* * *
“Violet! Violet!” Clay yelled through the white mist, but she wouldn’t answer him. He repeated her name over and over, hoping she would hear him. In an instant the mist cleared, and he saw her walking toward him with a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand.
“Sit with me,” she said, making her way to the blanket he’d placed on the ground. But she stopped and turned to her son behind her.
A moment later, Violet reached for Mark’s hand, and together they started walking away from him. Violet turned back to him and smiled. “We will wait for you.” He watched, feeling helpless as they disappeared. Why didn’t she ask him to go with them?
“Wait!” He watched the spot where they had vanished for a long time, hoping they would return. Growing frustrated that he could no longer see them, he started to turn away, but he saw a flicker of movement. She was back! No, it wasn’t Violet. The woman was tall, nothing like the delicate, petite woman he loved. It was Emma Langtry. He didn’t want her here, not in this special place where he had asked Violet to marry him. It was their place, and Emma had no business intruding. “Why are you here?”
She gazed at him with her large blue eyes, but she didn’t reply.
He wavered between telling her to go away, and a longing he didn’t understand. He felt angry with himself for wanting her to come closer. An instant passed, and Emma also disappeared.
He was sitting on the ground holding his dead wife and son in a field ablaze with colorful wildflowers. He wanted to be with them. He’d done everything he could to get himself killed. Each time he’d faced one of the killers who had murdered his wife and son, he’d pray that they’d kill him when he challenged them to a gunfight. But he was the one who always walked away. Was he left on this earth to endure the pain for some reason he didn’t understand?
The dream changed yet again. He was standing in the middle of the street in Deadwood. He was facing down one of the men who had been on his ranch that day. He barely recognized himself. Four years of hate and seeking retribution had taken its toll. He’d become accustomed to surviving on little sleep, and rarely having a decent meal. He looked like a madman with his scruffy beard, long hair, and death in his eyes. He felt a weariness so deep in his bones that he wasn’t certain he was human any longer. The man he once was no longer existed. Some said he was little better than the men he’d hunted down. They were right. He said something to the man he was going to kill. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear what he was saying, he knew the look in his own eyes. Like the other men he’d killed, he expected the man to say the same words. He wasn’t the one who’d pulled the trigger that day, he wasn’t the one who killed his wife and little boy. Clay didn’t care. The man needed to die just like the other men who had been on his ranch that day. His hunt would end when he found the remaining two men who killed Violet and Mark. But until that day came, he wasn’t going to leave any of the men breathing air that his wife and son could no longer breathe. Clay whipped his pistol out and shot the man dead before the man’s pistol left his holster.
* * *
Clay awoke with a start. He knew he’d been dreaming of Violet and Mark. But then he remembered Emma was in this dream. She wasn’t part of his past, and he felt the flame of resentment. He wouldn’t allow her to interfere with his memories of his family. If the dreams ended, he might never see his wife and son again. And that was something he didn’t know if he could live with. He’d loved his life on his ranch with his wife and son. He’d been happy then. They were the reason for his very existence; the motivation to get out of bed in the morning and work sixteen-hour days on the ranch. He could only relive those days in his dreams, but he couldn’t let them go.
He felt like a dog chasing its tail. He loved seeing them, but the pain of waking always overwhelmed him. And he was reminded of the price he’d paid with his soul for his revenge. God forgive him. He bowed his head and prayed for forgiveness, the same prayer he’d said so many times before. Logic told him he’d been forgiven the first time he’d asked, but each time he remembered the men he’d killed, he felt the need to ask again.
He closed his eyes and thought of the day he’d asked Violet to marry him. It was a beautiful summer day, and he had placed the quilt by the lake—the special place where he’d planned for days to ask for her hand in marriage. He hadn’t known Violet long—she’d only moved to Kansas a few months before—but he knew he loved her. He thought he fell in love from the moment he met her. She was everything a man could want, or need in a wife. Violet was as beautiful as her name, and she was the most gentle woman he’d ever known. She was young and naïve, but he looked forward to introducing her to the pleasures of married life. He knew they’d face hardships—everyone did—but he envisioned a long and happy life together.
He leaned over and took her chin in his hand, urging her face closer to his. He was so close, all he had to do was lean in just a little bit and his lips would be covering hers. He did. The kiss was meant to be chaste, but when his lips met hers, he forgot all about his good intentions. The kiss was sensual, and he was overcome with longings he’d been able to control until that moment. He’d tempted fate, and his self-control was nearly lost. Before he considered the consequences of what he was doing, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her on top of him as he stretched out on his back.
Violet immediately pulled away and scooted off his body. “Clay, what on earth are you doing? You know that isn’t proper.”
Clay ran a hand over his face, and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. No, he hadn’t been proper; he’d lost his head. “I can’t take it anymore, Violet, you have to marry me.”
Violet laced him with a look that he’d not seen before. For someone so gentle, he thought he was getting a glimpse of Violet annoyed for the first time. Yet the inflection in her voice didn’t change. “What do you mean, you can’t take it anymore? Am I so terrible to take?”
