The Whippoorwill Trilogy

by Sharon Sala

  “You all right, kid?”

  Caitie nodded and looked away. This was the kind of man who would see straight through a short haircut and a pair of man’s breeches to the woman beneath.

  “I had them cold, I did,” she muttered. And then felt obliged to add out of courtesy. “But I’ll be thankin’ ye just the same.”

  Joe’s eyebrows arched. The lilt to the kid’s voice was unmistakable. He’d known men like him before—from the country of Ireland they called it. Only they hadn’t been as small as this one. And not nearly as pretty.

  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The thought had come out of nowhere, and it shouldn’t have. The kid was a kid. He could be sissy. He could be tough. But he shouldn’t have been pretty!

  Joe looked closer. Red-gold eyelashes as long as butterfly wings shaded the upper portion of the kid’s cheeks. His nose was too turned-up. His chin too shapely. A thought occurred. If he could only see the rest of his face.

  “Hey!” Joe yelled.

  His sudden shout made Caitie look up.

  He’d seen a lot of things in his twenty-nine winters, but never a boy with a mouth like that. He considered calling her hand and then shrugged. Her deception was ludicrous, but Joe Redhawk was a man who minded his own business until someone minded it for him. After that, it was a different story. The girl obviously had her reasons.

  Caitie pulled the pitchfork out of the ground, suddenly afraid she’d be needing it again. “And why would ye be yellin’ at me now?”

  The corner of his mouth tilted. Just a little. Just once.

  “Just checking your hearing, I reckon.”

  Caitie started to roll her eyes, and then caught herself. That was not a manly behavior.

  Joe turned away to hide his grin. Yep. I was right. This here’s a girl and that’s a fact.

  “Better watch your back for a day or two,” he warned. “That pair hasn’t got sense enough to pound sand in a rat hole, but that don’t mean they aren’t dangerous, just the same.”

  “And I’m already knowin’ that,” she muttered. “I’ve been takin’ care of me’self since I was seven. Swill rats like that can’t be hurtin’ the likes of me.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed. Her defiance touched a long forgotten chord of memory from his own childhood. He’d done all right up until the day two men had called him a half-breed, then beat hell out of him to see if he bled two different colors. Years later, they were the first two men he killed. He shook off the memory. It was time to move on.

  “I’m staying at the hotel a couple more days. If you need help, you know where to find me.”

  Before she could answer, he disappeared as quietly as he’d come.

  Caitie swiped blood from her nose with the sleeve of her shirt and glared after the man who just left.

  “May they all be damned,” she muttered. “I’ll not be needin’ any man’s help. I will be takin’ care of me’self, just like me Paddy taught me.”

  That night when she went to bed in the loft overlooking the horse stalls, she pulled the ladder up behind her. No one would be sneaking up on her in her sleep unless they could fly.

  Meanwhile, Art Bolin sat immersed in a tub of hot water, compliments of Shirley at the boarding house, while his only suit of clothes hung outside the window, drying in the cool night air. Every time Milt came into the room he would look at his brother, then spit and curse and walk away. Art didn’t know what hurt worse, his hands, his ass, or his pride.

  And the more Art dwelled on his misery, the more certain he was that they’d been bested by a girl. He didn’t care what old Milt said. He knew a girl when he saw one. And dadgum it all, he was going to prove it. In the morning, when his clothes were dry and his hands didn’t hurt so much, he was going to go back to that stable and show them all.

  Down on the street, Joe Redhawk leaned against the post outside the saloon and stared into the darkness toward the livery.

  Are you asleep, little one? Or are you lying in the dark alone, afraid to close your eyes?

  A loud shout, accompanied by a round of gunfire echoed behind him in the saloon. He looked back at the ongoing scuffle inside then stepped off the sidewalk. He had no desire to die back shot, no matter how accidental it might be. Moments later the night had swallowed him whole.

