A Knife in the Heart

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The young woman smiled and said, “Is it that obvious?”

  “Ye look a wee bit like the girl who plays the daughter, ya ken.”

  “You really think so?” The young woman blushed, obviously pleased by the comparison.

  “Oh, aye. In fact, ye look as if ye have some Scots blood a-flowin’ in yer veins.”

  “I do! A little. I don’t really know how much.”

  “Enough that I’d consider ye a good Scottish lass. We need to figure out what clan. Once we ken what yer colors are, ye can go next door to me sister’s shop, where she sells all sorts o’ goods decorated with all the clan colors . . .”

  While that conversation was going on, the young man had handed over his credit card. He took it back from the old woman now as she handed him his receipt along with it. His wife said eagerly, “I don’t really know anything about the clans. Well, other than what I’ve learned from watching TV.”

  “Then ye’ve come t’ the right place. I’ll teach ye everything ye need to ken. What is’t ye Americans call it? A crash course?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  While his wife leaned over the counter to continue the spirited conversation with the woman who ran the café, the young man stepped through the door to the narrow cobblestone street to wait for her. He had a hunch it might be a while.

  “Snagged another’un, did she?”

  The voice came from the young man’s left. A burly older man sat there, puffing on a pipe, bundled up against the day’s chill with his cap pulled down on his gray hair.

  “I beg your pardon?” the young man said.

  The older man took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the stem at the café entrance. “Aileen in there. She can spot the tourists and the TV fans and manages to send about half of ’em in her sister Isobel’s shop. ’Twouldn’t surprise me if she gets what you Americans call a kickback.”

  “Annabel really does enjoy that show,” the young man said with a smile. “We’ve been all over the Highlands during the past week. Saved up to take this trip for a couple of years.”

  The older man moved over on the bench and nodded curtly to the empty space. The young American sat down and held out his hand.

  “I’m Richard van Loan.”

  “Is that an English name?”

  “Dutch, I believe. I’ve never been into genealogy all that much.”

  “I’ve nothin’ against the Dutch, so I’ll shake yer hand. Graham McGregor is me name. ’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, lad.”

  “Likewise,” Richard said. He looked around at the old buildings that fronted the narrow street. Eastward, between some of those buildings, a narrow slice of the Firth of Clyde was visible, the water a deep, deep blue on this cloudy day.

  “You have a beautiful city here.”

  “’Twas not always so large. Me grandfather told me it grew like wildfire after the port was put in and the steamers began comin’ up the firth, and James Ewing built Castle House next to old Dunoon Castle. A’fore that, ’twas just a country town, Dunoon, spelled a bit different than today. Me great-great-grandfather Ian McGregor had a pub here, the White Horse.”

  “Sounds like it would have been a wonderful place to visit,” Richard said.

  “Dinna ye go talkin’ about such things! Ye would never believe how many tourists show up in the Highlands searchin’ for some magical place where they can go travelin’ through time!”

  Richard laughed. “Really? Well, people take these things seriously, I suppose.”

  “Aye, they do. Yer wife . . . I’d wager she’s a wee bit in love wi’ tha’ braw laddie on the TV.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that—”

  “But he’s not the only hero t’ come from Scotland, ye ken. Why, there was once a lad from right here in old Dunoon who was every bit as big and bold and handsome, an’ even better in a fight! Me great-great-grandfather Ian was his friend, ye ken, before he left to go t’ America and become a famous frontiersman, like in yer Western movies.”

  “Your great-great-grandfather became a frontiersman in America?”

  “No, th’ lad I’m tellin’ ye about! Duff MacCallister, tha’ was his name. Duff Tavish MacCallister. Did ye ever hear of him?”

  Richard shook his head slowly and said, “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  Annabel came out of the café, pointed at the shop next door, and said, “Richard, I’m going to be in there for a while looking around. Are you all right out here?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he told her. “Take your time.”

