Love on the Range

by Mary Connealy

  “And because there were records of you being in prison under your real names.”

  Kingston grunted. “If I was going to name myself, by golly, I’d pick a royal name. I kept Randall and settled on Kingston. But Oliver’s name was Jethro.” With a shake of his head, Randall said, “Jethro Pervis. He was never gonna get a fine woman to marry him with that name. So he went about calling himself Oliver Hawkins.”

  “So I’m really Winona Pervis?” The name made her want to cringe, but she brightened a bit as she thought, no, she was really Winona Hunt. And that name went with Kevin, not Clovis. And Kevin, with his strong, decent brothers, had made it a name to hold with pride.

  “You grabbed Rachel and me because you needed hostages to hold off the townspeople. Now you’ve gotten free, so let us go. Just set us down on the ground. Your horses will go faster and for longer without the extra load.”

  “Not how your pa wants it done. He’s all het up about Rachel. How she’s the one who brought him to this. Drove him from a fine home.”

  Win thought of the account books Wyatt had talked about. “He was going to have to give up that fine home soon enough. The money is all gone. My father has squandered all my mother’s wealth. He married her for it. Killed her for it. And now that it’s gone, he’d’ve lost the place anyway.”

  Good old kidnapping Uncle Randall blinked at her, then his head flew up to glare at his brother. His voice a great deal louder, he said, “Is that right, Oliver? Is the money gone?”

  Pa turned his head so fast Win almost heard it snap. “Of course not. She’s lying to you.”

  “You were going to fund our getaway.” Randall didn’t seem to even consider believing his brother. “I left my home behind. I should have headed back to Casper when I broke jail. We still could. I’ve got some cash money. It’d keep us until I find something to steal, or you find a new woman to marry.” Randall laughed, but there was no humor in it, only cruelty.

  “I’ve got plenty with me. We head west. I’ll find a new wife. I’ll have to be easy with a woman until she marries me.”

  Win had already known her father was a killer. Known it from the evidence that’d been gathered. But now she heard him confess it. Or close enough for her. It made her sick. It made her want to cry and scream and claw his eyes out.

  She knew of all the people in the Hunt family, she was considered the softest, with her finishing school education and all the years back east.

  But she was a strong woman inside where it counted. And with the deepest, most heartfelt prayers of her life, she asked God to give her a chance. To let her bring her father to justice. To give her the courage, wits, and opportunity to make him pay for killing her mother.

  And she prayed it knowing that in the end, her father very likely planned to kill her, and certainly Rachel. Oh, he might think to let Win live somehow, but if she died in the middle of the madness he’d wrought, he wouldn’t care.

  He might even write her a poem that said, “And now I must go on alone.”

  She shuddered to think of it.

  Win opened herself to every glance, every move on Randall’s part. She thought of where his gun was, and then she remembered that recently, she’d taken to arming herself. Randall hadn’t searched her for a hideout knife. She had one slipped into a clever little sheath inside her boot that Kevin had helped her make. Apparently, all his family carried knives as a family tradition. And from what she knew of his family back in Kansas, Win could hardly blame them.

  She certainly didn’t reach for it now. She just kept it in mind. When she got her chance, she’d be fighting with more than just her wits.

  She came back to the first and most awful thing that pounded in her head harder than the horse pounded as it galloped along.

  Was Kevin dead?

  She itched to reach for her knife.

  Twenty-Seven

  They were a long time reaching the peak the pigeon flew over. They looked all around but no sign of a hideout. No sign of Hawkins. No sign of a pigeon. There were trails, but none of them more worn down than others.

  The country was higher, and snow sifted down. The trail they were on crested above the tree line, then led down to sickly, bent trees nearly too high to grow, then thicker trees that towered overhead, even though from where the group stood, they looked down at where the trees grew. If they went down, they’d soon be swallowed up in dense forest.