  It was just shy of sunrise when Caitie bolted for the outhouse. Minutes later she exited, again on the fly. She would have the horses fed and watered before the stable owner showed up, or know the reason why. She wasn’t giving any man a reason to fire her. The security of a regular job at Mudhen Crossing was the first real job she’d had since landing in New York City almost a year ago.

  America, land of the free, had not proven to be the place she had dreamed it to be. When she’d gotten off the boat from Ireland, New York City was ankle deep in snow. Within hours of her arrival she’d discovered that women alone in America had the same opportunities as women alone anywhere. Basically, there were two options to keep from starving. Scrubbing floors or fucking for money. That’s when she’d cut off her hair and donned the men’s pants. A week later she’d hopped a train, bedded down in an empty boxcar, and rode it west until they reached something called the Mississippi River where it ran out of track. She made do by her wits until the weather warmed and was on the first wagon train heading west. After that, she’d seen nothing to remember except weird little towns with even stranger sounding names.

  She remembered making camp near a small town called Feeny, because she’d once known a green grocer in Dublin by the same name. After that had been Lizard Flats, then Sweetgrass Junction. By the time they’d stopped near Mudhen Crossing, she was sick of wagons and making dry camps. When they moved on, she’d stayed behind. Now here she was, in the middle of nowhere—in constant fear of being found out and living a lie.

  Caitie cleaned up the stalls, unaware that Art Bolin was back at the same knot hole, peering through the opening, watching the stable boy hard at work.

  Art was a lot cleaner than when he’d left yesterday and only a little bit damp, but this time he’d come alone. Milt had a way of belittling everything he did, so he’d have the facts before he made any more accusations.

  Caitie hefted the last fork full of straw into the last stall, sighing with relief. Everything was ready and waiting for the next customer to ride in. Edward Pevehouse, the owner of the stable, had already come and gone, pronouncing everything fit before adjourning to Shirley’s boarding house for breakfast. He hadn’t bothered to offer the stable boy a meal. It didn’t matter. The stable boy would not have accepted the offer if he had.

  Caitie stabbed the fork into the haystack then looked around once more to make certain she hadn’t left a chore undone. Her back ached and she would have killed for an all-over bath. Bits of straw tickled and poked at the tender skin on her neck and itched something awful around her waist. The bath she would have to forego, but she could at least shake out her shirt before getting herself some food.

  With one last glance toward the open doorway, she darted into an empty stall at the back of the stable and yanked her shirt over her head. The breeze coming through the open windows was cool against her skin. Her nipples pearled as air brushed over them.

  She shook out the shirt, popping it twice in rapid succession before pulling it back over her head. Satisfied for the moment that she’d eased her discomfort, she darted across the street toward the saloon to settle the hungry growl in her stomach. She couldn’t afford Boarding House Shirley’s prices, but the bartender always had cold biscuits on hand. It wouldn’t take much to talk him into frying up an egg. She’d slap it between that biscuit and have herself a fine meal.

  Meanwhile, Art Bolin was caught between happy and a hard-on. Watching her strip down had been fine. But there was a time for everything, and right now he had a point to prove to his smart-ass brother.

  Once the girl disappeared into the saloon, Art set off in the opposite direction to find Milt. His swollen hands and damp pants were forgotten in the de
light of being right. A short time later, he burst into the room of Boarding House Shirley and caught his brother and Shirley in bed.

  “Oh, my Gawd,” Shirley screeched.

  Art stood in the doorway with a grin on his face as wide as her butt. Shirley began grabbing at the sheets, trying to cover up her abundance and her shame. It was no use. Milt wasn’t through pumping.

  “Hey, Milt!”

  Milt grunted and cursed, then collapsed upon Shirley with a hump and a thump.

  “Ain’t you got no damned sense at all?” Milt groaned, and rolled buck-naked off of the shrieking woman. “I was busy.”

  Art grinned at his brother’s limp state. “You ain’t no more,” he chuckled. “Besides, you’re gonna love what I got to say.”

  Milt grabbed for his pants. “Start talking.”

  “I was right.”

  Milt snickered. “You ain’t never been right.”

