The Half-Breed's Woman

by Cheryl Pierson

  “Oh, come now, my dear. Don’t look so surprised. You didn’t really think I’d let you get away, did you?” Treadwell chuckled, and took a step forward. “No, no, Callista. You’re worth too much for me to take a chance on losing you.”

  “You!” Cara exclaimed. “Callie, how do you know this man?” Her eyes narrowed as she watched Treadwell. Callie could see no fear in the older woman’s face; only anger, and a steely resolve.

  “Yes, do tell, Callista. The Reverend and Mrs. Manley would love to know the whole sordid truth about you.” Treadwell walked over closer to the table, his pistol never wavering.

  At Callie’s surprised gasp, he murmured, “One never knows the company one will be forced to keep on a stagecoach. We rode over from Amarillo together this morning, my dear.” He shook his head. “Fate is quite strange at times, is it not, Reverend?”

  Manley’s midnight blue gaze was steady. A flicker of disappointment passed over Treadwell’s face.

  “Stranger than one could ever guess,” Manley responded cryptically, not looking away.

  “Callista, you should have been more considerate. I’ve had to track you all over this Territory myself since you’ve whored yourself out to the marshal.”

  “We’re married, Dunstan,” she told him, pleased to see the angry surprise on his face.

  “You little bitch!” His fair skin mottled with anger, his lips a thin line beneath his moustache. “I told you I had plans for you!”

  “Yes. I remember. I didn’t care for your plans.”

  He chuckled softly after a moment. “You’ll care for my new plans even less.” He paused for effect, then continued. “You see, Callista, it turns out you would have inherited nearly a million dollars on your eighteenth birthday. Notice, I said, ‘would have.’ Actually, you won’t be around to inherit it. You’ll be dead. I can think of plenty of ways to spend that kind of money.”

  Callie’s breath left her in a rush. So, Jaxson had been right all along.

  “You see, I just found out about it myself. Otherwise, I’d have killed you long before now.”

  “Like you killed my mother?”

  Treadwell grimaced. “Unfortunate, that. But she was beginning to complain about my spending.” He laughed again, and Callie could see he thought he knew a secret, something she didn’t know.

  “And?” she asked quietly. “What else?”

  “Oh, Callista, if you only knew the trouble I’ve had to go to in order to get this money.”

  Something flashed in her mind, then a memory of this man and her father, talking very quietly. Her father?

  Sometimes, she felt guilty when she thought of her father. She tried hard to remember what he looked like, but she couldn’t. The memory faded with each passing year, until remembrance blurred with dreams and became something not quite real, though lovely all the same.

  She looked down to hide her dismay. She had not remembered that this despicable man knew her father. Why would he have known him?

  “Suppose you enlighten me, Dunstan. Other than killing my mother, what have you had to do?”

  Treadwell laughed, his eyes sharp and conniving. “I don’t think I want to tell you all of the story. Not just yet, anyway.”

  “Mr. Treadwell,” the reverend said, leaning forward. “I think it’d be in your best interests to just get right back on that stage tomorrow morning…and leave town.”

  Treadwell jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “Or what, Reverend?” Treadwell’s eyes were cold. “What do you think you’ll do? Kill me?”

  “If I have to.”

  Treadwell’s smile flew. “Well, you sound quite confident,” he sneered. “But you seem to forget—I’m holding the gun. You’re not in much of a position to do harm to anyone, Reverend.” He motioned with the pistol. “Now, all of you, get up.”

  Callie stood slowly, her teeth closing over her full lower lip. A caustic grin passed over Treadwell’s face. “Nervous? Good.” He licked his lips, watching her. “I still want you. Of course, you’re no virgin any longer, but I will possess you at least once—before I kill you.”

  Talmadge Manley’s stare was filled with disgust, almost as if he’d read Treadwell’s mind. “You are pure evil.”

  Treadwell tilted his head back, looking down his nose at the other man. “Well, preacher, it looks like ‘good’ doesn’t always prevail, does it?”

  Manley shook his head.

  “Dunstan, please. Don’t—Don’t harm the Reverend and Mrs. Manley. They’ve done nothing to you!” Callie said.