  “Remember how many people have been shot from cover since we’ve come out here.” Molly thought of the evil men pursuing them as she, Kevin, and Andy were sleeping on the ground, still a day out from Bear Claw Pass.

  The three of them had crawled into the darkness away from the firelight and watched two men unload their guns into the abandoned blankets. A fine welcome to Wyoming Territory.

  Win had been shot, though they assumed the bullet was aimed at Kevin, then Falcon had gone to track the would-be killers, and he’d been shot. Later on, Win and Kevin were attacked again. Then Wyatt, then Rachel. No one died, but they’d come too close, too many times.

  Molly looked down at the steep descent. A likely place for an armed man to hide. They’d better ride easy.

  Or uneasy in this case.

  “Do we release another pigeon?” Wyatt had one hand resting on top of the pigeon crate to balance it.

  John rode over to him. “Yep, no way to know which way to take from here.”

  He opened the crate while Wyatt steadied it. Slid another bird out of the door and quickly closed it. “Keep a sharp eye.”

  Everyone nodded. He released the bird. It flew straight east.

  The only direction without a trail, and a direction at odds with where the other bird seemed to be heading.

  “That one’s going to Casper,” Cheyenne said.

  “Let it get out of sight.” Falcon rode up close. “I don’t know if a homing pigeon might follow its friend, but in case that could happen, let’s wait a spell.”

  The bird vanished from sight.

  “I envy that bird its fast wings,” Molly said, mostly to herself. She’d ridden up on Wyatt’s left while John was on his right. Falcon and Cheyenne were a few paces ahead of them on the trail, Sheriff Corly at their side.

  Wyatt rested one gloved hand on her back, drawing her eyes from the spot where the bird had been lost in the distance.

  He smiled.

  They really did need to have that talk.

  John reached for the crate. He tossed the friendly bird gently into the air. It spread its wings and went flapping east, too.

  A third pigeon headed east.

  “Two left,” the sheriff said. “We’re running out of chances.”

  Molly said a quiet, intense prayer for the Lord to lead them all, including the pigeon. John released the second-to-last bird. It soared like an arrow in flight, heading north. The center trail, into the thickest woods.

  They watched to pinpoint where it flew out of sight.

  There was a long trail downward and another peak beyond. The bird went on north, straight and steady, beyond the next peak.

  They were a long time riding down, then back up. Everyone was wary. Molly found her nerves taut as she tried to look for hidden gunmen. There were too many likely places for an outlaw to stand guard over the trail.

  At the top of the next peak, the mountain was white with snow but not above the tree line. The trees held the snow better than that last barren peak. It was growing colder by the moment. The icy wind penetrated Molly’s coat, and no one else could be much better. The way was impossible to guess. No obvious tracks. The snow was packed and slippery. Trees seemed to surround them, and snow fell heavily enough they couldn’t make out a trail anywhere.

  A stream gushed out of a crack in the mountain nearby. Despite the cold, it was a stunning place. The stand of evergreens with their lush needles was broken here and there by the bare branches of an oak or cottonwood or a copse of aspen trees.

  Molly looked at the beautiful, forbidding forest. The snow had tu
rned to needles of ice, and her fingers were numb with cold.

  They had one bird left.

  John looked each of them in the eye. “This is it. We’ll follow it as far as we can, and if we don’t find it or find some trail that gives us a way to travel, we’ll have to go back.”

  “And probably have to make a deal with Kingston,” Sheriff Corly said bitterly.

  It burned every one of them to let the man go, but to capture Hawkins, who had committed multiple murders, they might have to agree to his terms.

  Molly caught Wyatt’s hand, and she prayed silently. She saw Falcon and Cheyenne whispering with an intensity that made Molly think they were sharing a prayer.

  Wyatt lifted her hand and kissed her gloved fingertips. Their eyes met.

  John quietly said, “Amen.”

  He reached in the cage for the last pigeon and tossed it in the air.

  It took off like a shot straight north. At least it wasn’t going to Casper. They all watched, all hoping and praying.

