by Lisa Bingham
Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on her lips.
“That’s what friends are for,” he said, then could have kicked himself. He’d long since passed the “friend” stage in regards to Lydia. Somehow, she’d managed to wriggle her way into his head and his heart. She’d converted a die-hard, confirmed bachelor into a tongue-tied suitor who was suddenly thinking about finding a ring and planning for a future together.
Boom!
Their horses started, reminding Gideon that this was neither the time nor the place to wax poetic. They had a battle to win; a town to protect. And before it was through, Gideon intended to ensure that Lydia had the confrontation she so badly wanted. Maybe then, Gideon could find a way to banish the last of the shadows in her eyes.
“Come on. Let’s get into position before Charles uses all of his dynamite.”
Chapter Seventeen
Charles lowered the plunger on the last of the set charges and ran toward the crate of loose dynamite.
“We’ve knocked down at least a dozen riders, but we still need to take out that cannon!”
Some of Tomlinson’s men thundered past them, but Charles knew that the cannon being pulled on its caisson had been toward the rear. Scanning the area, Charles realized that Tomlinson would place the heavy-duty weapon on the last ridge before the road swept down through town.
“Granville! Grab a handful of dynamite and follow me!”
Ruing the fact that he was about to lose a perfectly good hat, Charles nudged a few hot coals into the crown, then ran toward a spot in the road where they could get within feet of the wagon tracks, yet still be shielded by a large stand of boulders.
“On my mark, start lighting the fuses then hand the sticks to me!”
Hugh Granville knelt in the mud, a fuse hovering over the coals.
“Now!”
As soon as the fuse began to burn, Granville handed the stick to Charles. Standing, he threw it in the direction of the pair of horses pulling the caisson.
Yards too short.
He grabbed the next one.
Almost within range.
He waited a second. Two.
Boom!
A glance at the dynamite at their feet reminded him that they only had three sticks left, and the horses were coming fast. Most of the riders had veered off the road to avoid the explosions or were fighting to control their startled mounts.
Boom!
The next stick detonated near the team’s feet and the horses reared. For a moment, the caisson tipped, frightening the animals even more. Then the heavy cart flipped to its side, skidding through the mud and matted grass as the horses tore free of the traces and thundered toward the river.
Without thinking, Charles ran forward, tossing the dynamite directly beneath the cannon. Then, just as quickly, he dived for cover.
Boom!
He still had his hands wrapped protectively around his head when a strange pinging rattle filled the air. He looked up in time to see bits of metal and wood fly upwards before hurtling back down to earth amidst the acrid smell of scorched earth and gunpowder.
Granville slapped Charles on the back. “Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful.”
Charles rose to his knees, allowing himself to take one last peek at the crater in the ground and the team running untethered along the riverbank. Then he pushed himself to his feet and whistled sharply to the rest of his men.
“Let’s get back to town!”
* * *
The moment she heard the first charges, Willow closed her eyes for another quick prayer, asking the Lord to watch over Charles and his men.
Please, please don’t let any of them get hurt.
Then, she was opening her eyes, trying to make sense of the army of men rushing into the valley.
At first, the figures were little more than a blur. Then, she saw a few riders fly into the air, their horses tumbling in grotesque somersaults.
Somehow, she felt no compunction at all for the men, but it pained her to see the horses’ plight, and she was relieved when the huge animals righted themselves, many of them scattering, riderless, toward the hills.
Squeals of delight filled the air, and it wasn’t until she heard Batchwell’s distant, “Thatta boy, Charles!” before she realized that she’d been the one to make the noises.
She began counting the explosions.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
There couldn’t have been time for Charles and his men to have set more, could there?
Sure enough, the large reverberations were followed by smaller reports. Despite the smoke and grass and mud being thrown into the air, she could see that the explosions seemed to be tracking the arrival of the cannon.
Suddenly, the caisson seemed to waver, tip. Then, to her horror, she saw Charles racing into the open.
“No, Charles, no!”
Just as quickly as he’d left the shelter of the boulders, he turned and dived back toward them. Then the air was filled with dirt and chunks of what she supposed was the remains of the cannon.
“Do you see him, Mrs. Wanlass?” Batchwell called from his spot next door.
She squinted, trying to pierce the smoke and dirt and debris, then was finally rewarded with the sight of Charles and his men running toward the Dovecote.
“Yes! Yes, I see him. Charles and his men are running toward the riverbank!”
“No, Mrs. Wanlass. Do you see that rider? He’s circling behind the row houses and heading straight up the hill toward you.”
A burst of sheer terror shot through her system.
“Where?”
“Look slightly to your left, directly behind the steeple of the Meeting House.”
She followed Batchwell’s directions and zeroed in on a horse and rider picking his way up the steep slope. As he grew closer, her body tensed, a part of her recognizing his lanky frame before her brain could catch up.
The so-called Pinkerton who had come to the valley from the outside world no longer wore the distinctive blue jacket.
“We need help, Mr. Batchwell! I don’t think I can get a clean shot from this angle.”
