Yellowstone Memories

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  A rifle shot echoed against the trees, and Wyatt heard a yelp of pain. He opened his eyes in surprise to see the musket butt waver and fall. The man doubled over, leaning against a tree for support. Blood leaked through his shirt and coat, spattering in crimson drops on the white snow.

  Wyatt gaped a few seconds, so shocking was the sight of another man’s blood and the reality that he’d been granted another few seconds to live.

  Run, you blockhead!

  Sanity overcame his woozy senses, and Wyatt scrambled to his feet and darted into the snowstorm toward the barn.

  “Did you really shoot that guy?” Wyatt leaned against the barn door with Jewel from the inside, panting hard. The whole structure had suffered years of neglect; wind whistled through open windows, and creaking shutters flapped open in the wind. “You’re a very good shot. I’m … well, impressed.”

  “Of course I shot him.” Jewel loaded her rifle again and pointed it through an empty knothole in the slats of the barn wall. “And I assure you, if I’d wanted to kill my husband this way, I could have at any moment.”

  Wyatt took a step back. “I believe you.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “I believe you again.” Wyatt’s own words surprised him. But he felt they were true, the same way hot coffee warmed his insides, shaking off the chill of winter.

  “Let’s barricade this place.” Jewel set down her rifle and pulled an old plow against the door. “My only hope is that they’ll run out of ammunition, if we can hold them off long enough.”

  “They’ll try to bust inside by sheer force.” Wyatt helped her push, sneezing as dust rose up in a fine cloud. “There are five of them, you know. Maybe more.”

  Jewel picked up a pitchfork and shoved it sideways across the door frame, into the latch. “Then we’ll conserve our ammunition and pick them off one at a time. We can do this.” Jewel met his gaze. “Do you believe me in that, too?”

  “I want to.” Wyatt’s nose dripped with cold as he knelt down beside her, pushing the plow flush against the door with his shoulder.

  “No. That’s not good enough. Do you believe me?”

  Wyatt shoved the plow harder in place and felt a surge of strength flow from his heart. “You know something? I do believe you, Miss Moreau. I do. I will. I choose to.” He felt light suddenly, relieved—as if something heavy had fallen away.

  “That’s it.” Jewel turned to him, her face strangely lit from the inside. Eyes sparkling like deep water. “You just said it.”

  “Said what?”

  “What I’ve been trying to understand about the Bible. I don’t know if I believe yet, but I’m willing to.” She fingered the beaded necklace around her throat. “Therefore I say ‘I do’—just like a wedding.”

  “A wedding, you say?” Wyatt’s face was so close to hers that he felt her breath on his cheek, tickling his hair. Felt his knees melting, buckling.

  “Neither the bride nor the groom know the full extent of their promise when they stand at the altar,” she said softly. “But they say ‘I do’ anyway—without knowing all the answers. Because they know it’s right.”

  Wyatt’s heart pounded. Madmen were shooting at him outside, and flakes were coming down so hard that if he survived, he’d be snowed in in the barn without heat and frozen into a block of ice before morning.

  And yet she’d hit on something—something big.

  “It’s even more than that. I’m willing to believe you because I know you,” he whispered, his breath misting. “Because I know your character. Even if I don’t understand all your reasons.” He tipped his face down toward hers, so close their noses almost touched. “That’s what faith is, isn’t it?”

  Jewel lifted her eyes to his in a deep, velvet expression that unnerved him, made his heart jump. She nodded wordlessly. The world seemed to hush, silent, and Wyatt couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe. How to move his mouth.

  Why was she looking at him that way? That way?

  Almost as if she …

  No. Wyatt forced himself to think over the loud hammering of his heart. A woman like Jewel wouldn’t have anything to do with the likes of him, would she?

  Shots rang out over the snow—and Wyatt jumped, reaching for his holster.

  His empty holster. He stuck his hand in his pocket, incredulous, and shook it out. Then the other pocket.

  Wyatt Kelly, you turkey! He slapped his forehead, recalling the man who’d grabbed him by the collar and knocked the revolver out of his hand. You’ve done it again! You should have grabbed your gun—and his, too—and snatched up your rifle on the way to the barn.

  “You’ve lost your gun.”

