Aiming for Love

by Mary Connealy

  Her mare followed on Dave’s heels, and once around the trees, she found Dave on foot. Her horse quit its mad dash and pulled up beside Dave’s mount. Jo was clinging tightly to the saddle horn, or she’d’ve gone over the horse’s head.

  Dave was on foot running toward one of his hired hands. Jimmy Joe, she thought.

  “Up here, I’ve got a man cornered,” Alberto shouted.

  Dave stopped to crouch beside Jimmy Joe.

  Jo swung off the horse and rushed for Jimmy Joe. She wasn’t the healer Ilsa was, but she could do plenty to help. She slid down to her knees beside Dave. “Go help Alberto.”

  “Jimmy’s out cold,” Dave said. “Bleeding from the head. Can’t tell if it’s a gunshot nor how bad it is.”

  Jo whipped her bow off her shoulder, then notched an arrow and aimed toward the boulder Alberto had pointed at.

  Dave ran his gaze over her, primed to fight, and seemed startled. Then he gave her a furious look that set her back a little. More of Dave’s men came thundering in.

  Dave leapt to his feet and charged up the steep slope for Alberto with such flat-out rage that Jo realized Dave wasn’t furious at her, it was whoever had shot Jimmy Joe.

  Dave’s men rushed on past her up the hill.

  The men were between her and the boulder she’d aimed at. She didn’t dare let an arrow fly, though she considered it. She could aim just right, and the arrow would curve over the boulder and hit someone behind it.

  She might decide later to get into the fight. For now, Jo hung her bow in place and returned the arrow to its quiver, then turned her attention to Jimmy Joe and saw a rock right beside his head. She wiped at the blood and decided that might be what caused the wound, not a bullet.

  “How bad is it, Miss Jo? Will I live?” Jimmy Joe sounded dazed, very young, and very scared. Well, he thought he was dying, that’d shake most anybody.

  “No gunshot wounds. It looks like you bashed your head, but you’re awake and talking, so that’s a good sign.”

  With feeble tugs, Jimmy Joe took off his neckerchief. “Use this as a bandage.”

  “Thank you.” She took the bandanna, then pulled her knife out of her boot.

  Jimmy Joe’s eyes got wide, then they rolled back in his head, and he fell asleep. Strangest thing Jo had ever seen.

  One of Dave’s men came back. “No more room up there, and it seems to be just one man. What can I do to help, Miss Jo?”

  “I need to tie a bandage here, and when he wakes from this nap he’s taking, we’ll let him hop onto his horse and ride back down to where Dave’s folks are. Ilsa ties a better bandage then I do, and she’ll be there.”

  “But will he live?”

  Jo looked up into the eyes of another very young man. This one with red hair and so many freckles his face was nearly the color of a bittersweet berry.

  “He’s your friend?”

  “Yep, Jimmy Joe and I rode west together after the war.”

  Jo shook her head. “War? Was that necessary?”

  The man stared at her, one red brow arched. “Yep, had to fight it out. Keep the union together.”

  “Union? Like a union suit? My grandpa wore such as that I believe. You fought a war to keep long underwear together?”

  There was an extended silence, then the man said, “Word is you’ve been up here for a mighty long stretch, Miss Jo.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You missed some things. But for now, how is J.J.?”

  “Your friend will be fine.” She split the bandanna in two. One half she folded into a pad to press against the wound, the other half she tied around his head to hold the pad in place.

  The gunfire had ended, and a shout . . . no . . . more like a scream came from overhead. Then something else that made no sense in a gun battle. Laughter.

  “Throw out your gun. I give you fair warning, you’re on Warden land, and we won’t give it up without a fight. I’ve got five men against one. You can’t beat us.”

  There was a long silence. Dave looked to his cowpokes. They were a steady, salty crew, mostly Civil War veterans.

  “Warden land?” From behind a pile of boulders the attacker said in a strained voice, “Pa, is that you?”

  That voice. Dave shook his head hard, trying to make himself believe it. “Mitch? No, it’s Dave.”

  “I’m coming out.” Slowly, an arm first. Then, when no one shot his arm off, a shoulder, then finally Mitch Warden.