Too late, she realized that Batchwell couldn’t move, and short of bellowing at the top of his lungs...
Whirling, she ran from the room, taking the grand front staircase as quickly as she dared. Then she heard it, the strident jangling of the bell that had nearly driven Boris to distraction. It continued on and on until she heard other footsteps running toward her. Anna and Sophie ran into the hall from the rear. Iona from the side. Enid must have stayed at her post on one of the rear balconies.
“Iona, open the front door!” Willow whispered. “Just a few inches.”
Willow eased backward into the bare space that would one day be Mr. Batchwell’s music room. Except for an enormous piano, it had yet to be furnished. “Anna, Sophie! Get out of sight.”
Iona unlatched the door, then dodged into the music room with Willow.
“What are we doing?”
Willow held a finger to her lips.
The gusting spring breeze caught the edge of the door, swinging it a little wider. As Willow had hoped, the hinges, rusty from a long, wet winter, issued a slow squeeeak.
From outside, she could hear the horse lunging up the last portion of the hill. The sound of the animal struggling to catch its breath after a nearly vertical climb helped Willow track the rider as he approached the front lane.
Willow doubted that anyone had ever entered Batchwell’s home through the heavy front door. The only people who ever visited were mine employees and his business partner, Phineas Bottoms. As far as she knew, most of them preferred using the back gate and the smaller portal leading into the kitchen.
Willow heard the crunch of boots on the gravel. Then the
hollow thud of a boot heel on the front steps.
Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears, she could barely hear the squeaky hinge as the door eased open, inch by agonizing inch. Then, the shape of a man’s shadow slid across the marble entry.
She lifted the rifle, sighting down the barrel. As her finger wrapped around the trigger, she remembered how Charles had once protected their family with such a weapon. He’d been so careful not to take a human life.
Adjusting her aim ever so slowly, she waited, growing nearly light-headed with nerves as the Pinkerton-who-was-not-a-Pinkerton stepped into view. She let him take one step. Two. Three.
Lord give me strength. Help me protect my babies, Ezra and my friends.
Her heart threatened to burst from her chest, but she waited until the man had reached the center of the entry hall.
“Don’t move,” she warned. Surprisingly, her voice emerged low and steady.
The man froze, his revolver still at the ready. Since Willow stood slightly behind him, he slowly turned to face her.
Keeping her eyes on his weapon and not his face, she made a sharp gesture with the tip of her rifle.
“Put the revolver down.”
“Now, missy, I don’t think I can do that. You see, I’ve been sent here to take care of some business, and I intend to do it.”
“Put...it...down.”
Even through her peripheral vision, she could see the sly smile that spread across his lips. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve got orders to collect the owner of this here mine, and I intend to do it.” He shrugged carelessly. “My own boss has a whopping temper, and there’s nothing on earth I’d like less than to anger the man.”
“Ladies!” Willow called out.
Anna and Sophie stepped from the doorways on either side of the entry.
Seeing that he was surrounded, Eddington offered a conciliatory, “Now, see here, there’s no reason to get all feisty with me.”
Lifting his hands, he seemed ready to surrender. Then suddenly, he dropped to his knee, firing in Willow’s direction.
Before Willow could even react, a shot reverberated in the narrow space, the sound echoing off the marble tiles and arching ceiling. Then the man howled, the revolver dropping on the floor and skittering several feet away. He gripped his shoulder where a blossom of red appeared.
Instantly, Willow and the other women rushed to pin the stranger beneath three sets of weapons.
“Iona! Find something we can use to tie him up.”
“I’ve already thought of that.” Iona hurried to the figure on the floor, carrying the tasseled tie-back cords that had once held the drapes in the music room.
She and Sophie bound Eddington’s arms and legs so tightly together that Willow doubted he would have any feeling left in his extremities. But she couldn’t seem to feel sorry for him. Only when he lay immobilized did Willow relax, ever so slightly. But when she saw a bullet hole in the lintel nearby, she stiffened again.
“Who took the shot?”
She looked at Anna and Sophie, but the women shook their heads.
It was only when she heard a clattering from the grand staircase that she found Batchwell clinging to the railing.
He faltered, then half sat, half fell onto the upper step.
“Mr. Batchwell!” Willow cried out, hurrying up to help him straighten his broken leg to a more comfortable position. “I thought I told you to stay in the bedroom.”
His features were pale, and she prayed he hadn’t injured himself even more.
Willow set her rifle on the stair beside him so she could touch his brow. As she’d feared, he felt clammy and cold to the touch.
He grinned reassuringly. “I couldn’t let a man with a gun come upstairs, Mrs. Wanlass. Not with those sweet babes up here. And I wasn’t about to let any of you women feel the weight of a man’s blood on your hands.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I wonder if you and the other ladies could help me through the kitchen to the back gate. A few moments ago, I saw Boris and a group of men thundering up the hill with a team and a wagon.” He pointed to the man wriggling on the ground. “We’ll have them lock this miscreant in the cellar for now. Then, as soon as it seems safe enough, we’ll head into town.”