  The bird didn’t soar onward, over the next peak and out of sight.

  Instead, it landed.

  A long way down, in a thick stand of trees. But it definitely found its stopping place. It’d gotten home.

  Molly’s heart sped up. “Did you see it?”

  “I did.” Cheyenne reined her horse toward the trail, Falcon only a horse length behind.

  “I surely did.” The sheriff kicked his horse to follow. John went next.

  Wyatt, his eyes sharp and ready for trouble, said, “I’ll bring up the rear.”

  Molly looked at him for a long second. There was so much ahead of them. The first thing was going to be hard. If their prayers were answered, they’d be facing a cornered killer. Fighting for their lives. If they weren’t answered, an evil man would go free, and he’d attacked them before. Just because he’d been found out didn’t mean he might not come at them again.

  Nodding, Molly leaned across the distance between their horses and kissed Wyatt soundly on his cold lips.

  He kissed her right back. “Get going, woman.”

  He smiled at her, and she nodded and headed after John.

  They were almost there. Almost to what was likely the hideout of a murderer.

  A cowardly murderer who hurt defenseless women. But someone had shot Wyatt near Hawkins’s place. Molly hadn’t considered Hawkins a likely suspect for the crime at the time. Now she knew he was almost for sure guilty. It was a cowardly act, and that sounded just like him.

  Though they rode bent low, every one of them kept a sharp eye out, and not a shot was fired. They reached a clearing, and a tumbledown cabin stood there, brush grown up close to it on all four sides. A shanty of a barn behind it.

  “Hawkins! Come out.” John surprised them all with a powerful voice. Threatening. Furious.

  No one stirred. The snow came down heavily, twisting and dancing on the wind.

  “It’s empty.” Cheyenne clucked to her horse and rode it straight toward the cabin.

  “Cheyenne, no, wait.” Falcon pulled her up, when she wouldn’t have stopped for too many people.

  “What is it?”

  “We’ll leave tracks. Look, there’s a nice even powder of snow all around that place. The trees block the wind. If we all ride up there, and he’s out hunting or finding firewood, he’ll see we’ve been here. Let’s hide the horses in the woods and think about how to approach the cabin. Maybe I could walk in from the back, pick spots where the snow is swept away, then hide in the house to wait for him. The rest of you hide in the woods.”

  At that moment, one of the pigeons fluttered up from the back of the house and flew to them. A second one came soon after. They landed on the crate, and Wyatt tucked them inside. He had a pocket full of seed, and he tossed more grain to them. They happily cooed and fluttered as they pecked it up.

  “It looks like a one-room cabin. No one’s in there, but it’s the right place. The pigeons prove that.” John swung off his horse and led it into the woods. “Let’s see how this fool likes someone coming at him from cover.”

  “Let’s get off the trail quick and hope any tracks we left are covered by snowfall.” Cheyenne went toward the opposite side of the trail.

  “I watched our back trail. With the wind and the rocky path, there’s not much to see.” Falcon followed his wife.

  “And, Falcon,” John said, “I can tell you’re a fine tracker, but if one of us goes in that house alone, I want it to be me. I’m a trained investigator, and I might see something in there you’d miss. Clues aren’t always obvious.”

  “I need to get in there, too,” the sheriff said. “This is in my territory, and I’m the only recognized lawman here.”

  Falcon didn’t reply.

  John vanished from sight into the woods to the east. Falcon went to the west, the sheriff hard after him.

  “You go in on the same side as John, Molly,” Wyatt said. “I’m going to take a few seconds and fill in some hoofprints and footprints with snow.”

  The woods weren’t easy to walk through. The trees were shouldered against each other. Old oaks and heavily needled pines, their branches weighed down with snow. Young trees growing spindly in the shade of their elders. Ancient tree trunks, broken off, almost impossible to get around. Prickly scrub brush filled in all the empty spaces.

  Molly picked her way, following John’s footprints. By the time he had his horse tied, she was there, and he took her reins and hitched her horse beside his.