  “Ah, but they have, Callista. They exist. They know who I am. They could make trouble for me.”

  Callie’s thoughts raced. Carlos was here, too. Existing. Knowing. Maybe Treadwell wouldn’t remember him.

  But in the next moment, Treadwell murmured in a quiet tone, “Callista, bring the boy out here. He’ll have to go, too.”

  “Go where?” She hoped to stall for time. “He’s hurt. He isn’t well enough to go anywhere!”

  “Well, now, that’s too damn bad. If he can’t go with us, perhaps I’ll just shoot him here—”

  “Dunstan, no! Please, I—I’ll do anything you ask, just please, don’t hurt him. He doesn’t know you, anyway.”

  Treadwell shook his head and made a little tsking sound. “What kind of fool do you take me for, my dear? Now, go and get the boy, or I will. And believe me, if I am forced to do it, I will shoot him in his bed. After all, the world would still turn if there was one less Mexican brat in it, now wouldn’t it?” He gave a thin smile, then motioned with his pistol. “Callista? I’m waiting.”

  Callie moved forward, away from the table, and walked to Carlos’s bedroom, just a few steps down the hallway. She knocked hesitantly, but when there was no response, she knocked again a little harder and called his name.

  Finally, she turned the knob and pushed the door open slightly. “Carlos?”

  She glanced around the bedroom quickly, but could see nothing in the darkness. She hurried inside and turned the wick up on the bedside lamp, but the room was empty. The curtains fluttered in the chilly breeze from the open window.

  Carlos was gone.

  ****

  This day had been wasted, Jaxson thought as the three of them rode through the darkness. He couldn’t wait to get home and get off this horse. They’d spent close to eleven hours in the saddle today, and Jax was weary. He wanted nothing more than to get back to his brother’s place and see Callie and—and his son.

  He still had trouble believing that Carlos was his, but now, only because he felt incredibly fortunate that it was so. His only regret was not knowing sooner, for those years he could never recover.

  He suspected Callie had probably been right when she’d commented that Jax had known in his heart for a long time that Carlos was his son. Somehow, he’d always felt a connection to him, even though he’d pushed those feelings aside time and again. Now, he realized Carlos must have felt it too. Guilt rose up in his chest. He tamped it down. There was nothing he could’ve done.

  Now, it would be different, he resolved. Now, he would acknowledge Carlos and finish raising him. As best he could. With Callie’s help. The need to do the right thing—for each of them—was all-important.

  Carlos needed him, but Jax recognized that the boy had been on his own so long that he’d have to be careful asserting his authority over him at this point. Otherwise, Carlos might become resentful and angry.

  Callie needed him as well, as would his unborn child. Jax felt a surge of pride when he thought of the child yet to come. At least, this one would know him as his father for his entire life. It wouldn’t be as difficult as it was going to be with Carlos, showing up ten years down the road. He still didn’t know a hill of beans about being a father, but no matter what, he was sure he’d be a better one than his own had been. He smiled as he thought of Callie’s teasing words. He had until August. That should be plenty of time.

  Callie. She’d been the best surprise of his life. He carrie
d a thousand images of her in his mind, and he never tired of replaying them again and again. She had been the unexpected treasure that had turned his life around. He couldn’t help but wonder what she thought now. Now that she was stuck with another woman’s son to raise.

  Jax shook his head. No. Callie wouldn’t see it that way. Probably wouldn’t even think about Amalia. She would only see Carlos as Jaxson’s son…a boy who needed a mother.

  Just over the next rise, the lights of Conway came into view. Jax breathed a sigh of relief as they swung their horses a little to the northwest.

  ****

  “He’s gone,” Callie whispered, closing her eyes in relief.

  “What?” Treadwell asked angrily, taking two steps back so that he could look into the boy’s bedroom.

  Callie turned, holding the lamp up so that he could see the darkened interior of the room. “He’s gone, Dunstan.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “He’s escaped.”

  Treadwell let go a string of foul curses, his lips drawn tight, his face livid. “Come on, then!” he shouted. “We have no time to lose!” He shepherded them all toward the front door and out into the night. “Get moving!” He gave Callie a rough shove in the direction of the church.

