Beautiful Bandit (Lone Star Legends)

by Lough, Loree

  She grabbed a spoon and picked up Esther’s cup. “I’m almost certain I can talk her into swallowing just a few more drops before she goes to sleep. Dr. Lane said it’s important not to let her get dehydrated, so….” Josh said nothing more, so she shrugged and squeezed past him, then walked briskly down the hall and climbed the stairs.

  Esther didn’t look nearly as surprised to see her as Josh had when she’d made her hasty getaway. “Thought you might have changed your mind about that tea,” Kate said, setting the cup and saucer on the night table. She helped Esther sit up. “If only I knew how to pray….”

  “W-why?”

  Kate forced a cheeriness into her voice. “Because then I’d ask God to just—to just fix you right up, good as new, that’s why!”

  “Ask, an’…ask, an’ ye shall….”

  She put a stop to the woman’s struggling by saying, “‘Ask, and ye shall receive.’ Yes, I’ve heard that one many times.” She scooped a spoonful of tea and held it to Esther’s lips. “But that’s yet another verse intended for good Christian folk, not someone like me.”

  Even as the words tumbled from her lips, Kate wondered what had possessed her to say such a thing. What was poor, sick Esther to think, except that her history had either been positively wicked, or that she craved attention? “I haven’t attended church since I was a very little girl, you see,” she quickly inserted, “so my knowledge of the Bible and such things is—well, it’s virtually nonexistent, that’s what.” She paused, then added, “The good Lord has better things to do than listen to the prayers of a woman like me!”

  Good grief, Kate, will you just hush already!

  Esther held up a hand to stop the next spoonful of tea. “You are…good, good girl….”

  Oh, Esther, she wanted to say, if only that were true. “Come now,” she said instead. “The tea isn’t nearly as tasty when it’s lukewarm. Besides, you know what Dr. Lane said about staying hydrated—”

  “God l-loves you. He will hear…your…p-prayers!”

  Kate put the teacup on the bedside table, rested the spoon on the saucer, and folded both hands in her lap. “I hate to admit it, Esther, but, the truth is, I don’t know how to pray.”

  Esther harrumphed.

  “I wouldn’t even know where to begin reciting beautiful, poetic prayers like Matthew does before meals.”

  The woman waved away her remark. “Prayer is…talk. Just talk…to Him.”

  Oh, but praying was so much more than that! Kate knew this as fact because she’d talked to God a thousand times as a little girl—when her father was beating her mama bloody, when her stepfather picked up where her father had left off, and when the horrible man lit into her and then made arrangements to trade her like a sack of flour to pay off his gambling debts. After her mama took her own life, she had talked to Him. Show me the way, she had pleaded, so I won’t get lost, like Mama did….

  But He had chosen not to answer, and the only thing she’d been able to draw from that was that she hadn’t been worthy of an answer.

  “I have…heard you,” Esther managed to say. “Y-you pray…often!”

  If God truly loves His dear child, Esther, Kate thought, He’ll send an angel to earth to flog me, right this instant, for putting the poor woman in the position of trying to comfort me, when it should be the other way around! Because what had she done in her miserable life to merit consolation from this good, long-suffering woman?

  Nothing.

  She crossed the room, intending to close the curtains, and paused near the hand-hewn cradle near the windows. “This cradle is just lovely, Esther. Has it been in your family long?”

  “Ezz-ra….”

  “Your husband made it? I might have known.” Smiling, Kate knelt, gave the cradle a gentle push, and watched it rock slowly back and forth. If she closed her eyes, she could picture a tiny infant nestled inside, amid a tangle of soft blankets. She ran one hand over the well-worn wood, tracing the big, bold letter N carved into the headboard.

  A peaceful smile settled upon Esther’s face, and she nodded.

  The cradle had likely embraced all four of her boys, each of their children, and little Willie, too, from the looks of it, and yet, it was probably just as sturdy now as when Ezra had lovingly crafted it all those years ago. When it dawned on her that Josh had likely slept in this cradle, too, Kate met his grandmother’s eyes. “It’s so beautiful. So precious and priceless.” Oh, to lay a child of her own in this lovely bed one day, a baby born to her and Josh….

