Clint’s throat tightened, imagining young Mattie and her happiness when a man had paid attention to her. He wondered if her husband had ever taken her fishing, and quickly discarded the notion. Jason St. Clair didn’t sound like the type who fished.
“The wedding was two days later,” Atwater said. He took a sip of the milk and grimaced. “Damn stomach. Don’t ever get old, Beaudry. Everythin’ starts fallin’ apart.”
“The way I’m going, I doubt I’ll give myself time to start falling apart,” Clint said wryly.
“You don’t have to go that way.” He eyed Clint shrewdly. “Fact is, I bet you could find a job here real easy if you decided to stay.”
Clint had a strong hunch he knew what the older man was talking about. “You have one in mind?”
“Much as I hate to admit it, Mattie’s right. I’m gettin’ too damn old for this job, but there ain’t been nobody I can trust to take care of the folks in this town. That is, until you showed up.”
Clint held up his hands as if to push the offer away. “I’m done with being a lawman.”
“Bein’ a sheriff in Green Valley’s a whole lot different than bein’ a U.S. marshal. First off, there ain’t no travelin’. You marry someone like, say”—Atwater’s smile reminded Clint of a politician—“Mattie, and you can be home every night.”
The thought of being with Mattie every night had its share of advantages—advantages Clint wouldn’t mind exploring. But even if he gave up the hunt for his wife’s murderer, he wasn’t certain he was ready to take on the responsibility of a ready-made family. Besides, though he admired Mattie and lusted after her, he didn’t love her.
“If I was interested—which I’m not—it would never work. Mattie’s all fired up against guns and there’s not a sheriff around who’d give up his weapon.” Clint snorted. “Hell, he’d be crazy if he did.”
“I wear a gun and it don’t seem to bother her,” Atwater said.
Startled, Clint realized the sheriff was right. Was it just himself that Mattie didn’t like wearing a gun? And if so, why? Did he remind her too much of her dead husband? Or would she look at the situation differently if Clint agreed to become Green Valley’s sheriff?
Hold it right there, Beaudry.
“It doesn’t matter, Sheriff. I’m moving on, come morning,” Clint said.
Atwater finished his milk. “All right, son, you made your point. But this fella has nearly a four-week head start on you. How do you expect to find him?”
“I’ll start where you left off after you trailed him.”
“That’d be about twenty miles from here, near Whitecliff. Lost the trail in some rocks.”
“You have any idea where he might’ve been headed?”
Atwater shook his head. “You might have a better idea than me, since you been trailin’ him for so long.”
Clint shook his head in frustration. “This is all new territory.” He glanced out the window to the waning light. “I’d best be getting back before Mattie starts worrying.” He pushed himself up.
“Think about what I said, son,” Atwater said. “You could do a lot worse than settlin’ here and becomin’ Green Valley’s sheriff.”
“I got a job to do before I can even think about settling down.”
“Good luck to you, then, Beaudry.” Atwater held out his hand and the two men exchanged a firm handshake.
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
After sitting for so long, Clint’s side had stiffened. Grasping the saddle horn, he clenched his teeth as he mounted his horse. He should stay at Mattie’s at least another week to heal completely, but time had already gotten away from him.
It was only a quarter of a mile to Mattie’s, and Clint kept Dakota to a walk. When the mare caught the scent of the familiar place, she wanted to stretch out into a canter. He held her back, though he wanted to hurry back himself. In the short time he’d been there, it had become the first home he’d truly had since leaving his ma and pa’s place over fifteen years ago. As much as he tried, he couldn’t call the place he’d shared with Emily for two years home.
Clint reined in Dakota at the corral and unsaddled the horse, carrying the tack into the barn. He returned to curry and brush the horse, and found Mattie, her back to him, petting the mare.
Clint paused to enjoy the view. She stroked Dakota with a gentle hand and whispered something Clint couldn’t hear. Mattie was a ball of contradictions rolled into a fetching package: gun hater and tender healer of bullet wounds; hard worker and spoiler of her young son; straitlaced lady and passionate woman who’d tumbled into bed with a hotheaded charmer.