  Wyatt jerked his head up like a frightened rabbit, hands stopping in his pockets in mid-search. “I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably, straightening his glasses. “I’m no good. I told you that.”

  “No matter.” Jewel reached for a heavy wagon tongue and slid it in front of the door, pushing a stack of wagon wheels with her hip. “God can save us if He wants to. He rolled back the Red Sea and rained fire from heaven on Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “But why would He save me?” Wyatt’s face contorted in another sneeze. “I’m nobody. I should have died there on that field with my father.”

  “No you shouldn’t have.” Jewel stood up to see him, nearly eye to eye. “God saved you, a defenseless child, just like He appeared to Hagar the slave girl. He has plans for your life, Wyatt. Good plans—not plans for revenge. Your father lived his life. Live yours. With justice and mercy.” She grabbed a wooden hoe and thrust it into his empty hands. “God will help you live out your gifts if you give Him your life.”

  Wyatt’s hands shook on the hoe. “I’ll die anyway. I can’t hold off five men.”

  “God held off thousands of Egyptian soldiers and chariots for a band of Israelites. And so what if you die? Do it with courage, like your father.”

  Wyatt took the hoe, barely seeing through his crooked and smudged glasses. His heart thumped in his throat. Before he could say another word, something moved from the corner of the barn. Wooden crates tumbled to the ground, and a wagon wheel rolled in an arc until it slid to a stop against an old bale of hay.

  Wyatt jumped back, wielding the hoe, and Jewel leaped for the rifle.

  But not fast enough.

  “Jean-François Boulé,” Jewel gasped, shrinking back, pale as if she’d fainted. “What are you doing here?”

  A bearded man with a scar across his cheek leaped from the jumble of crates and grabbed Jewel around the neck, shoving a pistol under her throat.

  Chapter 10

  Nice speech about faith, Miss Moreau. I didn’t know you were a woman of such high morals.” The man smiled, and Wyatt saw ice in his eyes as he bent her over double, wrestling the gun to her head. Wyatt raised the hoe with sweaty hands as she screamed.

  “You so much as flinch and she’s dead, Mr. Kelly,” the man snarled in a heavy French accent. “Drop it and get your hands up right now, or I’ll shoot!”

  Wyatt hesitated, terrified of making a wrong decision, and Jean-François cocked the revolver. The metallic click echoed through the barren barn, and even Jewel halted, unmoving.

  “Leave her alone,” Wyatt growled, slowly dropping the hoe and putting his hands up. “Let her go.”

  “Why does it matter what I do with her?” asked Jean-François, slapping Jewel’s hands away as she grabbed for her rifle. “She’s a redskin, Wyatt. I should have killed her when I killed that fool husband of hers—but she was too slippery for me.”

  Wyatt flinched, sputtering for a response.

  “Truth is, it’s the letter from Pierre I want. Always has been. And I know she’s got it.” Jean stuck the pistol harder against Jewel’s forehead. “I’ve been tracking her down for months, and thanks to those Crowder fellows, I’ve finally found her.”

  “Who cares about the letter?” Wyatt cried. “It’ll make no sense to you anyway!”

  Jean-François pulled Jewel upright, kee
ping the gun in place. “I’ll make that decision, if you don’t mind. I’m giving you exactly ten seconds to hand over the letter or tell me where the gold is, or I pull the trigger.” He settled wild eyes on Wyatt. “And I’ll slaughter every single person on that ranch to find it if I have to. Starting with your uncle.” He narrowed his eyes into a scowl. “I know who you are, Kelly. I’ll take that place apart board by board.”

  “The letter? Are you crazy? We already pulled the gold from the privy.” Wyatt kept his hands up. “I swear. And then we packed it on her horse.”

  The gun wavered in Jean-François’s hand, and a look of pure shock contorted his face. “You … you what?”

  “We found the gold.” Wyatt breathed too fast, light-headed, and tried to feel his feet on the floor. “He’d stashed it in the outhouse. It’s all there; you can take it right off her pony. There were probably two hundred pounds of it.”

  Jean-François stood silent, frozen in place, eyes round as hotcakes. And then, before Wyatt could move, he began to shudder. A long, loud belly laugh, shaking his shoulders and ringing off the sides of the dilapidated old barn. Jean-François threw his head back and guffawed until he sniffled, stomping his boot as if in glee.