  “She will, ye ken,” Graham McGregor said after Annabel had vanished into the shop. “Take her time, that is. Lassies always do.”

  “Yes, I’ve been married long enough to know that. You were saying about this fellow Duff . . . Tell me more about Duff MacCallister.”

  “I reckon I can do that,” Graham said, nodding. “Old Ian filled me grandfather’s head wi’ stories, and he passed ’em on to me when I was naught but a tyke.” He paused, obviously thinking about which story to tell, then went on, “I know a good one. Lots o’ ridin’ an’ shootin’ an’ fightin’, like in them movies I was talkin’ about. It started in th’ month o’ December, long, long ago, in a frontier settlement, Chugwater, Wyomin’ . . .”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chugwater, Wyoming . . . back then

  Duff MacCallister took off his hat and raised his arm to sleeve sweat off his rugged face.

  “If I dinna ken what day ’tis, I’d say ’twas the middle o’ summer, not December!”

  “Not that long until Christmas,” Elmer Gleason agreed. “It’s unseasonably warm, that’s for sure.”

  The two men had just finished loading a good-sized pile of supplies, including heavy bags of flour, sugar, and beans, into the back of the wagon they had brought into town from Sky Meadow, Duff’s ranch farther up the valley. Both were in shirtsleeves, instead of the heavy coats most men normally wore at this time of year in Wyoming. In fact, Duff had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt over brawny forearms.

  He was a tall, broad-shouldered, tawny-haired young man, originally from Scotland, but now, after several years here in Wyoming, a Westerner through and through. He had established Sky Meadow Ranch when he arrived on the frontier, brought in Black Angus cattle, like the ones he had raised back in Scotland, and built the spread into a large, very lucrative operation that took in thirty thousand acres of prime grazing land.

  Elmer, a grizzled old-timer who had lived a very adventurous life of his own, had been living on the land when Duff bought it, squatting in an old abandoned gold mine at the northern end of the property. People believed the mine was haunted, but what they had seen was no ghost, just Elmer.

  Since Duff had made that discovery, the old-timer had become one of his most trusted friends and advisors. He worked as Sky Meadow’s foreman, and Duff had even made him a partner in the ranch with a ten percent share.

  Now, with the supplies Duff had purchased from Matthews Mercantile loaded, Elmer licked his lips and said, “I reckon we’ll be headin’ down to Fiddler’s Green to wet our whistles before startin’ back to the ranch? A cold beer’d taste mighty good on a day like today.”

  “Aye, the same thought did occur to me,” Duff said. “Go ahead, and I’ll catch up to ye. I’ll be makin’ one small stop first.”

  “At the dress shop?” Elmer asked with a knowing grin.

  “Perhaps . . .”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be down there yarnin’ with Biff when you’re done. We can talk about the weather, like ever’body else in town is probably doin’.”

  Duff lifted a hand in farewell and turned his steps along Clay Avenue toward the shop where Meagan Parker sewed, displayed, and sold the dresses she made, which were some of the finest to be found anywhere between New York and San Francisco, despite the unlikely surroundings of this frontier cattle town. Meagan’s talents were such that she could have been in high demand as a designer and seamstress anywhere in the country, but she preferre
d to remain in Chugwater.

  Duff MacCallister was a large part of the reason she stayed.

  Duff and Meagan had an understanding. Neither of them had a romantic interest in anyone else, and because of financial assistance she had rendered him in the past, she was also a partner in Sky Meadow.

  The ranch was named after Skye McGregor, Duff’s first love back in Scotland. The young woman’s murder had been part of a tragic chain of circumstances that resulted in Duff leaving Scotland and coming to America. A part of Duff still loved her and always would. Meagan knew all about Skye and Duff’s feelings for her, and she accepted the situation, so it never came between the two of them.

  Someday they would be married. Duff and Meagan both knew that. But for now, they were happy with the way things were between them and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

  Now that Duff wasn’t lifting heavy bags and crates into the wagon, the day didn’t feel quite as warm to him, although the sun still shone brightly in a sky almost devoid of clouds. A couple of times earlier in the fall, a dusting of snow had fallen, but it wouldn’t have been unusual for several inches to be on the ground by now.

