“Yes, ma’am.” He managed to squeeze out the words.
“I've got questions for you. And you'd best answer them straight."
Jonah swallowed, his mouth dry as sawdust. The woman's grip on the gun was steady, practiced. She meant business. No trace of feminine softness here.
"Happy to answer." But he’d rather not do it lying flat on hisback. He started to edge up to sitting in bed. “You can put that thing down.”
When he moved, she shifted the barrel to aim at his face. “Stay where you are.” Her tone left little doubt that she’d pull the trigger.
He halted, still on his back, though his head rested farther up on his pillow. “I promise I mean you no harm.” Especially if this was Patsy. He’d be protecting her, not hurting her.
“Are you the one putting up the flyers?” Her face gave no hint of any emotion except anger.
“If you mean the ones looking for a woman named Patsy, then yes.”
“What do you want with her?”
He raised his brows. “Is your name Patsy?”
“No.” The response came short and swift, like a punch to the gut.
His hope sank. She had to be Anna’s aunt. She fit the vague description—age and hair color mostly. And she had the same rounded cherub cheeks as the little girl. Why would this woman trust him so little that she’d lie?
She must be in some kind of trouble.
Before he could find a way to ask, she spoke again. “Name’s Patience Whitman.”
Ah.
Patience. Patsy could certainly be a nickname. He’d been searching for women with all the names that could be derived from Patsy—Patricia, Patrice, Pasquale, Patty. But he’d never thought of Patience.
He needed to tread carefully. He’d seen mountain cats with less searing stares. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Whitman. Do you, by chance, have a niece named Anna? She’s seven years old with medium brown hair. She was traveling with her grandmother to find you.”
The woman’s eyes widened for a half aheartbeat. She must not have known about their search. Anna hadn’t been certain whether she did or not.
When she didn’t say anything, Jonah added, “She calls her grandmother Gamma.”
"How do you know about Anna?" Patsy—and he was certain that was who this was—glared, her head turning a little so she could stare more through her right eye. "You'd best start explaining yourself. My finger’s getting twitchy on this trigger."
He’d have to tell her everything. Every part of the story he knew, anyway. He had a feeling this conversation was about to get a whole lot more complicated, but for the sake of the little girl waiting for word of her aunt, he had to try.
Even if it killed him. Which, considering the gun still aimed at his face, it just might.
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "My brothers and I live on a ranch in the mountains. We found Anna and her grandmother.” He raised his brows. “Your mother, maybe?” She gave no answer, so he kept going. “They camped on my family’s ranch last winter. The snow got thick and the weather miserable. We brought them in our house, and my sister-in-law—she’s a doctor—treated them for cold exposure. Anna was fine, but her grandmother was already mostly unconscious.”
He swallowed hard. He’d really not wanted to break the news this way, but this woman seemed to need every little detail to convince herself of his honesty. “Sadly, she passed on that evening. Anna’s been with us ever since. She told us about her aunt, whom she and her grandmother were traveling to see. She didn’t know the particulars, not even the aunt’s last name. Only that the lady had come to the Montana Territory to be married.”
The gun wobbled a tiny bit when he spoke those last words, and she tightened her jaw. “Why isn’t Anna with her parents? Where are they in all this?" Her pitch came out sharp, accusatory, as if she already suspected the answer but needed to hear it confirmed aloud.
Jonah hated to say. Even a woman as hardened as this one shouldn’t have to be told like this that her entire family was dead. That the bright-eyed little girl who shared her blood was now an orphan, adrift in a world that had already been so cruel to her.
But he had no choice. Mrs. Whitman deserved the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
"I'm sorry." He kept his voice gentle. "From what Anna's told us, her parents passed away. I think her grandfather has been gone a while, so it was just her and her grandmother. It sounds like they were settled well before they came west. But now…" He trailed off, letting the unspoken implication hang in the air between them. He couldn’t help but add, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitman.”
She visibly swallowed, and the gun trembled again. “It’s Miss. I’m not married.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper, almost like a side note as she took in the massive load he’d just handed her.
He could ask what happened to her marriage later—or not, as it might not be any of his business. For now, he had to help her face this awful truth. His own chest ached. Despite the gun she still aimed at him, he wished he could make this easier on her. Not that there could be any comfort for the grief that came from so much loss.
