by Loree Lough
He took a deep breath and let her draw her own conclusions.
Beulah smiled. “Then we have something in common.”
His left brow rose high on his forehead. “And what’d that be?”
“Well,” she said, casually inspecting the fingertips of her free hand, “you don’t stay one step ahead of the U.S. Marshals for ten long years if you’re stupid….”
When next their eyes met, hers no longer gleamed with aloof, businesslike detachment. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had me a man with brains?”
I ain’t even gonna hazard a guess. He’d made a promise to be true to Bess, no matter how long it took to clear his name, and he aimed to keep it.
Beula’s red-painted lips parted as two of her girls entered the room. One carried a huge silver tray, the other held a matching swan-necked coffee pot. The girl with flaming red hair poured steaming coffee into a delicate china teacup. “One lump or two?” she asked, holding silver tongs above the sugar bowl.
Smiling, he held up a hand. “Straight up, thanks.”
A blond lifted the lid from a golden charger plate and slid it under his nose. “I hope you like steak and eggs, handsome, ‘cause we’re all out of chicken.”
His stomach growled and his mouth watered. “This’ll do just fine.”
Next, a brunette stepped up and held out the salt and pepper shakers. “Say when,” she sing-songed, sprinkling seasoning over his food.
“Whoa,” he said, chuckling, “you’ll have us all sneezin’.”
The girls giggled as Beulah nodded as another blond filled a cut crystal goblet with wine and placed it beside Chance’s plate. Before he could utter a polite ‘thank you’, a second brunette draped a white linen napkin over his thigh. “Um, thanks,” he managed to say.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Beulah asked. “Eat up!”
The steak knife weighed nearly as much as his six-shooter. He carved off a slice of steak and popped it into his mouth. Chance closed his eyes and slowly shook his head, savoring that first bite.
“What’s wrong?” Beulah demanded. “Don’t you like it?”
He opened his eyes to find her sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning forward slightly.
“We’ll fix something else. Corn fritters. Mashed potatoes.” Waving her hands in the air, she said, “Anything. Just name it, it’s yours.”
“Ma’am…I mean Beulah…there ain’t a blessed thing wrong with this meal. In fact, it’s downright delightful.” He stuck another hunk of meat into his mouth. “It’s the first real food I’ve eaten in over a month,” he said around the bite. “I’m just tryin’ to give it its due, is all.”
The girls and Beulah exchanged puzzled glances. “You haven’t had a meal in more than a month? Then…what have you been eating?” the boss-lady wanted to know.
“Nuts. Berries. Wild fruit.” Chance shrugged. “You know…trail food.”
Beulah settled back on the chaise and repositioned her pose. “No, I wouldn’t know.”
Something in her attitude told him that, while she hadn’t eaten on the run, she knew what it meant to be hungry. And something in those glittering azure eyes said she’d gone without more than food. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she draped the feathered robe over her shapely calves, and knew she’d done it for his benefit. He buttered a biscuit, thinking, You’re a good-lookin’ woman, Beulah, but you’re not my Bess.
Chapter Nineteen
“What are you doing here?”
The skinny old man leaned on the grimy handle of his broom and aimed a fiery glare at Lubbock’s only in-residence minister. “You ain’t got claim to this alley.” Narrowing his watery blue eyes, Purdy added, “Question is…what’re you doing here?” One brow high on his forehead, the town drunk rubbed arthritic fingers over his beard-bristled jaw and smirked. “Seems to me the folks who pay your wages would be as interested as I am in what their preacher is doin’ in the alley behind the saloon at three o’clock in the mornin’….”
Josh Atwood’s arm shot out as if fired from a gun. “I’ve had about enough of your sass,” he growled, grabbing Purdy’s collar. “You’ve been a burr under my saddle for as long as I’ve known you.”
Though half Atwood’s height and weight, Purdy stood his ground. His voice was calm and quiet, his watery eyes strangely sober when he said, “That’s ‘cause I’m the only one ‘round here with the gumption to tell you to your face what you really are.”
Lip curled with disgust, he tightened his grip on the shirt. “Ha. And what would that be?”