She intrigued and frustrated him.
As if sensing his presence, she turned and gave him a reprimanding look. “I thought I’d have to go looking for you.”
“Worried about me?” He grinned—there was something about her that made him want to get under her self-assured shell.
She crossed her arms and glared at him. “I was worried about Dakota—she could’ve stepped in a hole or gotten a rock in her hoof.”
Stifling his laughter, he crossed the few yards separating them. “I like it when you worry”—he paused—“about Dakota.”
She snorted and her cheeks pinkened, but her eyes danced with humor.
Clint chuckled. He admired her courage and backbone, but he especially liked her unselfconsciousness.
“You caught me. I was worried about you, too.” She held her thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. “About this much.”
Clint wanted to wrap his arms around her, but it was safer to curry Dakota. “You be careful you don’t worry too much—I’d hate to see you strain yourself.”
She laughed lightly, the melody weaving itself inside Clint’s chest and holding him captive.
“Okay, so I was afraid you’d been thrown and your wound had reopened,” she admitted.
“I would’ve been back an hour ago, but I stopped by the saloon. Talked with the sheriff for a while.”
Mattie’s body tensed. “About what?”
Her defensive reaction surprised him. Was there something she didn’t want him to know? “This’n that.”
“Like what this’n that?”
Clint paused in his task. “Are you afraid we talked about you?”
She drew back as if affronted. “Of course not. I’m sure you and Walt had more important things to discuss than me.” She paused, watching him closely. “Didn’t you?”
He smiled innocently and continued grooming Dakota.
Mattie stamped her foot. “Sometimes you’re impossible.”
“You already called me that once today.”
As Mattie built up another head of steam, Clint glanced over her shoulder to see Herman coming toward them at a staggering run, waving his arms.
“What’s wrong with Herman?” Clint asked.
Mattie turned her head, puzzled. “I don’t know.” She raised her skirt and ran toward the old man.
Clint dropped the curry brush and followed her, apprehension ballooning in him. Something was obviously wrong.
Mattie reached him first and grabbed his arms. “Herman, are you all right?”
Panting, with sweat rolling down his face, the old man nodded weakly. “I—I’m all … right. It’s… Andy.”
Mattie’s eyes widened. “What happened?” Herman tried to answer, but couldn’t get enough air to speak. “Where’s Andy?”
Clint laid his hands on her tense shoulders. “Let him catch his breath, Mattie.”
“He… he fell … in … the well,” Herman finally got out.
Mattie’s face lost all color and Clint thought she was about to faint. He tightened his grip on her.
She covered her mouth. “Oh, God. Is he—?”
Herman shook his head. “On an old board. But if he … falls, he’s gonna drown.”
“Can’t he swim?” Clint asked.
Mattie shook her head. “We have to get him out of there,” she said in a near-hysterical voice.
&
nbsp; Clint glanced at Dakota, but there was no time to resaddle the mare. “Where’s a rope?”
“In the barn, by the door,” Herman replied.
Clint dashed to the barn and time seemed to stretch into forever as he searched for the rope. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he spotted it on a nail to the right of the door. He grabbed it and raced back to join Herman and Mattie.
They were gone.
He spotted them zigzagging through the brush and quickly followed them, his heart pounding in his chest. The taste of fear filled his mouth, just as it had when he was in a gun battle. Only this battle was much worse—Clint had no control in this situation.
Catching up to them, he clasped Mattie’s elbow just as she stumbled. She glanced at him and the terror in her white face punched Clint in the belly. If something happened to the boy, Clint didn’t know what Mattie would do.
“He’ll be all right.” Clint knew he shouldn’t offer empty reassurances, but that was all he had to give. If he could have traded places with Andy, he would have gladly done it to erase the fear in Mattie’s face.
They arrived in a small clearing where there was a gaping hole in the earth. Mattie tried to rush toward it, but Clint held her back. “The soil around it may give way. Call out to him.”