  Dave’s eyes burned, and for a terrifying moment he thought he might cry. Instead, he screamed the way he’d heard Apaches do it.

  He dropped his rifle and launched himself from behind cover and ran at his big brother. As he ran, he shouted, “I am so glad I didn’t shoot you. Ma would never let me hear the end of it.”

  He was teasing, but to think he might’ve shot his brother. It was enough to make the steadiest men shake in their boots. Enough to make his eyes burn again.

  Mitch emerged fully from the rock and came running. “Dave? No, you were a sprout when I left. I can’t believe it’s you.”

  They collided, and Dave hugged Mitch with all the longing that had eaten at him in the years since he’d left.

  Then he picked his big brother up—not so much bigger these days—and thumped his back, trying to put all his welcome into that pounded fist.

  Finally, he got control of himself and stepped back. Mitch rubbed a wrist over his forehead like he was wiping away sweat. Not much chance of sweating up here in a snowstorm. Nope, Mitch was fighting for control same as Dave.

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  Dave yelled over his shoulder, “My brother’s come for a visit. And he . . .” Dave was suddenly struck dumb. He looked past Mitch’s shoulder. “How did you get up here?”

  “Climbed.”

  “You climbed and ended up coming from that direction?” Dave thought of all the climbing and exploring they’d done as kids. No trail had ever led them here.

  Mitch suddenly went rigid beside Dave. “Wait, forget the climbing. I heard Pa was shot. Where is he, we need to—”

  “He’s going to make it.” Dave cut him off before he could get more worked up. Then he quickly caught Mitch up on all that had happened.

  “So you ran?”

  That stung. Dave was quickly remembering how his big brother could push.

  “Not me. I bought a ranch up in these highlands and moved up here. Then here came Pa yesterday with all his cows, horses, and hands, and Ma, too. I reckon that means it’s Pa who ran. Go brace him about being a coward, that’ll be a good way to say howdy after you’ve been away for ten years. That is your point, isn’t it?”

  Mitch shook his head and waved one hand. He backed up and dropped to the ground, leaning back on a man-high boulder. “No, no, sorry. I’m just on edge. Running don’t suit me, but I know it doesn’t suit Pa, either. He had his reasons, and if I’d been there, I’d’ve made the same choices he did.”

  Dave decided not to punch his brother minutes after seeing him for the first time in over ten years.

  “I haven’t slept for a day and a half,” Mitch went on. “I haven’t eaten much, and I just climbed a mountain in a blizzard.” Mitch looked around. “Snowing here, but no blizzard. I could tell I climbed above the storm. I’m sorry I said anything, Dave. You can have one punch. I won’t say a word about it. If you knock me cold, just toss me over a horse and haul me down to see the folks.”

  Had he made a fist? Dave hadn’t noticed, but maybe Mitch had.

  “Did you shoot Jimmy Joe?”

  Mitch’s eyes had fallen shut. Now he opened them and looked down the slope to where Jo knelt by J.J. “I don’t think so. I fired a couple of times in the air hoping to back off whoever was shooting at me. I didn’t know who was coming. Is he all right?”

  Dave turned and saw J.J. sit up, supported by Jo. She looked up the hill.

  “How is he?” Dave called down.

  “He hit his head, no bullet wounds,” Jo hollered ba
ck.

  Looking back at his collapsed brother, Dave asked, “Have you got the strength to get up and ride? I’d like to head for Ma and Pa.”

  Nodding silently, Mitch gathered his strength. Dave went to him and extended a hand. Mitch, the big brother, looked up, smiled, and caught Dave’s forearm just as Dave caught his.

  They were face-to-face—of course they had been before, too, but they’d been busy hugging. Now eyeball-to-eyeball, Dave looked down a ways at his brother.

  “Whoa, I didn’t notice how tall you’d gotten.” Mitch wasn’t a real tall man, same as Pa, an inch or two under six feet. Or three.

  “I was still a kid when you left. I had some growing left to do, I reckon.” Dave topped six feet by an inch or two. Or three.

  “And you still had the voice of a kid. That’s why I guessed it was Pa, though you don’t sound like him. I wanted it to be him so bad, though. When you said Warden land—” Mitch’s voice broke and he quit talking.