  Art scratched his balls and considered the possibility of asking Shirley for a turn. But the state she was in and the look on Milt’s face told him he’d best get on to what he’d come to say.

  “I was right yesterday,” Art said. “He’s a she.”

  Milt went still. Anger over their rousting still rankled. “How do you know?”

  Art sucked on a tooth, savoring the thrust of his news before he sent it home.

  “I seen her without a shirt. She’s got a bosom just like old Shirley there.” And then he peered a little closer at the wailing woman’s body and recanted. “Well, not exactly like Shirley’s. They don’t swing near that low.”

  Shirley buried her face in the sheet. She’d been forced to endure this private moment with an audience, and now, to have her womanly body belittled in such a manner was too much to endure.

  “Get out!” she shrieked, and threw a shoe at Milt. “You, too,” she said, and hefted the other one at Art.

  The brothers turned and ducked, heading for the door. Once outside they stopped and grinned.

  “I think she was mad,” Art said.

  Milt shrugged. “For a dollar, old Shirley can get in a real good mood.” Then his thoughts switched from one woman to the next as he fingered his gun. “Let’s go get that short-haired bitch. By gawd, she owes us big!”

  Art strutted. He loved to be right. Later when it counted, he would remind old Milt that this had been his idea from the start.

  Replete from her first food of the day and unaware of what was unfolding, Caitie wiped her hands on her pants as she headed back toward the livery. The empty feeling in the pit of her stomach was gone. And to her dismay, so was the horse at the far end of the stalls. Her heart lurched.

  “Oh no! It’s for certain that Mr. Pevehouse will be firin’ me. Either it’s been heisted, or the owner’s gone off without the leavin’ of pay. Whichever it is, I’m done.”

  While she was considering the benefits of making herself scarce, the lights went out. Before she could cry for help, someone stuffed a rag in her mouth and bagged her with an empty gunny sack like so much feed. Her feet went out from under her, and seconds later she felt them being tied. She was capable of nothing more than grunted curses and frantic squeals as a rope was tied around the sack, pinning her arms to her body and rendering her helpless to fight back. She heard an ugly snicker and kicked as hard as she could. When the toe of her boot connected on bone, she knew she’d hit a target. Someone groaned and then cursed and her heart almost stopped. That sounded like the Bolin Brothers!

  Merciful God, I pray I’m not right.

  But when one of the men suddenly grabbed at her crotch, she knew her worst fears were realized.

  “By damn, Art, you were right. There ain’t nothing there but air.” Milt pinched her once, his laugh little more than a gurgle. “Make sure you get all of her stuff. They’ll think she went and stole a horse, then lit a shuck for parts unknown. We’ll be long gone before anyone knows different.”

  Her stomach lurched, and it was all she could do to keep her egg and biscuit down. Bound and gagged as she was, if she threw up now, she’d choke on her own spit.

  “Tie her on that horse,” Milt growled, and tossed Art the other end of the rope dangling from the girl’s body.

  Art quickly complied. A few minutes later they rode out, using the back alleys to get to the edge of Mudhen Crossing.

  Only one person saw them leave, and that was Boarding House Shirley. She was none too glad to see the backside of the Bolins and their horses, and paid no attention to what they were packing.

  Caitie had been missing for more than an hour when Edward Pevehouse came back to the stables to find his employee gone, as well as a customer’s horse. Certain that the youth had committed a theft, he ran toward the sheriff’s office to make a report.

  As he came up Main Street, Pevehouse saw the sheriff in front of the saloon with that gunslinger, Breed. He paused, but only briefly. Whatever they were discussing could not be as important as what he had to say.

  “Sheriff! I say, Sheriff!” Fully aware of the imperious quality in his voice, he narrowed the distance between them, complaining with every step. “I want to report a crime.”

  Bud Williams turned, staring intently at the portly man heading his way. “Well, hell,” he muttered.

  Joe Redhawk grinned. “You’re the man who wanted this job.”

  Bud rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you just shoot me then and put me out of my misery?”

  Joe’s grin widened.

  Pevehouse gave Joe a look of dismissal with apologizing for his interruption.