“Andy, honey. Andy, can you hear me?” Mattie’s voice trembled only slightly, though her body shuddered like a leaf in the wind.
“Ma,” came his faint reply.
Mattie closed her eyes momentarily and the relief in her features made Clint’s heart skip a beat. “Andy, are you all right?” she shouted with more strength.
“Yeah, but I hurt my ankle.”
With an injured ankle, Andy wouldn’t be able to climb out himself. That left only one other option.
“I have to get down there,” Clint said. “Keep him talking, Mattie. Reassure him.”
She nodded with a jerky motion.
Clint looked at Herman. “Help me tie off this rope so I can use it to climb down the shaft.”
Mattie grabbed his arm. “But you’re not strong enough yet.”
“I’ll be fine,” Clint said impatiently. “Besides, we don’t have time to wait for help. That board could go at any minute.”
He hated to be so blunt with her, but he didn’t have time to argue.
“Be careful,” she said softly.
Clint gave her slender hands a gentle squeeze, but couldn’t grant her any more empty promises.
Clint ran over to a tree about twelve feet from the hole and wrapped one end of the rope around it as he listened to Mattie’s soothing voice reassure her son. He jerked on the rope, testing the strength of the knot. It held.
“I’m going down there to get Andy and climb back out with him. If I can’t do that, you and Mattie are going to have to pull him up—can you do that?” Clint asked Herman grimly.
“I ain’t that old yet, Beaudry. Get your ass down there and save that little boy,” Herman said. “And don’t go killin’ yourself in the bargain.”
“I don’t plan to.” Clint slapped the man’s bony shoulder and quickly removed his gunbelt.
Then, carefully, he inched toward the edge of the well. “I’m going to throw a rope down there, Andy, so cover your head with your hands,” he called.
“All right,” he answered. Though the boy’s voice was muffled, Clint could hear the fear in it.
Clint tossed the looped rope down the well. “Are you okay?”
“Yep. And I got the rope, too.”
“Good. I’m going to climb down. Once I reach you, I’ll tie the rope around you, then your ma and Herman will pull you up, okay?”
“’Kay.”
Clint could feel Mattie’s and Herman’s anxious gazes on him. He neared the well’s entrance, the rope in his hands. Some soil near the lip crumbled beneath his toes. Knowing he had little time, Clint took a tighter hold on the line and squatted by the shaft.
Taking a deep breath, he eased himself down the rope until only his head was aboveground. He saw a single tear roll down Mattie’s cheek as her lips moved in silent prayer.
He lowered himself deeper, trying not to use the sides of the well too much. The more he did, the more dirt would fall on Andy.
“It’s dark,” the boy said, his voice sounding small and anxious.
“That’s just me blocking the light,” Clint called down. “Don’t look up or you’ll get dirt in your eyes.”
The muscles in Clint’s arms and shoulders protested the strain. He’d been inactive for too long. Inch by exhausting inch, he traveled downward. He glanced up once and dirt spilled across his face, reminding him to follow his own advice. Sweat rolled down his brow and dripped onto his grimy shirt.
How far down was Andy?
Clint’s arms trembled with fatigue and he had to brace his boots against the side for a few moments to regain his breath and strength.
“Clint? Are you all right?” Mattie yelled down.
Her concern brushed across him like an angel’s wings and gave him the energy to continue. “I’m all right.”
A minute later, his foot nudged something soft.
“You made it.” Andy’s voice was very close.
“I’m going to put my feet on the sides of the board you’re on.”
“You’ll break it.”
“No, I won’t,” Clint said calmly, though he wasn’t nearly as certain as he sounded. “I’ll keep my weight against the sides.”
In the blackness, he used his boot toes to find the ends of the board and lowered himself. The wood creaked menacingly, and Andy jerked against Clint’s leg.
“It’s gonna break!” Andy hollered.
“Relax, Andy.” Clint paused a moment. “I need you to stand up very slowly—no sudden movements. Can you do that?”