  Dave slapped him on the back. “I’m gonna have to stop calling you big brother.”

  They smiled at each other. They’d always been so different.

  Dave was dark and blue-eyed like Ma, easygoing for the most part. Quick with a smile and ready to throw his back into any chore.

  Mitch was more like Pa, blond with brown eyes, built plenty sturdy, strong and hardworking, not afraid of nuthin’, and he could be cold-blooded when he needed to be. And so smart that Dave had always admired him and wondered at him at the same time.

  Best friends even with the years between them. Together again. They started down the hill.

  “It’s good to have you home, Mitch.”

  “Good to be here. I had some trouble back east, and I decided to get out. Give up city life. I’ve been missing you and our folks and the ranch for years now. When someone tried to kill me, I headed home.”

  “Sounds like Pa heading for Hope Mountain when murderers roamed in packs.”

  “It’s just like that. Live to fight another day.” Mitch and Dave kept on down the slope. “So who’s the woman? She yours?”

  Dave slapped him on the back hard enough he stumbled forward a few feet.

  Mitch grinned. “I guess that means yes.”

  “I’ve wished you were here a hundred times, Mitch. Maybe a thousand. And never more than right now. I need another strong man at my side, to fight with me and Pa. We’ve hired good, loyal men, who’ve been with us for years, and they’re a salty bunch. But we’ve got trouble, and it’s going to be all we can handle. Having you here puts heart into me. Welcome home.”

  15

  Jo got to ride on the back of Dave’s horse.

  They rigged a thing they called a travois for Jimmy Joe, which was unlike anything Jo had ever seen before. She planned to make one of her own to haul deer and elk meat home. It’d have to be smaller, though, since she didn’t have a horse and would have to drag it herself.

  “You say you lived in a city?” She was having trouble figuring out just what a city was. Of course, she knew of cities and towns. Grandpa had gone to town to trade his furs. And there were stories in the Bible about cities. Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Sodom . . . Gomorrah.

  “Yep, New York City, biggest town the country has, way back east.”

  “Back east of what?” She knew north, south, east, and west. The sun rose in the east and set in the west.

  Mitch gave her a confused look.

  Dave said, “Ma and Pa will kill the fatted calf for you, big brother.”

  Jo sat up straighter and looked around Dave to see Mitch. “So you’re the prodigal son?” Nodding, she added, “Ursula might say I’m the prodigal sister.”

  Mitch scratched his head as if her words made him itch. “The prodigal son took half his pa’s money and got into all sorts of trouble, then he ran for home when his foolishness got to be too much for him. Pa gave me a horse, a rifle, some supplies, and a little cash money when I went off to war. After the war, I made good money and brought it back with me. I don’t consider myself a man who wasted money nor lived a life full of sin.”

  “Except for the trouble that drove you here,” Dave said.

  “Yes, except for that.”

  Mitch had a hard way of talking, faster than Dave.

  The three of them led the way with most of the cowhands following. They stopped at Grandpa’s cabin and left an addled Jimmy Joe, Alberto, and five other cowhands behind. The rest rode with them back to the camp where they’d built the tiny cabin to shelter Pa.

  They got back so fast they didn’t have time for talking. Ilsa stepped out of the cabin just as they came into the clearing. Jo saw her take one look at the newcomer and vanish into the woods. She did it so quick and quiet that Jo didn’t think anyone had noticed she was even there.

  Let Ilsa run from a stranger.

  Let Ursula scare herself to death with Grandma’s dire warnings.

  Jo liked them.

  Curious as always, she intended to listen and learn. She wanted to hear more about a city. Maybe Grandpa had gone down to the New York City Mitch was talking of, but Jo wasn’t sure, and she wanted to hear everything.

  “Ma? Pa?” Mitch swung down from his horse. “I’m home!”

  Ma shoved aside the blanket covering the door, stepped out, and looked at him in stunned disbelief. Then her disbelief was replaced by joy. “Mitch!”

  She rushed for him.

  “Mitch?” Pa yelled from inside the cabin.

  Ma hit hard enough to knock him over, but Mitch fell against Dave, who caught him and stopped them from going down. Then Mitch hung on tight.