Clay straightened and looked her in the eye. “No, honey, I don’t mean it that way. I mean I want to marry you. I would right this minute if you will have me.” When she remained quiet, he said, “You know we’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. Don’t you want to marry me?”
She smiled up at him sweetly. “How many children do you want?”
Clay didn’t know if she was laying a trap for him, but either way, he thought he was man enough for the job. “We can have one a year if you want.”
Violet laughed. “Well, maybe not that many.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “What if we have daughters instead of sons?”
He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “That’s fine with me, as long as they look like you.”
She turned her head to him so he would kiss her again. “Are you positive you want to marry me?”
Clay pulled away; this time he was the one with questions. He’d thought from the day they met that they would marry, but she may have changed her mind. “Yes, I’m positive. Do you want to marry me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then what are we waiting for? The sooner we marry, the sooner we can—” He kissed her again to get his point across.
“Father will be back later today. You can speak to him then.”
“Let’s marry this Saturday.” Clay didn’t think he had the restraint to stay away from her much longer.
She smiled. “Saturday would be perfect.”
* * *
“Why were you so rude to Clay this morning?” Rose asked when she was alone with Emma, cooking dinner.
“Rude? Me?” Emma asked innocently. “He was the one who was rude. Not even saying good-bye to Morgan last night after he was kind enough to include him in our dinner party.”
“But he came here specifically to apologize,” Rose reminded her.
Emma shrugged. “The point is, he should have been more mannerly last night.”
Rose frowned at her. “No, that is not the point. You were rude and you know it.”
&nb
sp; Emma didn’t want to discuss Clay Hunt. Yes, she had been rude, and she didn’t know why. She’d asked herself the same question a thousand times today. She’d also asked herself why she hadn’t refused his dinner invitation. He might be the last man she wanted to dine with. “Do you want me to peel the potatoes for dinner?”
“That would be very helpful,” Rose replied. She knew her sister was thinking over her question. She’d always been evasive when she didn’t want to talk about something.
“You were terrible to him,” Rose said.
Emma made a face at her sister, and then threw her hands in the air. “I was terrible, wasn’t I? Why do you think he was so interested in talking to Frank’s girlfriend? Don’t you think that was odd? Did you notice how he kept staring at her all through dinner? Now that was rude. He ignored all of us.”
Rose thought about Clay’s actions last night. She had noticed that he seemed particularly interested in Leigh King. “I think he felt sorry for her. He was on that stagecoach with me, and he saw firsthand how Frank acted. He probably just wants to save her from Frank.”
Emma was skeptical. “I think it’s more than that. I think he’s interested in her.”
Rose didn’t get her meaning. “He’s the pastor of the town and he takes an interest in the people here.”
“I mean I think he’s interested in her, not as a pastor, but as a man.”
“You aren’t serious,” Rose said.
“Very serious. Being a pastor doesn’t mean he can’t be smitten with a woman. He’s not married, is he?”
Rose thought Emma was acting like she was a wronged woman. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous? Why should I be jealous? I don’t even know the man.” Emma told herself it wasn’t jealousy, she simply didn’t approve of rude behavior.
“Maybe you want to know him better,” Rose suggested.
“I most certainly do not. What do you really know about him?”
“I met him on the stagecoach from Boston. We rode all the way together, and he was a perfect gentleman. Morgan and Jack both like and respect him. What more do I need to know?” Rose asked.
“Where did he preach before he came here? Why did he come to a small town like Whispering Pines to preach? If he is so good, why isn’t he preaching in a larger town like Boston?”
Rose looked at her sister. “Why do I need to know all of those things to know that he is a good person? Besides, Granny wrote to churches to see if they could recommend someone, and she was given Clay’s name. I don’t think we could have found a more worthy man.”
“People are often not what they seem,” Emma countered.
Rose smiled. “Then why didn’t you tell him not to bother picking you up tomorrow night if you are so concerned about his character?”
Now that was a question Emma couldn’t answer. “When he arrives, I may tell him I changed my mind.”
Granny walked into the room, and she’d overheard the last part of their conversation. “No, you won’t. If you do not want to go to dinner with Clay, you can take yourself into town early enough to tell him before he makes that ride out here in a buggy. I won’t have you being unkind to anyone, especially Clay.”
Rose and Emma exchanged a look of surprise.
“Granny, I was teasing. I wouldn’t really do him that way,” Emma said.
Granny seemed appeased, and smiled at her eldest granddaughter. “I’m glad. I would hate to think you’ve changed that much. I understand you’ve always been quick to give your opinions, but Clay is a good man. No, he hasn’t been a perfect man his whole life, but he’s suffered because of his choices. He’s also had a lot of sadness.”
“What kind of sadness?” Emma asked.
“That’s not for me to say. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. Of course, he might be a bit more inclined to tell you things if you treat him a little nicer.”
Emma hadn’t made up her mind if she wanted to know anything about Clay. What was the purpose? He’d obviously set his sights on Mrs. King.
“You might also remember how he stood up for you in church. I can tell you some of the members were mighty angry at him for going to Denver,” Granny reminded her.
“I don’t understand why he came to the performance if he knew he was going against their wishes,” Emma said.
