Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  Everett and Audrey Hammond had always been cold and indifferent toward each other and had avoided conflict by avoiding contact. Unlike his wife, Everett was kind to his children, and though he never told her, Anne knew he loved her. But he had never seemed to be aware of her needs and had seldom made time for her.

  Anne wanted a better life for her child; she understood that a great deal more than her own happiness hinged on her relationship with Tom. She knew she could never love him the way she had loved Jeff and she felt no guilt for that—she could never love anyone the way she had loved Jeff. But, for the sake of their child, she and Tom should at least try to be good friends. After that, maybe the love would come.

  She tried to convince herself it could happen. She told herself Tom was a good man and it would still be possible for her to grow to love him as a wife should love her husband, but deep down something told her she was lying to herself on both counts.

  She refused to accept these realities. They were simply too harsh. If she accepted them, she would have to admit she had made the biggest mistake of her life in marrying Tom Stewart, and in her need to give her child a good life she refused to do so.

  She had to try to make a success of her marriage. It would require sacrifice, she knew, and she dreaded it, for she understood the only way it could work would be to allow Tom more control in her life. For some reason, he, like her mother, needed that.

  Perhaps Tom’s need for domination would lessen if she became more submissive. Perhaps the resentment he had only recently begun to display toward her would abate. She decided to wait and speak with him when he got home. She wasn’t ready yet to tell him she was pregnant, but they could talk. They needed to talk.

  It was well past midnight when Stewart finally arrived. She heard his boots tramping on the wood floor, and she heard him enter his office and close the door. Now would be a good time to speak with him. She would ask his forgiveness and tell him she was ready to be a better wife. She would ask him what things he needed her to do and she would promise to do them. Her resolve was mingled with a painful sense of loss—the loss of a part of herself that was very important to her.

  She was still in her day clothes—not having wanted to undress with Fogarty in the house until Stewart returned—but she had removed her shoes earlier and her small feet made soft, padding sounds as she walked along the hallway. She stepped up close to the door to listen for sounds of voices in case Stewart wasn’t alone. She knew he sometimes had lengthy conversations with Fogarty about business, and he disliked being disturbed during these times. Hearing low voices inside, she turned to go back to her room.

  Suddenly the door flew open behind her, and light poured into the hallway. It happened so abruptly that Anne was startled. She spun around, holding her hand to her chest and found herself face to face with Fogarty. He reached out, grasping her wrist with a powerful fist, and jerked her—nearly dragged her—into the room. “Looks like we caught us a little sneak.”

  Anne opened her mouth to protest but Stewart—his features darkening with anger—sprang to his feet from the chair behind his desk and barked, “What were you doing outside my door?”

  “Nothing, I was coming to talk to you.”

  “No you weren’t,” accused Fogarty, “you were sneaking.”

  “How long were you there?” demanded Stewart, angrier than she had ever seen him.

  She suddenly felt outnumbered and alone. “Tom,” she said earnestly, “please calm down, I wasn’t sneaking, I just wanted to talk to you.”

  Fogarty made a sound that was half laugh, half contemptuous snort. “Cat-footing around, barefoot, in dark hallways and she says she wanted to talk.”

  Now Anne’s defensiveness turned to anger; she turned on Fogarty, her brown eyes flashing. “I would like to have a private conversation with my husband.”

  Fogarty sneered and looked at Stewart, “Do you want me to leave, Tom?”

  Anne turned to face her husband, sensing this would be the test of his loyalty. Her eyes lost their anger and she looked at him, imploring. She had stood up to Fogarty though she feared him, and he had mocked her. Now, she needed the support of her husband. Without that she would be utterly alone.

  Leaning forward, supported by his knuckles on his desktop, Stewart’s face was a blank. She could tell he was thinking it over—taking too long to answer.

  “We need to talk, Tom,” her voice was soft, pleading. “Before you condemn me, you should at least hear what I have to say.”

  Behind her, still blocking the doorway, Fogarty repeated, “Do you want me to leave, Tom?”

  Anne watched Stewart’s eyes, involuntarily holding her breath, and saw a hardness come into them. She knew before he spoke what his answer would be.

  “No,” he said, ice in his voice, “you stay Rand.” He looked at Anne. “You, go to your room.”

  She did as she was told. She knew it would be pointless now to argue. But as she walked down the hallway toward her room, she realized she could no longer live in this house. She would leave soon—before it became obvious that she was pregnant. She had no idea where to turn; her mother would never help her, and her father would be unable to understand her need. Nor could he stand against the likes of Stewart and Fogarty if he did.

  She thought of Jeff, and wished she could see him and speak with him. He would help her. She knew it was merely a fantasy—she was nothing to him now, but every woman needs a champion, and Jeff was the only one she had ever known. Somehow it seemed natural to think of him now.