  “Ma, I haven’t had a decent hug from a beautiful woman since I left home.” His eyes burned again. He was turning into a weakling. But it felt so nice to be held and loved.

  Pa yelled something else, and Mitch remembered Pa had been shot. Mitch was wild to see what kind of shape he was in.

  He didn’t want to let go of his ma, so he scooped her up off her feet and carried her right along to the shanty. He stepped inside and almost stomped on Pa’s feet. But he’d seen the size of the place and figured there wouldn’t be much room.

  Mitch knelt on Pa’s right side. Since Ma was still clinging, Mitch smiled at his very-much-alive father, then pulled his left hand out from under Ma’s knees, reaching it out. He couldn’t shake properly, nor give Pa a hug, which Mitch would’ve liked to do, but with his hands full of his weeping mother, this was the best he could do for now.

  Pa clasped his hand. Their gazes met, and the biggest smile Mitch had ever seen on a gunshot man bloomed on Pa’s face. Mitch figured he had one to match. Mitch was nearly stunned by how good it was to see everyone. Why had he stayed away so long?

  “You look good, Pa. Dave said you’re healing well.”

  “My son. Mitch. My son. My son.” Pa’s voice broke. He swallowed hard and went on. “We’ve missed you so much.”

  Pa was as much as saying that Mitch’s coming home was way more important than his being shot. Mitch had to swallow hard himself.

  “I missed you, too. For the last few years I’ve been figuring to quit the East, but I’ve done well there, and it was hard to find the right time to go.” Someone shooting at him helped him decide now was good, but there’d be time for that story later.

  Ma collected herself enough to sit on the ground beside Mitch. It took plenty of guts, but Mitch reached down and gave his father a gentle hug. He and Pa had never hugged much. Mitch remembered one really good hug. The day he’d caught Mitch running off to war at fifteen.

  Pa had stopped him, and Mitch had been furious. He’d said, “I’ll try again. I’ll go. I want in this fight, and even if you stop me now, you can’t really stop me.”

  Pa stopped him for most of a year. Then just after his sixteenth birthday, Pa gave Mitch a horse, a gun, a saddlebag full of bullets, and some twenty-dollar gold pieces so he could afford to eat well on his way to finding the war. Then he’d sent his son off with a hug and a prayer.

  Now they
hugged again. It was like bookends to all the missing years. This hug was far more joy than pain. After a minute, Pa slapped his back hard enough to knock a man over, but it was about the best feeling Mitch ever had.

  “I’ve got fifty questions, son. I’m still mighty weak, so I’d better not start in asking. Instead, I’ll just let you tell me all about what’s going on. And then we’ll cook up a plan to get my ranch back.”

  Dave came to the open door of the shanty.

  Smiling up from where he sat on the ground beside Pa and Ma, Mitch scooted over, dragged Ma close, and said, “Come in, baby brother, and sit. We’ve all got stories to tell.”

  Dave came in pulling that strange woman behind him. Jo. What kind of name was that for a woman? Dave closed the blanket-door and sat. Jo sat beside him. That’s when Mitch noticed the strange, fluttery clothes—she wore trousers.

  “Mitch, you go first,” Dave said. “We’re settled in, so you can talk all night.”

  Jo had never heard so much talking in her life.

  She tried to remember every word of it. Ma had hung on it, too, all through Mitch’s story of a betraying partner and two murder attempts and selling a steel mill—whatever that was.

  Then they’d gotten to the cattle and the outlaws, Wax Mosby and Bludgeon Pike. Jo knew all that, so when Ma said she’d start cooking, Jo went with her. The door covering was left pushed aside, and the fire was close enough they heard most of what was said.

  Before Mitch had come home, Ma had already put six chickens to roasting with potatoes and other things with wonderful smells tucked all around them. She’d made a rising of bread and two apple pies. Jo could barely believe the wonder of this food.

  Mitch’s stories of New York City were so interesting and confusing. It seemed more like the fairy tales Grandma used to tell about horses that could fly and women who were half human, half fish.

  “There’s Ilsa,” Jo said quietly to Ma. She pointed up in a tree where Ilsa lurked and watched. Braver than Ursula at least.

  “I was so busy hugging my son, it was quite a while before I noticed she was gone.”