  “Sheriff! I want to report a crime.”

  “What crime?” Bud asked.

  “My stable boy has stolen a horse. I want a posse formed and I want him brought back and hanged.”

  Bud frowned. He’d seen the kid around town and was vaguely surprised by the accusation.

  “Are you sure it was him?” he asked. “Maybe he fell asleep on the job and someone just rode out without paying.”

  “No! He’s missing, as are his belongings and one of my horses. I want a posse formed now.”

  Joe was in doubt from the first words out of Pevehouse’s mouth, and the more the man talked, the angrier he became. He kept thinking of yesterday’s incident with the Bolin Brothers and suspected there was more to her disappearance than a stolen horse.

  When Pevehouse finally paused to take a breath, Joe chose the moment to interrupt. “Hey, Bud. Before you go off half-cocked, you might want to check and see if Milt and Art Bolin are still in town.”

  Bud looked surprised. “Why?”

  “I ain’t tellin’ you how to do your job, but I pissed the Bolins off real big yesterday while they were in the act of trying to mess with the kid. Could be they decided they needed revenge.”

  Pevehouse poked at the star on Bud William’s shirt. “Now see here, I helped put you in office. You can go out the same—”

  Bud grabbed his finger, warning thick in his voice. “Don’t remind me. And I’ll do this my way,” he added. “If Joe thinks there’s more to this, I believe him.”

  Pevehouse yanked his hand out of the sheriff’s grasp. “Damn half-breed. How can he know anything, when he doesn’t even know who his own father was?”

  Joe’s hand was on his gun before he had time to think, but a quiet warning from Bud made him turn and walk away.

  Bud frowned. When he could trust himself to talk without cursing the man, he gave Pevehouse a cold, blue stare.

  “You know, Pevehouse, if you choose to judge a man by something as insignificant as his birth, then I guess in your eyes, Joe has an excuse. What the hell is yours?”

  He left before Pevehouse could answer. The way he was feeling, it wasn’t safe to stay and say any more. He caught up with Joe at the hitching post where his horse was tied.

  “Hey, Joe!”

  Redhawk paused in the act of tightening the girth and looked up.

  “Sorry about that,” Bud said.

  Joe shrugged. His eyes were dark with anger, but h
is voice was low and even. “You got nothing to apologize for.”

  “Then why are you leaving? I thought we were going hunting tonight.”

  “I’m still gonna hunt. Just not for deer.”

  Bud frowned. “What are you getting at?”

  Joe swung a leg up and over his horse, sliding the toe of his boots in the stirrups and testing them for length. “That stable boy is no boy. She’s a girl.”

  Bud’s mouth went slack. “The hell you say!”

  Joe yanked his hat down low until nothing was visible but the lower half of his face. If his hunch was right, he’d be riding straight into a setting sun.

  “If the Bolins have discovered her secret, she’s in for real trouble and I’ve got to find her. I walked away yesterday knowing I should have stayed. It don’t pay to think about what they’ll do to her.”

  Bud paled and then turned red in anger. Mistreating a woman was something a real man did not abide. He shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sure she’s a girl?”

  Joe grinned. “Since when have I missed something like that?”

  He rode out at a trot. A few minutes later, he was galloping across the prairie with the memory of her face for company.

  “Better untie her,” Art said. “She ain’t moved since you pulled her off that horse. What if she’s smothered?”

  Milt grinned and spit. “Then it means she won’t fight none when I have my way with her, don’t it?”

  Art blanched. It was his opinion that his brother was sick. Plumb sick.

  “I still say you need to untie her.”

  Milt grinned. “You untie her if you’re so damned worried.”

  Art began to look nervous. “I cain’t untie nothing. My hands are too sore and swoll up.”

  Milt frowned. “Next thing you’re gonna be telling me that I got to pull it out for you so you can take a pee.”

  “Just shut the hell up and let her get some air,” Art said, then stomped toward the campfire. In his opinion, less danger lay in the darkness outside the fire. This girl was hell on wheels.