  Then Wyatt came. She watched him smooth out the snow with an expert eye. But as he came close, well out of sight of the trail, he quit.

  “I’m going to circle around and come in from the back.” John slipped away, leaving Molly and Wyatt alone in the cold forest.

  Snow came down on their heads, light but steady. The wind had let up enough that their coats kept them warm.

  “Let’s get closer to the trail so we can see if anyone is coming,” Wyatt said.

  Molly followed.

  He picked a hiding spot wisely, a boulder with bushes around the front of it. They were covered, but the trail was close enough to see easily.

  Settling in behind the boulder, Wyatt crouched so he could watch, but for how long? They could be here for hours. All day. Maybe forever.

  “This might be our best chance to have that talk, Molly.”

  And she knew he was right. It was time. It was past time.

  She settled in beside him and whispered, “I’ve had plenty of time to think, and I know it would be wrong to marry you.”

  “Before you start . . .” Wyatt slid an arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to kiss her. His lips were cold. His nose brushed hers and she shivered, but a nice kind of shiver.

  When the kiss ended, Wyatt said, “I expect something awful happened to you. I want you to know it’s not going to change a thing.”

  She wished desperately that she could believe him. But she couldn’t. “It will change everything when your wife is hanged for murder.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Win had never been out this way before. It was the most rugged country she’d ever seen.

  “Shut up.”

  Uncle Randall was a worthless excuse for a relative, but Win didn’t say so because she didn’t trust him not to hit her, and she needed to think clearly and be strong enough to fight when her time came.

  Information might be useful later though. “What were you in the Jeffers school for? If my father killed your parents, why did you all go?”

  “We had no one to watch out for us. We’d all been in trouble. So when Oliver went, they scraped together this and that little crime and just pitched me and Clovis in with him.”

  “This and that little crime?” Win said it but didn’t expect an answer. And she didn’t get one.

  Instead, Randall went on with his story as if it were a fond memory. “Killing Ma and Pa, Oliver set us up on easy street with that. The school gave us the only education we’d had, fed us, and kept us warm in
winter and dry in the rainy season. Ma and Pa’s house hadn’t done that.”

  “And only at the price of your parents’ lives,” Win said. Again she spoke mostly to herself, but this time Randall slid the hand he had around her waist to her opposite arm and twisted it.

  “Ouch, stop.” She deliberately said it loud enough her father could hear. She was curious what he’d do.

  “Leave my girl alone, Randy. She’ll be easier to tote along if she’s not hurt.”

  Randall loosened his grip with a cruel laugh. “The girl’s never had a switch taken to her. She’s got a mean mouth, and I don’t like it.”

  “Might not be too late to teach her some manners.” Pa’s eyes met Win’s, and there was only evil. “I’ve a mind to take her along with us. She can do the cooking. Be a proper daughter now that she’s a widowed lady.”

  Ignoring those words to keep herself from crying, Win looked at Rachel. Unconscious this whole time. It struck Win suddenly how unlikely that was. Yes, she was exhausted. Only just up from a week in bed, and during that time, she’d eaten and drank only what sips they could urge down her. It made sense she was weak to the point of collapse. A normal woman would be. But Rachel was tough. The type of woman to carry a knife in her boot and maybe worse.

  The type of woman to dig deep and stay conscious, and also perhaps to feign unconsciousness, waiting for her chance to fight.

  Win faced forward so no one would see that suspicion—and hope—on her face.

  With or without Rachel, Win planned to fight these men who had hurt Kevin.

  God, please, please, please let him be alive.

  She very much hoped it was with Rachel, but Win would fight nonetheless.

  The horses were slowing. Win suspected it was because they were tired. But she also noticed the wide trail into the rough country had narrowed and was climbing.

  She was watching intently, wondering if a spot in the trail would take all Randall’s attention, and she’d have her chance to leap from the horse and vanish into the woods.