through wooded areas, over hillsides, through creeks and deep gullies…sometimes even right across farmers' fields, not caring if they tore up precious crops. They were bent on taking the shortest route possible in order to cut off the prison wagon. One farmer hollered at them and waved a shotgun. They shot him and kept riding.

Hash and Marty Bryant, along with Jack Buckley, had gathered the men from various places over the past few weeks, starting even before Marty and his cohorts robbed the bank in Edmond. These men weren't a part of that. They had stayed behind at Hash Bryant's place, waiting to be paid for the job they had to do. Their pay was to come from the stolen bank money, but Marty never got back with it, thanks to Jake and Lloyd Harkner tracking them down and arresting them…and killing their good friend, Jack Buckley, in the process.

Dell Bryant felt proud. As the youngest Bryant brother, he'd always been left out of the robberies and mayhem, but now Marty was on his way to prison, and his only other brothers, Gordy and Ted, were both dead by Jake Harkner's guns. And their best friends, Jack Buckley and his son Bo, had also gone down under Harkner guns. Stu was dead and so was the man they'd hired in town to help with a jail escape. No one knew which Harkner had killed which man.

Now their mission wasn't just to gain a name for themselves by killing Jake and Lloyd Harkner, but pure revenge. The rest of these men wanted the same. They no longer cared about being paid, because they figured once Jake was out of the picture, they could rob every bank from Edmond to Kingfisher to Langston, Guthrie, Cimmaron City, and beyond. They could take sanctuary in No Man's Land because the only marshal who dared go to that lawless place was Jake Harkner…and he'd be dead!

The riffraff riding with Dell were mostly newcomers to Oklahoma Territory, the kind of men who'd come here to hide out from the law elsewhere. Some had murdered, some had raped, most had robbed, and all of them drank, smoked, gambled, and ran with whores. A lot of them had been hired out of Hell's Nest, a settlement northwest of Guthrie where only the lowest of the low had created their own pit of sin and corruption. If a man wanted to hire someone kill, rob, or kidnap somebody, Hell's Nest was the place to find him. It wasn't even an organized town—no laws and no lawmen, no lawyers and no churches.

After the shoot-out that left Jake Harkner unable to snoop around, Dell and his father, Hash, had moved these men closer to Guthrie—camped in the thick woods just outside of town—and waited. From a distance they'd watched the prison wagon leave, and they deliberately waited a few hours before riding out after it. In order not to draw any attention, they didn't take the same road. Instead, they'd taken the shortest route possible to reach a place just a few miles north of Edmond, figuring that if they got there sooner than the wagon, they could launch a surprise attack just before the wagon reached town. They would make sure it never made it…nor would the men guarding it.

They crested a hill overlooking the roadway, then dismounted to rest their horses…and they waited, all thinking the same thing. Once they freed Marty, they would proceed to take revenge against Jake and Lloyd Harkner.

“We have to get him someplace out in the open,” Dell spoke up, as though to read all their thoughts. “And we need a way to lure him there. Taking one of his kin might be the best way to bring him to us. Believe me, he's not a man who will go down easy. He took on seven men once back in California and lived through it. We have just about twice that many. He'll not live through this one, and we'll all be famous—and rich. Banks and merchants and even private homes will be easy prey with Harkner out of the picture.”

“So do you have a definite plan?” asked a hefty man whose belly hung over his belt.

Dell loved the attention, loved finally being a leader rather than a follower, or the one left behind when Marty and Ted and Gordy would go out to steal horses or cattle. He drew on his cigarette before answering. “We free Marty. Then we go after Jake's family. We'll figure out a way. And we'll wait until Harkner goes out on more rounds so he won't be there to defend his own. The sheriff in Guthrie is fat and lazy and won't be a problem. Whatever we do, it has to be something to force Jake's hand, something that will be sure to bring him and his son after us. It can't be some other marshal. It has to be Jake, so we have to find a way to make this personal. He'll damn well come, all right.”

Less than an hour later, a lookout spotted the prison wagon.

“Here she comes, boys.”

“Mount up!” Dell told them.