  “What’s … so funny?” Wyatt managed nervously, lowering his hands slightly.

  “In the outhouse, you say?” Jean-François wheezed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “You’re telling me Pierre left all his bounty in his doggone john?”

  “That’s right.” Wyatt shrugged. “Go figure.”

  Jean-François laughed again, raking his sleeve across his mouth, and then leveled cool eyes at Wyatt. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “I’m serious!” Wyatt’s hands trembled, and sweat burned his forehead. “Ask Miss Moreau! She’ll tell you. We hauled it all out and put in on her pony.”

  Jean-François swore in French. “You’re a liar, Wyatt Kelly.” He took a step forward, dragging Jewel with him. “Crazy Pierre didn’t hide nothin’ in no toilet, and there isn’t a pony around here for miles. We’ve combed the place twice. We were wondering how you folks walked out here on foot in the middle of the snow.”

  “We didn’t walk! We rode here. We tied our horses right over there.” Wyatt pointed out the ruined window. “Right by the … wait a second.” He wiped a smudge on his glasses and craned his neck. “By George. They’re not there.”

  “No, they’re not.” Jean-François breathed through his teeth, leveling his pistol at Wyatt. “Are you tryin’ to tell me two hundred pounds of gold sprouted legs and walked off?”

  “I’m not lying!” Wyatt moved one hand just enough to push his glasses up on his sweaty nose. “We put them on her horse—a little Indian pony. She couldn’t have gone that far.”

  Jean-François’s eye twitched. “I’ve had enough. This thieving gal’s gonna die for your stupidity—and who cares? These redskins have been a blight on our land since the day they started cutting into our fur trade. They’re not fit to live.”

  And with that, he cocked the hammer of his revolver.

  “The letter or the gold, in ten seconds. Un,” Jean-François counted in a calm voice, his face deadly stone. “Deux.”

  Think fast, Wyatt!

  “If it’s money you want, don’t shoot!” Wyatt cried. “There’s a reason I’m trying to protect the girl. She’s worth a fortune.”

  Jean-François’s head shot up. “What?”

  “There’s a bounty on her head back in Idaho. A big one.” Wyatt felt the blood drain from his face. He was a traitor, a rat. He kept his gaze fixed on Jean-François, not daring to meet eyes with Jewel. “She’s wanted for murder—the murder you committed—and if you turn her in, they’ll reward you handsomely.”

  Wyatt heard Jewel’s sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t seem to hear.

  Jean-François turned Jewel to him, tipping her face up in the fading light. He turned her head from side to side, and something seemed to register in his expression, like a candle flickering to life.

  “Why, you’re right,” he whispered. “Miss Collette Moreau from Idaho. The black widow.” He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Are they really that anxious to hang her back home?”

  “You wouldn’t believe how much.” Wyatt lowered his voice. “I heard it back when I was in Cody. Some wealthy folks lookin’ for her who’ve got money to burn, I reckon. And they’ll pay up nicely if you turn her in alive.” Wyatt moved around to Jean-François’s side, keeping his hands up. “I know everything about her. I can prove she did it. Why do you think I partnered up with her from the beginning? Let me go, and I’ll go in with you fifty-fifty. Or since you’re the one holding the gun, sixty-forty. Shoot, seventy-thirty.”

  “How about I just let you live?”

  Wyatt slowly put his hands down. “Not exactly the deal I’d expected, but …” He shrugged, avoiding Jewel’s dagger eyes. “I suppose that’ll work. You give me your word? You won’t shoot me?”

  “Nah. Not now, anyway.” Jean-François tucked his gun inside his belt and turned Jewel around, eyes gleaming. “You’re right, Wyatt. They say she murdered her husband in cold blood.” He grinned. “You sure you can prove it?”

  “I’ve been reading legal books since I was six. I’ll have that jury on our side in ten seconds or the deal’s off.”

  Jean-François grinned like a hungry fox. “This is almost as good as finding the doggone gold.”

  “So you’re gonna let me go, right, boss?”

  Jean-François winked. “Now you’re talkin’. Fact is, folks in Cody say you were askin’ about her in the courthouse, and I saw you at the sheriff’s office myself.” He chuckled. “Boss, huh? Not bad, boy. Not bad.”

  Jewel’s eyes narrowed, dark and accusatory.