  The thought put her on her feet so quickly, she nearly lost her balance. Foolish little ninny! she scolded herself. Dreams like that are for other young women, not those who stupidly link themselves to killers and robbers and—

  “S-someday,” Esther rasped. “You will…you will see….”

  Thankfully, the poor dear drifted into peaceful slumber, sparing Kate the hard task of explaining the tears of regret and remorse that began rolling hot and fast down her cheeks.

  30

  On his way to town, Josh stopped by the small parcel of land where his wife and infant twins were buried. Griffen, true to his word, had constructed a crude fence around the plot, and as he dismounted, Josh asked God to forgive him for the impatient, unfriendly thoughts he’d harbored about his neighbor.

  Holding Callie’s reins in one hand, his Stetson in the other, he read the simple inscription carved into the lone headstone. There should have been three names listed, not one. “Why’d you have to be so confounded stubborn, Sadie?” he grumbled.

  SADIE NEVILLE

  BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

  JULY 29, 1864–MAY 5, 1885

  He had wanted to continue the Neville tradition of choosing baby names from the Bible, but Sadie had refused to discuss it. “Let’s wait until they’re born,” she’d insisted, “so we can pick names that fit their personalities.” Thinking he had months to change her mind, Josh hadn’t pressed her to reconsider.

  However, she’d gone into labor far earlier than expected, and, after hours of struggling, she’d barely found the strength to deliver her lecture about Josh welcoming love if it ever found him again. Then, she’d lapsed into unconsciousness and had never come to, leaving him to make the difficult decision alone regarding the inscription.

  Even the smallest coffin available had looked a hundred times too large for his tiny baby boys, and he hadn’t been able to bear separating them, so he’d instructed the undertaker to tuck one baby under each of Sadie’s arms.

  The wind whispered through the grass and mingled with the peaceful lowing of cattle. He hadn’t known what lesson God was trying to teach by making him a widower at the age of twenty-four, and, three years later, he still hadn’t figured it out. “Don’t rightly know why I’m here,” he said, his hat over his heart. But that wasn’t the whole truth, and Josh knew it. He’d come to say good-bye, once and for all.

  As the pallbearers had lowered the casket into the earth, he’d walked away, and, even now, if he closed his eyes, Josh could still hear the dry, Texas dirt being dumped onto the coffin.

  “Did you name our boys when you arrived in paradise?” he whispered. Maybe she would have called them Gabriel and Michael, since she’d always claimed each star in the sky represented an angel in heaven.

  But the stone stood cold and silent against the blue sky, so he put on his hat and climbed into the saddle. “Well,” he drawled, “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied, knowing the three of you are with God.”

  He gave the marker and the fence and the little plot one last glance, then urged Callie forward and headed west.

  For the first quarter mile, he pulled gently on the reins. “What’s your hurry?” he muttered to the mare. But even as he asked, Josh knew the answer. The only running Callie had done in the past week had been from the barn to the corral, then in figure eights and circles inside the enclosure. As much as she liked frolicking with the other saddle horses, Callie had been born to run, had lived her first years wild and free. She
could clear a six-foot fence without even trying, so, near as he could figure, she stayed at the Lazy N because she liked the work—and her master.

  Callie could pick him out of a crowd of cowboys, even when he tied her clear at one end of town while he did his business at the other. There was nothing particularly special about that, since most horses that received proper care knew their owners by sight and scent. But Callie? Josh grinned, picturing that way she had of prancing, bobbing her head, and whinnying until he waved or whistled to acknowledge her. If he had a nickel for every time he heard “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that filly has a crush on you, Neville,” Josh would have a pocketful of them. He understood that the good-natured taunt was rooted in respect and admiration, for the relationship between horse and cowboy was an important one—one that could mean the difference between life and death for rider and pony. If Dan had been on his own horse instead of the first one picked from the pony line the day those rustlers had showed up, he might not have ended up in the middle of a stampede.