Everyone scrambled to their horses, and Dell waved them to follow him in a hard ride down the steep hill toward the road…and the prison wagon. Men would die today, and every lawman in Oklahoma would remember the name Dell Bryant—not just for helping Marty Bryant escape, but even better…for being the man who brought down Jake Harkner.

Jeff's next visit came twelve days after the shooting and in the midst of slight bedlam. He came on Sunday, as Jake had asked him to do, and the entire family was there, most of them still in the kitchen, Jake on the sofa with his leg propped up and playing poker with six-year-old Stephen while Little Jake sat beside the sofa playing with blocks.

Lloyd answered the door and ushered Jeff inside, showing him to the stuffed chair across from the sofa, the coffee table between them. “I'm going into the kitchen for some pie,” he told Jeff.

“Jeff! Have a seat,” Jake told him, dealing cards to Stephen.

Jeff noticed Jake's six-guns were lying in pieces on a tray table at the end of the sofa, apparently taken apart for cleaning. “Are you walking now, Jake?”

“Sure I can walk, but Brian says to keep the leg up when I'm sitting. It's a goddamn nuisance, but I guess I have to do what they say. Tomorrow we'll—”

“Jake Harkner, stop cussing in front of those boys,” Randy called from the kitchen.

Jake frowned at Jeff. “Can you figure out how she heard that with all that noise going on in the kitchen?”

“No, sir.”

“The woman has ears in every room.” He dealt a hand to Stephen while Jeff finally sat down in the chair, noting the stark contrast the Jake of today was to the one who'd shot down five men almost two weeks ago. Jake wore denim pants but was barefoot. His long-sleeved, button-down shirt was open in front.

“Grampa, is an ace a good card?” Stephen asked.

Jake grinned. “What did I tell you about asking me which cards are good? Now I know you have an ace, and since I don't have a pair or anything close to an ace, I have to fold. The toothpicks are yours.”

Stephen jumped up. “Gramma! Gramma! I cheated Grampa! I cheated! I cheated!” He laid his cards in front of Jake. “See? I cheated you! I don't have an ace!”

Jake laid his head back against the arm of the couch and laughed. “Stephen, the word is
bluff
, not cheat.
Bluff!
”

“I cheated you! I cheated you!”

“Pa, are you corrupting my son?” Lloyd called from the kitchen.

“Of course I am,” Jake yelled back. “Nobody is better at corrupting someone than I am.” Jake covered his face in feigned regret. “Stephen, if you use that word in a real card game, someone will toss you out in the street, or worse,” he told the boy. “Take the toothpicks and go eat some pie, you little bluffer.”

Stephen reached over and grabbed the toothpicks. He ran into the kitchen, still talking about cheating his grandfather.

“I have no hope,” Jake told Jeff, still laughing. “I'm always the bad guy.”

Randy walked into the living room, putting her hands on her hips. “What on earth did you show that boy?”

“How to
bluff
, not cheat,” Jake answered, still grinning.

Jeff couldn't help his own laughter.

“What am I going to do with you?” Randy told Jake as she gathered the cards together.

Jake winked at Jeff. “Woman, do you really want me to answer that in front of Jeff here?”

Randy broke into a smile, looking slyly at Jake. “I don't think I do.” She turned to Jeff. “And welcome. There is so much going on around here you haven't even been properly greeted by the rest of us.”

“That's okay, Mrs. Harkner. It's just good to see your family back to normal and Jake doing better.”

“Yes, well…” She cast Jake another warning look. “It's debatable if Jake's getting better is a good thing.”

Jake took a cigarette from the coffee table and lit it. “You'll find out how much better I am sooner than later.”

Randy threw a kitchen towel at him. “You just remember that if you walk around too much—or if you are thinking of any other activity—you could pass out.”

“I can't think of a better way of finding out how much I can do.”

Randy shoved the cards into their box. “Do you want some coffee?”

Jake drew on the cigarette, still chuckling. “Yes, ma'am. And bring one for Jeff.” He looked at Jeff. “Want some apple pie? Randy makes the best.”

“That would be nice.”