  Jean-François adjusted the gun in his belt. “Good thing you decided to tell the truth, Wyatt, because I don’t take kindly to folks tellin’ me stories. You can tell a lot about a man by what kinda yarns he spins, you know that?”

  “Character.” Wyatt shrugged. “Just like she was saying. Anyhow, they’ll pay the bounty in gold bars. Not bad if you ask me.”

  Jean-François’s smile deepened. “I like the sound of that.” He pulled Jewel’s arms roughly behind her back and nodded at Wyatt. “Gimme that loop of baling twine over there.”

  “Baling twine? She’ll bust out of that in a minute.” Wyatt picked up a strand of frayed twine and rubbed it between his fingers. “You need rope. Like this over here.” He tore a long section of braided rope from the hayloft pulley. “Strong stuff. What kind of a bounty hunter are you anyway?”

  And Wyatt slapped a thick coil in Jean-François’s hand.

  Footsteps tramped across the ground toward the barn, and Wyatt staggered back, willing himself to keep calm. He’d traded Jewel; perhaps Jean-François really would call it a deal and let him go.

  “You find any horses or gold, fellas?” Jean-François stuck his head toward the door as Kirby Crowder pushed it open. “Wyatt here says they found a mess of it in the privy.” He chuckled. “What do you make of that?”

  “The privy?” Kirby grunted. “I’ll be a fool if ol’ Pierre hid the stash in his john.” He brushed snow off his coonskin cap. “And not a sign of a horse anywhere. No hoof tracks. Nothin’.”

  “Of course not!” Wyatt threw up his hands. “It’s snowing, for pity’s sake! The fresh snow will cover up the tracks in seconds.”

  Jean-François waved him away. “Take care of this scum. They haven’t handed over the gold or the letter, and my patience is running out.”

  Wyatt’s jaw moved, but words stuck in his throat. “But … you said I could live!” he whined, turning to Jean-François. “I gave you the girl, didn’t I?”

  “But you lied about the gold. There’s no horse on this property, and nobody’s cut open nothin’ inside the outhouse. The men said so. It’s a lie.” He bent close to Wyatt. “Character, remember? I don’t take kindly to lies. But at least I have you to thank for the bou
nty.”

  And he aimed his pistol at Wyatt and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 11

  The inside of the barn roared in a blast of sound and brilliance. Something whammed Wyatt in the side, and he crumpled to the ground in a puff of smoke—hay falling everywhere. Pain leaking from his side.

  Three more shots blasted the barn, and a piece of lumber fell from the ceiling, crashing down on Wyatt’s leg. He lay there unmoving. Not daring to open his eyes.

  “That’s enough, Frenchy. Save your ammo, and grab the girl’s rifle while you’re at it. We’re liable to run into the sheriff on the way outta here, or the army, and we need to be able to hold ‘em off.” Kirby’s boots scuffed on the plank floor. “C’mon, redskin. They’re waitin’ on you in Idaho.”

  The last thing Wyatt heard was the sound of breaking glass, and he inhaled the sharp scent of smoke and kerosene. And then the solid latching of the door from the outside.

  As the door closed behind Kirby’s men, Wyatt opened his eyes enough to see it: a broken lantern in flames, licking at the rotten boards and dry straw.

  Heat blazed against the side of Wyatt’s face before he could raise himself off the floor. The boards and scattered hay lay sticky with bright red blood, but Wyatt felt his belly and his chest with dawning surprise. He could breathe. He blinked and felt around for his glasses. Why, he could even see—sort of—through the thick haze of smoke that quickly filled the barn.

  He sat up in bewilderment, wondering how he, clumsy Wyatt Kelly, who couldn’t shoot a prairie dog, had managed to stay alive at the hands of Jean-François Boulé. The bullet must have grazed him, opening up a wound without penetrating any organs.

  Doc might need to sew him up with a few stitches, but by gravy, he was alive.

  Flames roared up the side of the barn, and chunks of loose roofing tumbled, shattering on the barn floor. Wyatt pushed the boards off his legs and jumped to his feet, holding his bloody side.

  He stumbled over old rakes and wagon parts and rushed to the door as another burning beam crashed down, splintering to bits where he’d been standing. Flames swelled up in a sudden rush, like an angry bull, igniting the dry walls and hay mounds.