A moment of tense silence.
“Yeah.”
Clint could feel the boy move against his legs. He reached down and hooked a hand beneath the boy’s arm, then helped him rise. There was barely enough room for them side by side. Clint had thought he might be able to scale the rope with Andy clinging to his back, but the well was too narrow.
“Ow,” Andy muttered. “My ankle.”
“Your ma’ll look at it once you’re out of here.”
He drew the rope around the boy’s back and under his arms. Almost blind, Clint had to rely on his sense of touch to secure a knot at Andy’s chest. Clint’s legs grew shaky from bracing himself against the well’s sides, but he didn’t dare add any more weight to the board.
“How does that feel?” Clint asked.
“All right.”
Clint placed his hands on the boy’s thin shoulders. “Herman and your ma are gonna pull you up. If you can help them by climbing up the wall some, go ahead and do it. Are you ready?”
He felt more than saw Andy’s nod.
Clint tilted his face upward and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Pull him up!”
The rope grew taut and Clint put his hands around the boy’s waist to lift him. As the boy was drawn upward, Clint leaned back against the dirt wall so Andy could squeeze past him. He helped raise the boy, taking some of the burden off Herman and Mattie. Then Andy was out of reach.
Clint could see the boy’s silhouette as Andy was hauled steadily upward. He dislodged some soil as he climbed, and Clint dropped his head so the dirt fell in his hair and down his back, mingling with the sweat.
He listened to Andy’s harsh breathing and the shuffle of the kid’s feet against the well to distract himself from the cramping in his own legs. Keeping his weight pressed to the sides instead of on the board was harder than he’d figured. His knees trembled from the stress and the hot, clammy air sent sweat rolling down his face in steady rivulets. His shirt grew damp and sticky.
Clint flattened his palms against the sides to try to take some pressure off his legs, but it wasn’t enough. If only he could put one boot flat on the board …
The cramps spread from his calves to his thighs, and his mu
scles trembled like he had palsy. He wasn’t going to make it—he had to chance some of his weight on the wooden ledge. Shifting cautiously, Clint eased his toe onto the board first. The wood protested and he paused a moment, then continued lowering his foot. Finally, he reached a point where it took some of the strain off his screaming muscles.
The board held and Clint sighed. He glanced up to see Andy drawn out of the hole and he closed his eyes, breathing a silent thank-you.
“You okay down there, Beaudry?” Herman hollered.
“Just waitin’ for that rope,” Clint replied with a smile.
“Heads up. It’s on its way.”
A moment later, Clint felt the slight sting of the rope as it struck his back. He turned to find it and the wood cracked menacingly. He froze, then the wood snapped with a sound like a rifle shot.
Clint twisted to grab the line, but his knuckles only grazed it as he floundered for a foothold that wasn’t there. Pain arrowed through his side.
He plunged down the remainder of the shaft, his shoulders scraping the walls. He struck the water feet first, and the cold water stole the breath from his lungs. Then he was completely submerged, surrounded by blackness. Panic gripped him, but he forced himself to remain calm. Finally, he stopped sinking and the natural lift of the water pushed him upward. A few moments later, his head broke the surface and he gulped in air.
Fortunately, his father had taught him how to swim when he was a boy. He treaded water, keeping himself afloat even as his limbs began to complain about the frigid temperature. A few minutes earlier Clint had been sweating. Now his teeth chattered and his skin began to tingle.
“Clint! What happened?” Mattie shouted down, her worry obvious though her voice was faint.
“The board broke,” he yelled. “The water’s freezing.”
“Can you make it up on your own?”
That was a damned good question. He shivered. His fingers and toes would be numb before long. “I’ll make it,” he shouted, then muttered to himself, “Yeah, sure you will, Beaudry.”
He searched for the rope and spotted it above his head. Lifting a hand, he attempted to grab it. He was a few inches shy. Muttering an oath, he kicked at the water, propelling himself upward, and snatched at the line, but missed again.
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