* * *
Gideon eased his horse a little closer to the edge of the trees, not sure where he should look. Much like Clinton Tomlinson, he and Lydia had a general’s view of the battle down below. He saw the last of Charles’s explosions, then the glorious sight of the cannon and caisson lifting into the air and disintegrating into pieces.
His gaze swept ahead to the riders who’d managed to make their way through the charges. They’d only gone a few yards when their horses began tumbling to the ground.
“What on earth?” he murmured.
He caught Lydia’s secret smile. “Myra and Miriam strung a clothes line across the road.”
“Landsakes! You women have displayed more strategy in the last few days than Ulysses S. Grant himself.”
The group of men who followed split like a stream flowing around a sandbar. They avoided their fallen comrades, then coalesced again, heading straight for the center of town. By this time, they’d learned to slow their gait to a cautious walk. As they headed into the main thoroughfare, they looked puzzled by the fact that no one appeared to stop them. To them, the streets must have seemed deserted.
They rode to the spot where the lane leading to the Meeting House butted up against the Miners’ Hall on one side and the cook shack on the other. For a moment, they gestured to one another, probably trying to decipher which of the many buildings and narrow alleys would lead them to the warehouse where the stockpiles of silver had been stored.
From his vantage point, Gideon could make out the dark shadows of the men crouching behind the false fronts or lying flat against the rooftops. If he hadn’t known that they were there, he doubted he would have picked them out in the gathering gloom—and he hoped that Clinton Tomlinson hadn’t noticed them, either.
“Why are they waiting?” Lydia whispered.
“They want as many of your father’s men to congregate in town before they spring their trap.”
The last of the stragglers finally caught up with their cohorts, and Gideon knew that Dobbs and Jonah Ramsey would soon make their moves.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Gideon asked Lydia one last time, gesturing to her father.
“Oh, yeah.”
A few yards below them, Clinton Tomlinson sat uneasily in his saddle.
Do it, Jonah. Do it!
As if Jonah had heard Gideon’s thoughts, his men swarmed from the alleys and buildings near the mine. At the same moment, those on the rooftops stood, while Dobbs sent his contingent of men swarming in from the opposite side.
Gideon heard a few scattered shots, but then...
Nothing.
Realizing that they were surrounded by hundreds of men and women, the Tommy Gang reluctantly threw their weapons to the ground, held up their hands, then awkwardly dismounted.
At the same moment, Lydia clucked to her mount and left the shelter of the trees.
* * *
Lydia barely felt the movement of the horse beneath her. She moved as quietly as she could, stopping a few feet behind her father. Her pulse roared in her ears as she watched Clinton Tomlinson pull the hat from his head and slap it against his leg in frustration. He muttered to himself, then shouted, “Cowards. Cowards!”
Grasping the reins, he jerked them to the side, making the gelding beneath him stutter-step at the rough treatment, then balk altogether.
That moment of hesitation was enough for Clinton Tomlinson to realize that he wasn’t alone.
“Hello, Father,” Lydia said quietly. “Going so soon?”
She could see the muscles of his jaw clench and rele
ase, clench and release.
“I figured I’d find you here,” he said coldly. “I take it that all this—” he waved toward the valley and the miners who had begun to round up his gang “—is your doing.”
“No. This time, you picked the wrong target. The residents of Aspen Valley take care of their own.”
Like the whip of an attacking rattler, he reached for his revolver. But Lydia, just as quickly, had him within her own sights. The years of riding with her father seemed to disappear, and the less than savory skills he’d taught her came as easily to her as they’d done as a young girl.
Her father offered her a grin, but there was no humor to it, merely a nasty streak of cruelty.
“I suppose that you mean to betray your own blood again. What kind of person turns on her own family?”
Lydia waited for the words to sting—just as similar statements had done when she’d taken the witness box and her father had cursed her for ever being born.
But as she stared at him, noting how the passage of time had darkened his skin to leather, brought a hunch to his shoulders, and made him seem somehow...smaller...
She realized that she didn’t feel guilty. She didn’t feel...
Anything.
If she’d learned anything during the years with her aunts Rosie and Florence, and her time here at Bachelor Bottoms, it was that families weren’t always formed through birth. Sometimes, they were chosen.
The moment that thought whispered through her consciousness, Lydia felt as if her spirit grew, stretched, then wriggled free from years of guilt and turmoil. This man may have been responsible for bringing her into the world, but he wasn’t a “father.” Not in the truest sense of the word. Fathers were men like Charles, who openly loved and protected their children, or like Jonah, who would one day support his own offspring with as much enthusiasm as he supported his wife.
Or like Gideon had shown when he let her take the lead in this confrontation, but guarded her back, nonetheless.
“You’ve broken the law. For that, you’ll go back to prison.”
Her father laughed—a jarring, rasping guffaw. “And who’s going to stop me?” His thumb hovered near the hammer of his revolver. “You?”