  Callie could sense his moods and knew what he needed from her, sometimes even before he identified it himself. She loved the feel of the wind in her mane almost as much as he enjoyed watching the earth speed by under her belly and disappear behind them. Clearly, Callie would have been happier with a trot this day, but earlier, when he’d measured her girth, he was more certain than ever that she was carrying twins. “Plenty of time to gallop later,” he said, patting her shoulder, “after you’ve weaned your young’uns.” She wouldn’t like it, and neither would he, but until then, ambling would have to do.

  If he’d chosen another horse today, he could have made it to town and back in half the time. But Callie needed the exercise, and he needed to keep a close eye on her. If he didn’t run into the mayor and the sheriff and the rest of the men who enjoyed jawing on the grocer’s steps, he might get home in time for supper. Plenty of time for a bite to eat and a visit with Mee-Maw. And, maybe, if the good Lord saw fit to answer his prayers, a few minutes with Dinah before turning in for the night.

  “How goes it, Neville?”

  He looked toward the voice and groaned inwardly. Griffen. “It goes.”

  Josh dismounted and tethered Callie. He’d never been the envious type, but it was difficult to swallow the lump of resentment forming in his throat. He reminded himself that it wasn’t Griffen’s fault that anthrax had necessitated the sale that had brought him to Eagle Pass. In time and with prayer, he expected the sting of bitterness to ease. So far, unfortunately, it had not.

  “And what brings you to town today, neighbor?”

  If it had been any other man, Josh might not have noticed. But this was the fellow who’d gobbled up those Lazy N acres like a greedy railroad man. He wore black trousers and a blue shirt—just like Josh’s. He’d bought himself a Stetson, too—a duplicate of Josh’s—and now stood, adjusting the knot of the black neckerchief at his throat.

  Lots of time and lots of prayer, he thought, doing his best to match Griffen’s grin, tooth for tooth. “I’m here to fetch the mail. You?”

  “The buyer of my printing business back in Boston finally came through with the payment.” He laughed. “Brockman, the builder, will be glad to hear it. I’m sure he thinks he’s working for a deadbeat, because I’ve been promising for weeks to pay for labor and materials.”

  Griffen was a lot of things, but deadbeat wasn’t among them. He’d paid for those acres sight unseen and no questions asked, other than price. “Should’ve sent him to me. I would have set him straight,” Josh said.

  “That’s high praise, coming from you.” Griffen frowned. “Hasn’t been easy, earning folks’ respect. I’m not just a newcomer to Texas, you know, but a newcomer to this country.” He tipped his hat. “So I am humbled, and I thank you.”

  Josh felt the heat of a blush in his cheeks but couldn’t say if shame or guilt had brought it on. He hadn’t tried to make conversations with Griffen difficult. But then, he hadn’t exactly made them easy, either. “Aw, now, no need to get all sappy and sentimental on me.” He chuckled. “Just tellin’ it like it is, that’s all.” He took a step back, adjusting his hat. “Guess I’d best be moving if I hope to be home before dark.”

  Griffen stared hard at Callie’s belly. “She’s got herself quite a load there. Hope she hasn’t got into any meadow saffron or moldy hay—”

  “Nah. She’s pregnant.”

  As he met Josh’s eyes, Griffen’s frown deepened. “I’m no rancher yet, but I’ve studied on it some.” He stroked Callie’s belly. “Not the right season for her to be so far along, is it?”

  Josh had to hand it to the man, for it appeared he really had studied on it. “No, it isn’t. And I fear the reason she looks like she does is that she’s carrying twins.”

  His eyes wide with shock and dread, Griffen said, “Not a common thing, ya?”

  “Right.” Less common? Twins born alive. Rarer still—keeping them alive to become yearlings.

  “She’s a good horse.”

  Josh nodded.

  “I can see the bond between you.”

  Another nod.

  “I will pray.”

  And with that, Griffen walked away, his head down and his hands in his pockets, looking every bit as forlorn as Josh felt.

  Just then, a stranger approached. “You one of the Nevilles from the Lazy N Ranch?”

  Josh gave the man a quick appraisal. Not a working man, as evidenced by his domed hat, short-breasted suit coat, and polished boots.

  “Name’s Gardiner. Collin Gardiner. I work for the Philadelphia Inquirer. I understand your ranch had an outbreak of anthrax.”

  Josh felt every muscle tense. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “My brother-in-law is Thomas Schaeffer, of San Antonio.”