“A bully what’s been impersonatin’ a holy man for ten long years, that’s what.”
Eyes blazing with fury, Atwood whispered through clenched teeth, “Why you no-account sot, I’ve got half a mind to—“
“Half a mind’s about all you’ve got!” Purdy interrupted, raising his chin a notch. “You don’t scare me none, Josh Atwood. Men like you never have scared me.”
Blinking, Atwood loosed his grip a mite. “Men like me? What drunken foolishness are you spouting now?”
“Men who’ll use their size, their age, the power of their office to browbeat people.”
The preacher let Purdy go, turned on his heel and ran a hand through his hair. Shoulders slumped and bent slightly at the waist, as if the accusation itself was burdensome, he echoed, “Browbeat?”
It was more a statement than a question; the tremulous timber of his voice telling Purdy that he realized his actions—at least on this night—had proven the drunk correct.
Neither man spoke for a long time.
“If it’s a starin’ contest you’re after, Preacher-man,” Purdy ground out, “I’ll win, on accounta I ain’t got nothin’ but this ole broom to call my own. No place to go, nobody to go to.” He shifted his weight and leaned on the long, worn handle again, and with nothing more than the tilt of his gray-haired head, reminding the preacher that he had something to go home to. He nodded toward the rooms above the saloon. “Don’t rightly know why a man with a wife like Miss Polly would settle for one of them.”
This time, both of Atwood’s arms shot out. “Why, you miserable old fool,” he snarled, “I’ll teach you not to insult me!”
“Reminds me of the old days,” Purdy choked out, “when you used to beat your nephew. Why, you’d wallop that young’un for so much as lookin’ cross-eyed.”
He’d aimed his remark at the heart of the man, intending for it to sting, and it had. The evidence was written all over Josh Atwood’s strained face.
Purdy aimed the broom handle, too, and toppled the big man with one, well-placed jab to Atwood’s midsection. The big man hit the hard-packed dirt with a loud thud.
While he writhed and moaned, Purdy bent to retrieve the object that had fallen from Atwood’s pocket. He took a few steps toward the street, where the moonlight wasn’t blocked by buildings on either side of the narrow alleyway. “I’ll be,” he said to himself, “if this don’t beat all….”
Atwood was on his feet, bent at the waist and gripping his stomach when Purdy walked up to him. “It all makes sense now.”
“What makes sense?”
“Your nephew didn’t kill Horace Pickett ten years ago.”
Eyes closed, Atwood hung his head as Purdy said, “You did it!”
***
Deep breathing exercises, it was said, were the latest in respiratory therapy. If there’s any truth in that, Bess told herself, I have the healthiest lungs this side of the Mississippi!
True to her word, she’d stood at her window morning and night, scanning the horizon in the hopes of seeing Chance, riding home. So many lonely weeks had passed since he’d left Foggy Bottom. Bess had no reason to believe he’d return any time soon, or that he’d return at all. But she wouldn’t stop hoping.
She’d read his letter so many times that it felt more like cloth than paper now. To protect the fragile thing, she’d committed it to memory, then pressed it into the pages of her bible. Huddled in the w
indow seat, a chill late November wind ruffled her bangs as she recited her favorite part of his message: “‘Don’t forget me, Bess….’”
Bess could picture him saying it, pale blue eyes alight with love, sun-kissed hair gleaming, a tantalizing smile slanting his lips. He’d taken a big chance, signing his real name to that note, and she loved him all the more for it.
“How could I ever forget you!” she wondered aloud.
Leaning against the many-pillowed backrest, she pulled her long-fringed shawl tighter to fend off the crisp breeze, prepared now to watch the sun set in the west. God, she decided, possessed a magical, creative hand, for on this day, He’d painted the skies with streaks of brilliant orange and pale pink, adding bands of yellow as bright as brass above a layer of steely blue. The clouds, like shimmering soapsuds, reflected His colorful artistry, and reached their angel-fingers wide and long to touch the earth with rainbow hues of sparkling, spoke-like fronds.