“He had the gumption not to back down,” Granny said. “You heard what he told them. He was supporting a member of the church family, and that a pastor would do the greatest good where sin abounds.”
Chapter Nine
After midnight, Dutch Malloy led the gang through the meandering trails in Purgatory Canyon. At his instruction, they dressed in dark clothing, and rode quietly through the canyon floor. He’d learned the hard way that sounds carried a long way in this canyon. Lawmen, just like outlaws, usually made the same mistake of giving away their location by doing something stupid. Dutch planned to take the men to Frank’s hideout, a place that had proven to be safe for them between rustles. Frank always said he’d never seen anyone near the place.
Dutch figured since Frank was the only one in the gang without a bounty on his head, they’d never see him again. And that fact rubbed Dutch the wrong way. Frank had the good fortune to marry a judge’s daughter, but that didn’t make it right that he wasn’t on a wanted poster like the rest of them. Dutch had never had Frank’s luck, but he hoped that was about to change. The best way he could get back at Frank Langtry was to find Culpepper and Taggart and steal back their money. If what they had heard was true, Culpepper and Taggart had been holed up in Purgatory Canyon since they’d robbed them. He figured that was good news since they couldn’t exactly spend money in Purgatory Canyon. If they were able to get the money back, Dutch planned to make certain Frank found out. Harper wasn’t a wanted man, and when he rode back to Denver, he could let Frank know about the money. Dutch knew he could count on Frank to show up if he knew they had stolen the money back from Culpepper and Taggart. This time, Dutch planned to settle the score with Frank.
Almost two hours had passed before they found the small cabin. Dutch rode to the lean-to they’d constructed the last time they were there to shelter their animals.
“I’d say this is a good hideout. I’m surprised you found it in the first place,” Harper said.
“Frank found it a long time ago,” Dutch said. “I figure tomorrow we’ll go down to the area where we will have a bird’s-eye view of who is coming and going in the canyon. Frank said there are more cabins, so maybe we’ll get lucky and spot some smoke. If Culpepper and Taggart are in here, you can bet they have a fire in this weather.”
“I already smelled smoke before we entered the canyon,” Harper said.
Dutch didn’t doubt Harper’s word; he’d never met a more experienced tracker.
“Don’t that mean they can spot the fire from our cabin?” Corbin asked.
“Frank told me that’s why he liked this spot. The fire couldn’t be seen from the other cabins in the canyon. Let’s just hope they don’t have Harper’s nose. If that old Sioux hasn’t died, he’ll know where Culpepper and Taggart are hiding out. I brought some whiskey for him in case he doesn’t feel like talking.”
“Do you know his hideout?” Harper asked.
“Yeah, Frank showed me. It’s a ways from here. We’ll have to wait until morning. I don’t think I can find it in the dark,” Dutch replied.
Before dawn, Deke and Corbin left the cabin and made their way up on a top ledge to see if they could spot smoke, while Dutch and Harper went in search of Indian Pete. They were within ten feet of the old man’s cabin, when they heard the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked back behind them.
“What do you want?” Indian Pete asked.
Dutch turned slowly to face the older man with his hands in the air. “We want to talk. You remember me? I was with Frank Langtry last time I was here.”
“I remember Langtry.” Indian Pete spat on the ground as if saying Frank’s name left a bad taste in his mouth.
“We ain’t with Frank now. We’re looking for some men that we think are hiding out in here. Killers by the name of Culpepper and Taggart.”
Indian Pete gave Dutch a blank stare, and Dutch made a move to reach inside his coat pocket for the whiskey bottle he’d brought along. “I brought whiskey.” At Pete’s nod, Dutch pulled the bottle from his pocket.
“Why are you looking for these two men?”
“Like I said, they are killers and they robbed us. We want what they took from us.”
The old man turned his eyes on Harper. “I’ve not seen you here before.”
“I’ve not been here,” Harper said simply.
“What did these men take?”
Dutch didn’t hesitate to tell the truth. “Money, guns, and all of our supplies. Killed one of our men.” Dutch removed the cap from the whiskey bottle and passed it to the old man.
Uncocking his rifle, Indian Pete held it with one hand as he accepted the bottle. “Those men are here.” He pointed to a rock, indicating the men should sit. After he took a drink, he handed the bottle back to Dutch. Dutch took a swig and gave it to Harper.
“Do you know where?” Dutch asked.
Indian Pete nodded. “I know.”
“If you point the way, I’ll leave you with some money,” Dutch said.
“I’m an old man. I need supplies for winter. I don’t leave this canyon anymore.”
Dutch looked at the old Indian’s sun-weathered face, thinking he looked more like his saddle than man. He was so thin, a stiff wind could blow him over the canyon walls. Dutch couldn’t imagine what it would be like to survive in this canyon for years. Frank had spent a lot of time in this canyon, and Dutch wondered if that was what was wrong with him. Half the time, he thought Frank was plumb loco. Indian Pete had been captive to the rocks for so many years, it was surprising he wasn’t part of the landscape by now. “I’ll leave you all of our supplies, and whatever Culpepper and Taggart have with them, you can keep.”
Christmas in Whispering Pines Page 9