  Manley’s mouth curved into a knowing smile in the darkness.

  As they neared the white building, their four black shadows stood out against it. The wind had picked up and was playing havoc with the street lamps that had been lit earlier. The lamps nearest the church flared brightly, then dimmed again with the wind.

  Callie made straight for the church door, ignoring Treadwell’s shouts. She knew he’d meant for them to bypass the church; but now, she used the wind as an excuse to ignore his shouted commands.

  Cara Manley followed Callie through the doorway, out of the gathering storm, where they stood together.

  Treadwell grasped Manley’s arm and whirled him around. “I meant for them to keep going!”

  Manley’s midnight eyes blazed with an unholy light. For a brief moment, he looked as fearsome as an avenging angel. Treadwell took a step back. The wind whipped their clothing, snapping and tearing at it, but Talmadge Manley seemed perfectly at home in these elements.

  “What do you suggest I do about it? This is your madness, Treadwell.” His voice was low, seeming even more threatening in the face of the growing storm. “And you will reap the consequences of it.”

  Treadwell stood, uncertain for a moment as to what to do. Manley turned his back on him and walked to the door.

  “Preacher!”

  Manley stopped and turned slightly, then slowly pivoted to face Treadwell fully. His frock coat was caught by the wind, and as he stood stiffly facing the other man, the lamps flickered eerily once more.

  Fear was plainly written on Treadwell’s features. “What’s going to—to happen?”

  Manley’s eyes were cold. “What was meant to happen since the beginning, Treadwell. You know the end to the story. It’s ageless. Good will triumph. Evil…will cease to be.” He turned toward the door and put his hand on the knob.

  “And I suppose you are the paladin of—of ‘good’? Of all that is right with the world?” Treadwell came closer to stand at the bottom of the steps. He was shouting to make himself heard above the wind.

  Manley looked at him again, a mocking half-smile on his weathered features. “Not just me, Treadwell. There are—others.” He opened the door. “But, if I were you, I would not think on who might deliver justice and right in this battle. I would think about who it is you represent. A bargain made with the devil is never a good one.”

  ****

  “Callie? Carlos?” Jax walked slowly down the hallway. Somehow, he knew they weren’t there, even though the lamps were all burning brightly. The house was too empty, seemed to echo when he said their names.

  Brendan and Jeremy had taken the horses to the barn to put them away for the night.

  “Go on,” Jeremy had said, giving Jax a light shove. “I’ll take care of your horse. Go in and let them know we’re back.”

  Jax had headed for the house, rubbing the sore muscles in his arms and shoulders as he walked. His spirits were high as he entered the front door. Now, his heart sank in his chest with the discovery that Carlos and Callie were missing.

  He checked quickly for a note, and finding none, saw that Callie’s bag was in the same place it had been last night, the supper dishes still on the table.

  Four places set. Company. Had to be someone she knew, he reasoned, seeing as how most of the food had been eaten. As if they’d lingered over dinner and eaten well.

  But where were they now?

  “Señor Jax!”

  Jax turned and caught Carlos up as the boy ran to him from the front door.

  “Hey, big guy. Where’s Callie?”

  “Señor Jax, the bad man came. He took her and her friends away—to the church, I think.”

  Jax’s blood ran cold. “What bad man? How long ago?”

  “She called him—” Carlos broke off, cocking his head to one side thoughtfully, “—Dunstan. Sí, Dunstan.”

  “Dammit!” Jax’s fingers tightened around the boy’s arms and he grimaced. Jax immediately relaxed his grip. “Lo siento, m’ijo,” he murmured. “How long have they been gone?”

  Carlos nodded at his apology. “I think not more than ten minutes. I—I went for the sheriff, Señor Jax, but he was too drunk to come.”

  Jax bit back an oath as he straightened and headed for the door. “You stay here until I come for you. Understand?”

  “Sí. Comprendo.”

  Jax strode quickly from the house, his thoughts racing. There was no time to tell his brothers where he was going. If Treadwell was holed up in the church with Callie and two other hostages, Bren and Jeremy would know it soon enough.