  A little breeze kicked up as Duff walked toward Meagan’s shop. He lifted his head to sniff the air. There was a hint, just a hint, of coolness in it.

  Maybe that was a harbinger, Duff thought, an indication that the weather was going to change again and become more seasonable. Even though a man would have to be a fool not to enjoy the pleasant weather—it wasn’t a raging blizzard, after all—with Christmas coming, it needed to feel like winter. That little tang he had detected put some extra enthusiasm in Duff’s step. He was in a good mood, and he didn’t think anything could change that.

  * * *

  Four men reined their horses to a halt in front of the Bank of Chugwater, swung down from their saddles, and looped the reins around the hitch rail there. Hank Jessup, the oldest of the group, turned to the other three and said, “All right, Nick, you’ll stay out here with the horses.”

  They all had the same roughly dressed, rawboned appearance, and their facial features were similar enough that it was obvious they were related. Hank, with his weather-beaten skin and white hair, could have been father to the others, based on looks, but in actuality he was their older brother. Half brother, anyway. Late in life, their father had married a much younger woman and somewhat surprisingly sired the other three—Logan, Sherm, and Nick.

  They had willingly followed Hank into the family business of being outlaws, and they had come to Chugwater to help themselves to an early Christmas present of however much loot was in the bank’s vault.

  “You said I could go inside this time, Hank,” Nick complained. “I always have to watch the horses.”

  Sherm said, “It’s an important job, kid.”

  “You’re our lookout, too,” Logan added. “You’ve got to warn us if any blasted badge-toter comes along and starts to go in the bank.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nick muttered. “I guess so.”

  Hank said, “And you’re watching the horses because I say so, that’s the most important thing.” He squared his shoulders, nodded to Logan and Sherm. “Come on.”

  The three of them stepped up onto the boardwalk and headed for the bank’s front door. They didn’t draw their guns yet, because they didn’t want to alert people on the street that anything unusual was going on.

  Nick lounged against the hitch rail, handy to the spot where the reins were tied so he could loosen them in a hurry if he needed. This wasn’t the first bank robbery he and his brothers had pulled. Sometimes the boys came out walking fast, still not wanting to draw attention, and sometimes they came on the run, needing to make as rapid a getaway as they could.

  Inside the bank, Hank glanced around quickly, sizing up the situation without being too obvious about it: two tellers, each with a single customer, one man and one woman. A bank officer, probably the president, was seated at a desk off to one side behind a wooden railing. The man had a bunch of papers spread out on his desk and was making marks on one of them with a pencil, pausing between each notation to lick the pencil lead.

  No guard that Hank could see, but it was entirely possible those tellers had guns on shelves below the counter, and the bank president probably had an iron in his desk drawer, too.

  Question was, would they be smart enough not to try to use them?

  Hank wouldn’t mind gunning them down if it came to that. Wouldn’t mind at all.

  He exchanged a glance with his brothers and nodded. No time like the present.

  Hauling the gun from the holster on his hip, Hank yelled, “Stand right where you are! Nobody move, or we’ll start blasting!”

  * * *

  Meagan was sitting at a table with several pieces of cloth in front of her when Duff came into the shop. She had three straight pins in her mouth, taken from a pincushion close to her right hand. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “Careful there, lass,” he cautioned. “Ye dinna want t’ be stickin’ pins in those sweet lips o’ yours.”

  Deftly Meagan took the pins out of her mouth and returned them to the pincushion, which allowed her to smile even more.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to hurt my lips,” she said, “when I have such an important use for them.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  Meagan stood up and came toward him, a sensually shaped blond beauty. Because of the unseasonably warm weather, she wore a lightweight dress today that hugged her figure, instead of being bundled up.