  Perhaps Anne would have found it reassuring, had she known Amado was nearby, crouched in the brush, observing the ranch, paying special attention to the corral and pastures. He had a particular horse in mind tonight, a handsome gelding called Sunday—Stewart’s personal favorite and the one he generally rode when he went to town. But Sunday was in the horse corral tonight, near the bunkhouse, and Amado decided against the risk. The gelding would be in the pasture tomorrow night or the next. There was no hurry. Amado considered stealing a different horse, but decided against it. He turned his back on the ranch and returned to his own tethered horse. He would wait for the right opportunity. There was no hurry. A year was a long time.

  Anne arose early, dressed and slipped quietly out of the house. She saddled her horse and rode to the grove of cottonwoods. She was pleased to find that, as usual, it was undisturbed. No one else ever seemed to come here. Though she knew she had no right to do so, she viewed any invasion of the grove as she would have viewed an invasion of her own home. In truth, she viewed the grove in a much more proprietary manner than she did the home in which she presently lived. This was the only place on earth where she could feel truly safe and at peace. For a long time she sat on a log, tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick, lost in the past. Presently, she rose and walked over to the tree where Jeff had carved their initials long ago. She traced the rough letters with a soft, white finger, trying vainly to understand, as she had a thousand times before, what had happened and why he had stopped loving her when she had been so certain of him.

  “So that’s why you come here.” The voice came from behind her: Fogarty’s voice.

  Anne spun around, her heart pounding. Fogarty seemed pleased that he had startled her. “I’ve been wonderin’ what makes you ride so often in this direction. Been thinkin’ it was a boyfriend or something.” He stepped past her, roughly shouldering her aside and fingered the carved initials inside the heart, profaning them with his touch as he had profaned her grove with his presence.

  He looked at her and smiled a malicious smile. She could tell he was enjoying the moment. He said, “Old boyfriend, new boyfriend, what’s the difference? Your husband will want to hear about this.” He looked at her with his mocking gaze. “You going to beg me not to tell him? Go ahead, beg me, and maybe I won’t.”

  She felt a knot in her stomach and her mouth was dry. She squared her shoulders and faced him, knowing that to show fear now could be disastrous. Men like Fogarty p
reyed on fear. “You can tell Tom whatever you want—he doesn’t love me, but I’d die before I’d beg you for anything.” She stepped past him, walking at a normal pace toward her horse, her heart in her throat. She expected him, at any moment, to come after her and put his hands on her body, but he did not.

  All the way back to the ranch he rode behind her, watching her, his horse keeping an even pace with hers, neither lagging behind nor overtaking her. She rode up to the house and dismounted, handing the reins to one of the hands. She went directly to her room and closed the door. From that point on, nearly everything happened as she expected it to.

  Fogarty arrived. She heard the swaggering sounds of his boots striking the floor and his gloating knock on the door of Stewart’s office. She knew he savored what he was about to do. She heard the low tones of male voices, indistinct, barely audible, and though unable to distinguish individual words, she knew what was being said. More footsteps. This time Stewart’s boots angrily striking the boards, coming toward her room.

  Her door was thrown open, and Stewart stood there, looking as she had expected him to. Until recently she had never seen him angry. Now she was growing accustomed to it. He crossed the room and towered over her. Anne sat calmly on the edge of the bed gazing out the window, her mind set in resignation. For a moment she expected him to strike her, but he backed away and sat in the chair. It was then she noticed Fogarty standing in the doorway, and her calmness departed, leaving her suddenly very angry.

  “Leave this room Fogarty,” she commanded. “You have no right to be here.”

  As if it were a reenactment of the previous night’s scene, Fogarty, with his perpetual sneer, asked Stewart, “Do you want me to leave, Tom?”

  Anne was furious. She crossed the room to face the gunman. “This is not his office and this is not last night, and you will leave, now!” The forcefulness with which she spoke seemed to surprise Fogarty. He glanced at Stewart, who said nothing.

  Taking advantage of Fogarty’s brief shift in attention, Anne swung the door closed in his face and quickly shot the bolt. The gunman was taken completely by surprise, and having received no signals from his boss, was unsure of his position. He waited, but the door did not re-open. He clenched his jaw and made a silent oath that someday she would pay for subjecting him to this indignity.

  Anne returned to sitting on the edge of the bed and looked across at Stewart’s now expressionless, face.

  “What have you lacked Anne? What have I not given you?”

  At that moment he reminded her of her mother and she decided it was time to fight back; to stand up to him as she never had to her mother.

  “What have you given me Tom? Things money can buy, that’s all. You never gave me anything else, you never gave me a place in your life, you never made me feel like a wife. I am not even the mistress of this house. I have no say in anything that goes on here, I make none of the decisions; I’m not even allowed to cook a meal.”

  “You’ve been well treated here,” Stewart differed, “and with great respect by the help.”

  “Yes,” she said, “like a guest, a visitor. The last time we argued you complained that I was not really a wife. For a while I felt guilty, but today I have realized you never have treated me as one. A wife is not something you can buy, no matter how much money you have.”

  “You’ve been unfaithful to me,” he said, changing the subject. “That’s one thing I will not stand for.”

  “I merely went someplace to be alone; that should be my right and I should be able to do it without being followed.”

  “I told him to follow you, and you’d better get used to it: from now on someone will be with you constantly. You will go nowhere without my permission.”