  ****

  “Well, here we are, gathered in the church,” Treadwell observed sarcastically. “Preacher and all.” The rain had begun as soon as he’d shut the church door behind him, and was falling in huge spattering drops, the wind still howling around the corners of the small structure. “Preach us something while we wait,” Treadwell continued mockingly.

  From where he sat between Callie and his wife, Talmadge Manley quirked a dark brow. “If I did,” he said in a deliberate tone, “you wouldn’t like it, Mr. Treadwell.”

  “And your subject, Reverend?” Treadwell pressed.

  “The wages of sin,” Manley intoned resonantly, “is death.”

  “I might have known. Why don’t you try something a little more…creative?”

  Manley didn’t answer for a minute. Finally, he said, “God doesn’t need me to be creative with His Word. Creativity was what got you in trouble, Mr. Treadwell, if I’m not mistaken. Creativity…due to your greed.”

  Callie shivered, and Manley automatically put an arm around her in comfort. She tried to control her shaking, but her nerves were frayed after what she’d been through the past few days.

  The preacher squeezed his wife’s hand. Cara looked up into his face, reading his silent request. She stood and moved to Callie’s other side. Sitting once again, she looped her arm through Callie’s, offering her support and strength, glaring at the man who held them at gunpoint.

  “Reverend, should I ask for forgiveness before I kill you? I wonder, are you strong enough in your faith to forgive me, as Jesus forgave His murderers?”

  Manley’s eyes turned a cobalt color, glittering dangerously in the dim lamplight of the sanctuary. “‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ But make no mistake, Mr. Treadwell. I’m sorry to say, I’m not the Man my Savior was.”

  Treadwell appeared startled at the look the clergyman bent on him, as well as his words. Finally, he said, “No. I suspect neither of us is that kind of…Man.”

  A bolt of lightning hit the ground just outside the church steps, accompanied by a deafening clap of thunder, charging the air around them. Callie could feel her skin prickle.

  “No,” Manley agreed complacently, f
urther exacerbating Treadwell’s obvious anxiety. “And I promise you, I will take my own vengeance, before I give you to the Lord for His.”

  Just then, the church door swung open, slowly rocking on its hinges in the wind.

  Treadwell whirled around and fired the pistol twice before seeing there was no one there. Nervously, he turned back to face Manley once more.

  The preacher eyed him steadily.

  “Who was there?” Treadwell demanded. “Someone was there, weren’t they? Did you see them?”

  Manley smiled faintly. “They’re all around you, Treadwell. The angels.”

  Treadwell’s eye ticked nervously. “What angels?”

  “The ones who guard us. You have heard of—guardian angels, haven’t you?” The preacher’s voice was low and sure. And he was smiling.

  Treadwell turned toward the squeaking door again, his pistol leveled. “Crazy. All this talk of angels.” He took a step, reaching to close the door, but then he stopped.

  Suddenly, an apparition stood before him, illuminated by a sudden burst of lightning, as if he’d appeared from nowhere. The harsh, vengeful expression seemed to condemn him, black eyes lancing through him, like The Angel of Death. A sudden gust of wind whipped the door back and forth as a clap of thunder sounded. Treadwell stepped back and gasped.

  Too late, he realized this was no angel, just a man who handled a gun much better than he. The marshal he’d hired a scant handful of weeks ago to track down his stepdaughter. He frantically pulled the trigger of the Schofield, but his fingers wouldn’t work. Two shots of lead ripped into his chest, just as the Sioux battle-knife sunk to the hilt between his shoulder blades.

  Treadwell stiffened and cried out in shocked surprise and pain, his fingers uncurling from the .45 as it clattered noisily onto the wood plank floor. His legs gave way beneath him, and he fell to his knees, holding onto a nearby pew to keep himself upright as the blood drained from his chest and back, puddling under him.

  He narrowed his eyes. “McCall?” he muttered.

  “That’s right.”

  “You bastard. I hired you…to return her…to me.”

  Jax’s lips twisted. “Want your money back?”