The far-off cry of a hawk momentarily silenced the crickets’ chirp and the toads’ song. But soon, they rejoined the chorus of katydids and cicadas. The Almighty Conductor led His harmonious symphony, adding the occasional bleat of sheep, the here-and-there low of cow, a spirited whinnying of horse to the rhythm of twilight. It was a peaceful world outside her window. She couldn’t help but wonder as she drifted into a contented slumber if the good Lord had answered her prayers, and blessed Chance with peace tonight, wherever he was.
Hours later, a guttural howl woke her, blotting the euphonious tones of the night and shattering her calm. Bess sat up with a start and peered out the window. A wolf? Here? How could that be! She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature that had emitted the mournful sound.
The caged wolf she’d seen as a girl in Baltimore had not made a sound, save the soft padding of its constantly pacing paws. But she’d heard wolves several years later, when she’d traveled to Texas and Wyoming with her father to inspect cows and bulls that would become part of the Foggy Bottom herd. It was a sound like none other, and once heard, one that no one could ever forget….
A while back, there had been erratic reports of wolf sightings in the woods north of Freeland, but since no one could say for sure, they’d been dismissed as rumor. Bess considered the likelihood that, in her dream-like state, she’d only imagined the eerie, blood-curdling sound.
Glancing at the mantle clock, she realized she’d slept in her window seat for nearly two hours. Frowning, she wondered about that. She rarely required more than five hours of sleep at night; it simply wasn’t like her to sleep during the day. Sighing, she rose, intending to change into her night dress and slip under the covers. An extra hour or two of sleep couldn’t do me any harm, could it?
Leaving the window ajar, she crossed to the chiffarobe and opened its tall, mahogany doors, and bent to retrieve a high-collared white gown from the top drawer. Her hands froze, because there it was again…that hollow, keening cry….
Life on the farm had taught her to recognize and identify the sounds of the wild. This was not the wail of a dog, nor the yawp of a fox on the hunt. No animal but a wolf could produce a tone that was both pitiful and poignant.
Bess ran back to the window and scanned the horizon.
Nothing.
After seeing the caged wolf in Baltimore, little-girl Bess had made it her business to learn as much as she could about the species. Poring through hefty volumes in her father’s library, she’d learned they were intelligent, instinctual, and cunning, with much to compare them to people. Family was of ultimate importance to Bess, and family was of great value to wolves, too. She respected the way members of a pack protected one another…cubs in particular. Admired, too, that like humans, wolves mated for life. When death took half of a pair, the survivor mourned as deeply and profoundly as any human husband or wife.
Again, the rolling, lilting lamentation echoed over the farm, hovering, wavering like thick, doleful fog.
The wolf was alone. Bess knew that much because there had been no response to the call. Had that been the reason for the spellbindingly sorrowful notes of its song?
The mental picture of the wolf she’d seen all those years before in the heavy iron cage on the streets of Baltimore flashed through her mind. She saw, too, the face on the poster. What did they have in common?
Eyes as round and cold as ice that had, with one coolly level look, instantly permeated her mind, her heart, her soul. During the moments that their gazes and hers melded, she had read their thoughts, shared their emotions.
And concluded that they’d both wanted one and the same thing:
Freedom.
***
“It was an accident, Smitty, I swear….”
The deputy’s cackling laughter bounced off the stone walls of the jailhouse. “I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could buy me new horse.” The iron bars of the cell rang like a piano tuner’s fork when he slammed the door. With calm deliberation, he made a regular production of turning the big black key in its lock.
Tossing the key ring into the top desk drawer, Smitty paced back and forth in front of the bars. “You got some nerve, Preacher, I’ll give you that.”
Josh Atwood sat on the edge of the narrow cot, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
Stopping dead in his tracks, Smitty threw both hands into the air. “They was takin’ W.C. to the gallows when that jail wagon overturned.” He stared at his prisoner. “And you would-a let him swing for a murder you committed, wouldn’t you!”
Atwood only continued to stare at some unknown spot on the gritty floor between his boots.
Smitty’s face crinkled, as though he’d just inhaled a dreadful odor. “Yep, you got some nerve, all right.”
Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he headed across the room and settled into the worn seat of the wooden armchair. Propping his boot heels on the corner of the desk, he helped himself to one of the sheriff’s toothpicks. “You have two choices, Preacher,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “You can tell me your story, or you can wait ‘til the sheriff gets back.”
Atwood, still holding his head in his hands, said nothing.
Smitty’s feet hit the floor one at a time and he sat up. “Don’t it just beat all?” he said again, weather-worn hands folded on the desk top. “The sheriff’s out east, followin’ up on a lead that might he’p him bring in poor ol’ W.C., when Horace’s real killer has been here in Lubbock, right under his nose, the whole time.” He shook his head again. “If a judge and jury don’t kill ya, Carter likely will. You know how many times he’s left his wife and young’uns to go on a wild goose chase to get that boy?”
Sitting back again, he grabbed a stubby pencil and a sheet of paper from the desk drawer. “So what’s it gonna be, Preacher? You want me to write down your account of what happened that night? Or is the sheriff gonna do it when he gets back?”
Atwood didn’t move, save to heave a deep sigh. “Didn’t know you could read or write, Smitty,” he said in a quiet, spent voice.
Another chuckle preceded the deputy’s retort. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Preacher.” He worked the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth. “I’ve known how to read an’ write goin’ on seven years now. But then, I don’t suppose I would-a noticed much these past ten years, either, if I’d framed my brother’s son for a murder that—“
He was on his feet in a whipstitch, fingers wrapped tight around the thick black bars. “It wasn’t murder, I tell you! It was an—“
“Pardon me if I sound a mite sharp,” Smitty interrupted. Then, in a high-pitched nasal whimper, he quoted Atwood: “‘It was an accident. An accident.’” The steady ticking of the big round clock on the wall drew his attention. “I got fifteen minutes afore I have to make my morning rounds.” Pressing the rounded pencil point against the paper, he said, “Now, start talkin’….”
***
“B’lieve me, Missus Pickett, I’m sober as a judge, an’ I promise
you, I wouldn’t ring your bell if what I had to say wasn’t important.”
The reed-thin woman in the high-collared black dress hesitated a moment, then opened the door wider and cringed slightly as Joe Purdy stepped into her dimly-lit foyer.
Purdy held up a hand as she began moving toward the parlor. “Ma’am, I appreciate the invite, but I wouldn’t want to soil your fancy settee. If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon skip the pleasantries and get on with it, right here in the hall.”
Mrs. Pickett did not close the door. One pale, wrinkled hand remained on the brass knob as she said, “Very well, then, Mr. Purdy, state your business.”
“W.C. Atwood did not kill your husband.”
She lifted her chin a notch and exhaled a sigh of frustration. “You said you weren’t drunk, Mr. Purdy. You gave me your word, and I believed you.”
“I ain’t had a drop since yesterday morning,” he interrupted, standing a little taller. “The man who really killed Mr. Pickett is at the jailhouse right now, confessin’ to the crime.”
Her thin, graying eyebrows knitted in the center of her wrinkled forehead. “Are you daft? The killer is out there somewhere….” With her free hand, the widow gestured toward the bustling street. “…on the loose, as he has been for—“
“—ten long years,” Purdy said softly, “for a crime he didn’t commit.”
She blinked, then blinked again as the weight of his words sunk in. “Someone has admitted it, you say?”
“Josh Atwood.”
Lips taut, she narrowed her eyes. “You don’t expect me to believe that Godly man could have committed cold-blooded murder!”
“He claims it was an accident. Said he never meant for it to happen.”
“An accident?” She closed the door and led the way into the parlor, where a teapot and two cups and saucers sat on the ornate cherry wood table in front of the divan.
Purdy inspected the set-up. “You expectin’ company, Miz Pickett?”
She blushed deeply, then bit her lower lip. “No.” Sighing, the widow added, “I have always believed in being prepared, is all. Now, how do you take your tea, Mr. Purdy,” she asked, lifting the lid of the gleaming silver sugar bowl, “one lump or two?””