  “This,” she said as she put her arms around Duff’s neck and lifted her face so he could kiss her. He did so with passion and urgency.

  After a very enjoyable few moments, Duff stepped back and said, “I have some news this morning. Elmer and I stopped at the post office on our way t’ the mercantile, and a letter was there waiting for me.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Meagan said. “Who is it from?”

  “My cousin Andrew. Ye’ve heard me speak of him many times.”

  “Of course. He’s the famous actor. He and his twin sister, both.”

  Duff nodded and said, “Aye, Rosanna. The pair o’ them were actually the first of my American cousins I ever met, when they came to Glasgow to perform in a play called The Golden Fetter. Andrew had written to me then, introducing himself and asking me to come see the play and meet him and Rosanna. Fine people they are.”

  “Being MacCallisters, how could they be anything else?”

  “Aye, ’tis true, we are a fine clan. I’ve seen them a number of times since then, in New York and elsewhere, and back in the summer, I wrote to Andrew and invited him and Rosanna to spend Christmas at Sky Meadow if they could arrange their schedule to make it possible. In his letter I received today, he says they’ve been touring, but they’re ready t’ take a break from it and pay me a visit for the holidays.”

  “Duff, that’s wonderful news,” Meagan said. “I’m looking forward to meeting them. When will they be here?”

  “Andrew is no’ sure yet, but ’twill not be for another few days, at least. He assures me they’ll arrive before Christmas.”

  “And what about your cousin Falcon? Didn’t you tell me that he’s coming for Christmas, too?”

  Duff grinned and said, “Falcon told me he would try to make it. Wi’ Falcon, ye never can tell what wild adventure might come along an’ drag him away. So if he shows up, I’ll be mighty glad t’ see him, of course, but I willna be surprised if circumstances prevent that.”

  “Well, I hope he’s able to come,” Meagan said. “It would be almost like a family reunion. Isn’t he Andrew and Rosanna’s brother?”

  “Aye, youngest brother. Falcon is the baby of the family, although I doubt he’d appreciate bein’ referred to as such. Andrew and Rosanna are ten years or so older than him.”

  “Aren’t there other brothers and sisters?”

  Duff waved a hand and said, “Aye, spread out all over the count
ry, they are. One o’ these days, they need to have a proper MacCallister family reunion.”

  “I’ll bet that would be exciting,” Meagan said with a smile. “There’s no telling what might happen.”

  “Och, lass, are you for sayin’ that th’ MacCallisters attract trouble or some such?”

  “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

  Duff chuckled and pulled Meagan back into his arms for another hug and kiss. He stroked a big hand over her blond hair and said quietly, “’Tis something else I’d rather be attractin’.”

  “Oh, you do, Duff. You definitely do.”

  He was about to lower his lips to hers for another kiss when gunshots suddenly rang out somewhere down the street. The sounds shattered the warm, peaceful day and made Duff jerk his head up again.

  Those shots were concrete proof of what Meagan had just said. No MacCallister could go very long without running into a ruckus.

  “I’ll be back,” Duff said over his shoulder as he charged out of the dress shop.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As president of the Bank of Chugwater, Bob Dempster’s job usually involved making sure all the numbers added up and all the other day-to-day details were attended to. But as a frontier banker, he knew that sometimes he might be called upon to perform other tasks as well.

  For that reason, a .45 revolver rested in the middle drawer of his desk. As the three rough-looking strangers entered the bank, Bob took note of them and carefully eased the drawer out so that the gun came into view.

  When the three men pulled their guns, and the oldest one shouted for everybody not to move, Bob reached for his own weapon and closed his hand around it.

  Unfortunately, the boss outlaw swung sharply toward Bob and lined his revolver on him.

  “When you take your hand outta that drawer, mister, it better be empty, or I’ll put a bullet right through your brain.”

  Bob wasn’t going to throw his life away by betting on his own rudimentary gun-handling skills. Slowly he opened his hand and lifted it away from the drawer. He raised his other hand at the same time.