  “Then our marriage is over Tom; I’ll be leaving today.”

  Calmly he stood up and walked over to where she sat. There was nothing in his eyes to indicate his intentions, and illogically, she thought for a moment he meant to ask her to stay. But without warning, he raised his hand and struck her on the side of the head, knocking her off the bed. She fell onto her back, momentarily dazed. When her head cleared she attempted to rise but Stewart put his foot on her chest—forcing the breath out of her—and held her down. “Let me tell you the way things are going to be from now on: You will not leave this ranch, except occasionally, and only when I’m with you. You will go nowhere without the protection,” he smiled as he said the word, “of Mr. Fogarty. If you try to get away I’ll kill you. And if I ever catch you again listening in on private conversations I’ll kill you.”

  He walked out of the room leaving her on the floor, still dazed and gasping to recover her breath. He went to his office and entered, closing the door behind him. Fogarty was there.

  Still angry, Stewart walked to the desk and sat down. Opening a drawer he withdrew a bottle and a glass and poured himself a drink which he downed in one gulp.

  Fogarty eyed him speculatively, “Would you really kill her?”

  Stewart raised his eyebrows. “So you were listening.”

  Ignoring the question, Fogarty repeated his own. “Would you really kill her?”

  Stewart poured and downed another drink. Turning a direct gaze on Fogarty he said, “No, Rand, I wouldn’t kill my wife. That’s the sort of thing I pay you to do.”

  Fogarty smiled.

  Anne waited a few minutes after Stewart left the room before going to the door and checking the hallway. It was empty. Her mind was still fuzzy and her head was starting to ache, but her thinking was not so hampered as to blur her perception of the situation she was in. She closed the door, shot the bolt and crossed the room to the bed. She needed to lie down for a few minutes to clear her spinning head, and she needed to make a plan.

  She was no fool. She expected guards to be posted and considered waiting a few days or even longer before attempting her escape. But she knew Fogarty would never trust her. The guards would always be there, and she couldn’t bear the thought of spending another night in this house; this prison. Moreover, the longer she delayed, the more risk there would be of Stewart realizing she was expecting a baby. She could not allow that to happen. Once he knew, any hope of escape would be gone.

  She waited until well after midnight and dressed herself in a divided skirt, a long-sleeved blouse and a scarf, all dark in color. She cut pieces from a blanket and tied them around her riding boots so they would make no sounds on the wooden floor. From the darkness of the room she looked out the window until she spotted Fogarty’s man. He was in a position from which he could watch the rear entrance to the house and Anne’s bedroom window, while at the same time having a good view of the horse corral. The front entrance was out of the question. To get there she would have to walk past the open door of the room where Fogarty slept.

  She crept down the hallway and down the stairs. From there she turned toward the rear of the house. In the kitchen she stole a handful of sugar cubes and stashed them in the pocket of her skirt. The door of the room where Maria and Lupita slept was open, as was the window on the opposite side of the room. Anne stood at the doorway for a moment, listening to the soft chorus of snoring made by the two sleeping women. Slowly, she crossed the room, testing each floorboard for sound before placing her full weight upon it.

  There was a low table beneath the window and it supported numerous possessions of the room’s two occupants. These items Anne carefully removed and placed on the floor beside the table. She sat on the table, holding her breath, and swung her legs around and over the window sill until her feet were outside. Sliding across the table so she was sitting on the window ledge, she slid over the edge as slowly as she could and dropped to the soft dirt outside. She experienced a feeling of lightness now, a sense of oppression falling away, and she vowed never to set foot in that house again.

  She made her way to the barn in the dim light of the moon and stars and slipped inside its murky darkness, feeling around with her hands and carefully pushing her feet out in front of her before each step,
so as not to trip or kick anything over. In this manner she located the pegs where the bridles were hung. She would have to ride bareback—to attempt to saddle a horse would take too long and create too much noise.

  There was one corner of the corral, opposite the gate, which was kept in shadows by the high profile of the barn. She slipped through the rails of the fence at this point. Several horses nearby shied away and trotted to the opposite end of the corral with an if-you-want-to-ride-me-you’ll-have-to-catch-me attitude. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew a handful of sugar cubes and began rubbing them together between her hands. One horse, her own, trotted over and accepted the sugar cubes. Anne slipped the bit into his mouth and the headstall over his ears. Fearing the activity of the horses would arouse the suspicion of Fogarty’s guard, she hung back in the shadows, holding the reins, hoping that if the guard had noticed anything out of the ordinary, his suspicions would be allayed when, after a reasonable interval, nothing else happened.

  It didn’t work. The man was cautious, and presently, he appeared at the opposite side of the corral. Anne shrank deeper into the shadows, scarcely daring to breathe, praying he wouldn’t see her. But the night was not dark enough. The sound of his voice cut through her like a knife.

  “Going somewhere tonight, Mrs. Stewart? I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that. Why don’t you just come on over here and I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  Anne thought bitterly. ”He thinks I can just walk back into the house and go to bed. He doesn’t know they’ll kill me now.”