Randy left and Little Jake stood up near the table where Jake's guns lay in pieces. He started reaching for one of the parts.

“Little Jake, don't you dare,” Jake warned, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye.

The boy stared at his grandfather with dark eyes round as saucers. “Gampa's guns.”

“Yes. And you know you can't touch them.”

The boy gave Jake a daring look. He looked at the gun parts and devilishly started to reach for them again.

“What did Grandpa say?” Jake told him, setting his cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table.

Jeff watched, intrigued. “No slap on the hand?”

Jake completely sobered. “No.”

“Gampa's guns,” Little Jake said again.

“And don't you touch them.”

Little Jake met his grandfather's eyes, and the stare-down was on. “Gampa's guns,” he repeated.

Jake just kept watching the boy's eyes. “Little Jake, Grandpa always says to watch a man's eyes when he's about to do something he shouldn't. I'm watching yours. If you make another move toward those guns, you won't get any more hugs from Grandpa. And we won't go on that horseback ride I promised you.”

Several more long seconds passed. Little Jake stole another look at the gun parts.

“I mean it, Little Jake.”

The child moved his gaze back to his grandfather. “Gampa's guns,” he said again, his lips moving into a pout and his eyes tearing.

“Don't pull that trick on me,” Jake warned. “Tears won't help. You decide. Touch those guns, and no hugs and no horseback ride.”

Little Jake glared at his grandfather another few seconds, then suddenly grinned. “Gampa son-o-biss.”

“
What?
” Jake frowned as Jeff put his hat over his face so the boy wouldn't see him quietly laughing.

“Gampa son-o-biss.”

Jeff peeked around the brim of his hat to see Jake struggling very hard not to laugh. “Well, Little Jake, a lot of people would agree with you, but when somebody loves you, you don't call them that.” He moved a hand over his mouth as though to wipe off a smile and tried to keep a serious look in his eyes. “Do you understand me, Little Jake? That is a bad word that you only use for
bad
people. Do you think Grandpa is bad, just because he won't let you touch those guns?”

The boy just blinked, still pouting.

“I won't let you touch those guns, even though they aren't even put together, because you can't touch Grandpa's guns
ever
, Little Jake, and that's because Grandpa loves you and doesn't want you to get hurt. So Grandpa's not bad. He just loves you. Do you love Grandpa?”

The boy nodded.

“Then don't use that name, all right? Don't use it for anybody who loves you.”

Little Jake nodded again.

“Now—do you want hugs and do you still want to ride on Grandpa's horse?”

The boy nodded again, then jumped into Jake's arms and gave his grandfather several kisses on the cheek. Jake kissed him back, then set him on his feet. “Go play on the swings outside with your
cheating
cousin, Stevie,” he told the boy.

Little Jake ran off. Jeff and Jake looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Oh, Lord, if Evie heard what he said, she'd have a conniption. She is always preaching at me to watch my language around that kid because he picks everything up.” Jake laughed again, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well, as you can see, I've taught one grandson how to cheat at cards and taught the other one how to swear. See what I mean? I'm the bad guy however you look at it.”

“You aren't angry with Little Jake for running out in the street the other day? He's the reason you were almost killed.”

Jake shook his head. “No. His
love
for me is the reason. That kid didn't do one thing wrong. I don't believe in spankings or slaps on the hand or any other kind of physical scolding for children. I just hope the kid doesn't use that word around Brian and Evie, or I'll get an earful.” He chuckled again as he pulled the side table closer. He began moving the gun parts to the coffee table so he could reach them better. “There is no such thing as a bad kid, Jeff. No such thing.”

Laughter came from the kitchen, and Jake paused. “You hear that?”

“The laughter?”