  With his eyes narrowed, Josh pictured the uppity, bulbous-nosed banker, who’d almost smoked him like a hothouse ham in that stuffy little office of his rather than risk sending their papers flying “hither and yon.”

  From his pocket, the man pulled out a small writing tablet and a pencil stub. “So, it’s true, then?”

  If Josh admitted the truth, word would spread like wildfire, making the healthy Lazy N cattle worthless. “Always has amazed me how ignorant city folk can be,” he said slowly.

  Gardiner’s beady eyes narrowed as the bushy brows above them inched closer together. “Ignorant! Why, I’ll have you know I attended Harvard!”

  “You don’t say.” If he hoped to talk the man out of writing his anthrax story, Josh realized he’d better try a different approach. “This sham anthrax story is just a cover, right? You’re really here to write about the outlaw gang that’s holed up in the area.”

  Gardiner’s eyes flashed like black diamonds. “Outlaw gang? Which one?”

  He’d heard that people back East were hungry for stories about showdowns and train robberies, but Josh had never witnessed proof of it before. He did his best to hide his amusement. And his disrespect. “Frank Michaels, if the rumor mill is right. But I’m sure the sheriff or his deputy could set the record straight and give you all the information you need.”

  “Just got into town on the morning train,” the reporter said. “Got me a room at the hotel and haven’t even unpacked yet. Mind telling me which way to the sheriff’s office?”

  Josh tilted his head toward the courthouse. “You write novels and stories, too, or just newspaper articles?”

  Smiling, Gardiner revealed two gold teeth, one up top, the other in the center of his lower jaw. “Matter of fact, I sent one off just before boarding the train.”

  “I’m sure the missus will let you know if a publisher shows interest.”

  The statement wiped away Gardiner’s grin as quickly as a schoolmarm erasing the alphabet from her blackboard. “Never married,” he said. “Probably never will. Nothin’ against women, mind you, except they talk too much and work too little.”

  Josh pretended the joke was funny. “I hear ya.”

  T
he man stared toward the courthouse. “If I could get an interview with a real, live outlaw,” he said, more to himself than to Josh. His eyes glassed over as he tucked the tablet and pencil back into his pocket.

  “How long will you be in Eagle Pass?” Josh asked.

  “Long as it takes to get a good story.” Walking backwards down the street, he added, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Neville.”

  “Believe me, the pleasure’s all mine.” But Gardiner hadn’t even made it halfway to the sheriff’s office when Josh began to worry what his family would do if the reporter didn’t find a better story than anthrax to write about. He could almost hear Mee-Maw saying, “Lay it at the foot of the cross.” So, he shrugged and glanced skyward. “I reckon it’s in Your hands, Lord.”

  He’d barely uttered the sentence when Jame Windel rode up. “You hear about the widow woman down in Laredo what’s sellin’ off her man’s herd, one cow at a time?”

  Chuckling, Josh doffed his hat and used it to shade his eyes from the bright sun. Looking up at the man in the saddle, he said, “Jame, you take longer getting to the point of a joke than any man I can name.”

  “Ain’t no joke!” Windel said. “Heard about it from that infuriatin’ reporter who got off the train this mornin’.”

  Josh didn’t ask how the men had happened upon the topic of cattle, for fear it might reawaken Gardiner’s interest in anthrax, but he was interested in the rest of the story. “Any bulls for sale?”

  “I’ll say!” Windel dismounted and gave Callie a cursory glance. “Way the feller told it, this woman’s got two stud bulls on the market.”

  “You fixin’ to buy one?”

  He combed his fingers through his shaggy beard. “Wish I could, but I can’t spare the cash right now. Mable’s all crippled up with the arthritis, and it’s costin’ me every spare penny for ointments and salves to ease her pain.”

  So that’s why Windel and his wife hadn’t attended the annual Neville gathering. “Sorry to hear it, Jame.”

  “Your mare get into some yeasty hay?”

  Josh groaned. It should have been easier reciting the same facts he’d just delivered to Griffen, but it wasn’t. Maybe he ought to just paint a sign to hold up for everybody to read when they are about to ask about Callie’s swollen belly.