to talk to someone who lives clear across the country. Alexander Graham Bell will be inventing it sometime in 1876, as I recall.”
J.T. shook his head, his mind reeling. It was darn near impossible to believe she came from the future, but he didn’t think anybody could make up the fantastic things she had told him about. He wished, fleetingly, that he could see some of the wonders she’d mentioned—imagine, carriages that went seventy miles an hour, pictures that moved.
They rode until nightfall, then made camp in a sheltered hollow. They ate a quick meal of bacon, beans, biscuits and coffee, then J.T. went to hobble the horse while Brandy washed up the dishes.
J.T. spent more time than necessary looking after the pinto. There was a town a few miles west. He’d drop the woman off there, then continue north, maybe go as far as Canada. Maybe he could get some money together, buy a little spread…
He sighed as he ran a hand over the gelding’s neck. What was the point in trying to settle down? He only had a year left. You couldn’t build a ranch in a year.
The woman was brushing her hair when he returned to the campfire. She had beautiful hair, long and straight and black as ink. It snapped and crackled as she brushed it out, and he thought he’d never seen anything lovelier than Brandy Talavera brushing her hair in the moonlight. It gave him a warm feeling inside even as it made him aware of the emptiness of his life. He had no home, no family, no one who would mourn him when he was gone.
Brandy glanced over her shoulder, startled to find J.T. standing behind her, a wistful expression in his eyes. For a moment, his eyes held the same morose expression Bobby’s did whenever one of the kids in class talked about their parents. Odd she should think of that, Brandy mused. Bobby’s folks had been killed in an automobile accident, and he lived in a foster home. He tried to pretend it didn’t matter that he didn’t have a real family, but Brandy sensed that it mattered a great deal, that he felt the loss keenly.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“What? No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you married, Mr. Cutter?”
J.T. shook his head. Marriage was something he had never seriously considered.
“Do you have a family?”
His brows rushed together in a frown. “Why?”
“I just wondered. The history books didn’t say much about your early years, except that your father was a gambler, and your mother…” She broke off, suddenly flustered.
J.T. cocked his head to one side. “Go on,” he urged in a deceptively mild voice. “What do the history books say about my mother?”
“That she…uh, deserted you when you were…when you were just a boy.”
“Is that all they say?” He took a step closer, so that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. The firelight cast red-hued shadows over his face and hair. His eyes, those eyes that were so dark they seemed almost black, were watching her closely, smoldering with barely controlled fury.
Brandy’s hand tightened on the handle of the brush. “History isn’t always accurate.”
“What do the books say?” he demanded softly.
“That she was a…that she…that she was…” Try as she might, she couldn’t force the word past lips gone suddenly dry.
“A whore?” His voice was cold and flat.
Brandy nodded, wishing she had just kept her mouth shut, and then, to her mortification, she blurted, “Was she?”
J.T. drew in a deep breath, ashamed to tell the truth, ashamed of himself for being ashamed to admit it was true. His mother had done what she’d had to do to put food on the table, and in the end, it had killed her.
J.T. nodded curtly. “But she didn’t desert me,” he said quietly. “Not in the way you mean. She died when I was fourteen.”
“I’m sorry,” Brandy murmured. She thought of her own parents. Her mother was a nurse in Butte; her father was a truck driver. She had known the security of their love her whole life. Even
J.T. shook his head, his mind reeling. It was darn near impossible to believe she came from the future, but he didn’t think anybody could make up the fantastic things she had told him about. He wished, fleetingly, that he could see some of the wonders she’d mentioned—imagine, carriages that went seventy miles an hour, pictures that moved.
They rode until nightfall, then made camp in a sheltered hollow. They ate a quick meal of bacon, beans, biscuits and coffee, then J.T. went to hobble the horse while Brandy washed up the dishes.
J.T. spent more time than necessary looking after the pinto. There was a town a few miles west. He’d drop the woman off there, then continue north, maybe go as far as Canada. Maybe he could get some money together, buy a little spread…
He sighed as he ran a hand over the gelding’s neck. What was the point in trying to settle down? He only had a year left. You couldn’t build a ranch in a year.
The woman was brushing her hair when he returned to the campfire. She had beautiful hair, long and straight and black as ink. It snapped and crackled as she brushed it out, and he thought he’d never seen anything lovelier than Brandy Talavera brushing her hair in the moonlight. It gave him a warm feeling inside even as it made him aware of the emptiness of his life. He had no home, no family, no one who would mourn him when he was gone.
Brandy glanced over her shoulder, startled to find J.T. standing behind her, a wistful expression in his eyes. For a moment, his eyes held the same morose expression Bobby’s did whenever one of the kids in class talked about their parents. Odd she should think of that, Brandy mused. Bobby’s folks had been killed in an automobile accident, and he lived in a foster home. He tried to pretend it didn’t matter that he didn’t have a real family, but Brandy sensed that it mattered a great deal, that he felt the loss keenly.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“What? No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you married, Mr. Cutter?”
J.T. shook his head. Marriage was something he had never seriously considered.
“Do you have a family?”
His brows rushed together in a frown. “Why?”
“I just wondered. The history books didn’t say much about your early years, except that your father was a gambler, and your mother…” She broke off, suddenly flustered.
J.T. cocked his head to one side. “Go on,” he urged in a deceptively mild voice. “What do the history books say about my mother?”
“That she…uh, deserted you when you were…when you were just a boy.”
“Is that all they say?” He took a step closer, so that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. The firelight cast red-hued shadows over his face and hair. His eyes, those eyes that were so dark they seemed almost black, were watching her closely, smoldering with barely controlled fury.
Brandy’s hand tightened on the handle of the brush. “History isn’t always accurate.”
“What do the books say?” he demanded softly.
“That she was a…that she…that she was…” Try as she might, she couldn’t force the word past lips gone suddenly dry.
“A whore?” His voice was cold and flat.
Brandy nodded, wishing she had just kept her mouth shut, and then, to her mortification, she blurted, “Was she?”
J.T. drew in a deep breath, ashamed to tell the truth, ashamed of himself for being ashamed to admit it was true. His mother had done what she’d had to do to put food on the table, and in the end, it had killed her.
J.T. nodded curtly. “But she didn’t desert me,” he said quietly. “Not in the way you mean. She died when I was fourteen.”
“I’m sorry,” Brandy murmured. She thought of her own parents. Her mother was a nurse in Butte; her father was a truck driver. She had known the security of their love her whole life. Even
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