“The sound of family. I love that sound. I never got the privilege of just being a kid. I never heard laughter, never felt…safe.” Jake paused, putting a few more parts together. “I hit a child of mine only once, but he was grown, and he threw my past in my face like scalding water. I reacted because I saw myself in Lloyd in that moment, and it terrified me. I just wanted to stop him. I punched him. The look on his face hit me in the gut like a sledgehammer. I was in prison. He left, hating me, and I turned around and pounded my right fist into the prison wall until I broke bones in it. I almost crippled myself, but I can use my hand now. Lloyd could have hit me back—he
should
have hit me back. I damn well deserved it, but he didn't slug me. He still loved me but didn't want to admit it. He was too angry and too ashamed at the time. He just left, and he went on a rampage to prove he was just as worthless as his father was. I'd never told him about my past and that was a big mistake, just like Randy always warned me it was. I lost my son for a while, but it all worked out. I got out of prison and he learned the truth and…things are a lot better now. He's a good kid, a devoted son. He's more than I deserve.”

Jeff took his notebook from his jacket pocket, sensing a darker mood moving into Jake. Randy returned just then, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and two plates of pie.

“Jake, where am I supposed to set this, when you have gun parts scattered all over the coffee table and end table too?”

He nodded toward the side table. “You can move some of that stuff aside and set the tray there.”

“Honestly, you need to work on those things someplace else. The whole sitting room smells of gun oil. And how can I keep a clean parlor, when you're getting that oil all over my coffee table?”

“Well, when I can move this damn leg, I'll do this in the kitchen. You and Brian are the ones who won't let me up off this sofa.”

“You just swore again.”

“Yeah, well, I'll work on that.” Jake glanced at Jeff. “Is there a married man alive who doesn't have a nagging wife?”

“I…I don't know.”

Randy handed Jeff his coffee and pie. “Since you're going to be obstinate, Mr. Harkner, I'll let you get yours when you're ready,” she told Jake. “And if you don't stop cussing in this house, I'll quit waiting on you all together.”

“Yes, warden.” Jake wasn't smiling. The remark was almost cutting.

Randy hesitated. “Jake?”

“I'm okay.” He kept working on the guns, refusing to look at her. “And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so ornery.”

Randy glanced at Jeff. “What has he been talking about?”

“Leave him alone, Randy. We were just talking about the sounds a real family makes…good sounds…laughter.” Jake whirled the chamber of a gun he'd just finished putting together.

Randy moved behind him and began rubbing his shoulders. “Well, maybe since today
is
a good family day, that's all you should talk about—the family you have
now
and how good things are
now
.” She looked at Jeff pleadingly, and he could see she wanted him to change the subject.

“Sometimes I think I should call this book
Never
a
Dull
Moment
,” he told Randy. “From all the bedlam around here on family day, combined with the kind of life Jake leads as a U.S. Marshal, it's pretty fitting.”

Randy smiled. “Well, that's a perfect title for a book about Jake,” she answered. “It's a bit
too
true. There is never a dull moment when Jake is around.”

Suddenly Jake felt her fingers dig a little too deeply, and she stopped massaging his shoulders. She let out a tiny whimper. He set down the gun and turned, grasping her wrist. “What's wrong?”

Randy put on a smile, loosening her grip. “Nothing. I think I ate too much pie, that's all.” She quickly returned to the kitchen, and Jake watched her the whole way. Frowning, he picked up the gun parts again.

“I don't like what I just saw.”

“Sir?”

“She's in pain. I told you the other day that I've seen her do that before, almost bend over in pain. I'm going to talk to Brian about it.” He worked quietly and soberly for several minutes, saying nothing. “When I give you that shooting lesson, I'll let you try one of these,” he finally spoke up.

“Thank you, sir.”

Jake laid a partially assembled gun on the coffee table and eyed Jeff again. “Jeff, you are the most polite young man I've ever come across, but I told you the other day that you don't have to call me sir and you don't have to thank me for everything.”

“Yes, sir…Jake.”

The kitchen door slammed twice—two grandsons coming in for cookies and then running out again. Lloyd came into the room then. “You doing all right, Pa?”

“I'll live. How's Brad Buckley?”

Lloyd ran a hand through his hair and sat down in a rocker near Jeff. “Still hurting, seeing as you cracked his breastbone.”

“I wanted to do a lot worse than that, but I have to remember I'm a marshal. That's pretty hard to do sometimes.” Jake took a last drag on his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. “I suppose the damn kid will give us trouble down the road because I killed his
beloved
father.”