Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

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  The Lawless Women trilogy is dedicated to the memory of Jimmie H. Deal, Sr., my beloved father who passed away on December 24, 1995.

  PROLOGUE

  Something’s wrong. Dread gripped Hannah, jerking her out of her dozing reverie. Her heart tom-tomming like a war drum, she straightened up on the buckboard seat and clutched at her woolen shawl. She looked over at Jacey. “Did you say something?”

  “No. Why?” Threading the team’s reins through her fingers, Jacey spared her a black-eyed glance.

  “I thought I heard or felt—Never mind.” Frowning, Hannah turned to the wagon’s second seat. Their heads together, Glory and Biddy gossiped and giggled. Facing forward again, still spooked, Hannah searched the low hills that stretched to the horizon. No raised dust to warn of riders. No birds suddenly taking wing. Just the prairie’s silence. Just the yellowing buffalo grass, the occasional scrub oak, and the bright reds and deep purples of September’s wildflowers.

  Everything looked normal, even the lowering sun’s pink and yellow rays. But the feeling persisted, increasing Hannah’s anxiousness. She turned again to her younger sister and clutched her coat sleeve. “Jacey, stop the team. Something’s wrong.”

  Jacey frowned at Hannah as she pulled her arm free. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  Hannah shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s not me. It’s … home.”

  From under her old slouch hat, Jacey eyed Hannah. “Home? How do you know? We’ve been gone overnight.”

  “Please, Jacey. Don’t get stubborn on me now. Just rein the team in so I can look around.”

  The roans continued their plodding pace while Jacey stared at Hannah as if she’d just grown a second nose. “I mean it, Jacey. Stop them now. Or I will.”

  Jacey grimaced as she began hauling back on the reins. “Fine. I’ll stop ’em.” Her abrupt motions startled the horses into a sidestepping dance. Their grunts lifted in the air, mingling with the startled squawks and cries coming from Glory and Biddy.

  From behind Hannah came Glory’s angry words. “Jacey, you came near to throwing me and Biddy to the floorboards. What’s gotten into you?”

  Jacey spun to face the youngest Lawless sister. “Hannah’s the one with a burr up her skirt, so ask her. She says something’s wrong—”

  “What’s this, Hannah? What in thunder could be wrong?” Biddy Jensen fussed. She looked like a plump old settin’ hen as she pursed her lips and resettled the ruffled feathers of her clothing.

  “That’s what I aim to find out,” Hannah told her, standing to peer into the dusky distance. A mocking breeze pulled and tugged at her skirt. But she focused on the next rise, to the just-visible roof of their ranch home. She needed to see more. “Jacey, move the team up some. Just enough so I can see the house.”

  Fussing under her breath, Jacey nevertheless obeyed. She called out to the horses, slapping the reins against their rumps. The team jumped forward with a lurching motion and then stopped just as jarringly.

  Hannah pitched back onto the hard seat, clutched at its edges, and shot Jacey a look. “I swear, Jacey Catherine Lawless, if you’re not every bit as contrary as Papa, then I don’t know who is.” With that, she stood again and studied what should have been a welcoming sight. But wasn’t somehow.

  Smoke came out of the chimney. Wind ruffled the leaves on the black willow next to the house. But not one living thing moved about. The calm, deathlike quiet was exactly what was wrong. A shuddering shiver slipped over Hannah’s skin, making her clutch at her fringed shawl.

  Then, a sense of urgency seized her. They should hightail it for the house. Overriding her rash inclinations were Papa’s words, his careful training of his three daughters. Hannah fancied she could hear him now, preaching caution. Don’t rush into danger. Put your nose to the wind, like a coyote or a prairie dog. Heed your instincts—that’s why the Almighty gave them to you.

  Doing just that, Hannah made a slow sweep of the property. Then, her gaze riveted on the one detail that screamed trouble. A knee-weakening flush lanced through Hannah. No light shone from inside. Mama always lit the kerosene lamps the minute the shadows got long. She hated the dark.

  A hand gripped Hannah’s shoulder, spooking her into crying out and jerking around. Glory shrank back and clutched at Biddy’s ample arm. Relief mingled with exasperation in Hannah’s voice. “Glory, you scared the life out of me.”

  A pout only enhanced Glory’s china-doll beauty. “Well, that’s what you get for your talk of something being wrong. Everything looks fine from here. Why, the place just looks empty because Smiley and the men aren’t back from taking the cattle to Kansas.”

  Hannah tried to keep the nagging fear out of her voice. Glory might be nineteen, four years younger than herself, but she was still the baby. “You’re probably right. But I don’t see Old Pete or his animals. Do you? And there’re no lights on inside the house.”

  Frowning now, Glory stood up. “No lights? Mama hates the dark.” She peered into the distance. Then she turned to Hannah, speaking as if just saying the words would make them true. “Old Pete probably did his chores early and went to the bunkhouse. And maybe Mama and Papa are visiting the Jessups.”

  “When they knew we’d be home this evening?”

  Biddy made an abrupt noise to capture Hannah’s attention. The expression on her plump, lined face held a warning. “Now, have a care, lest you frighten the young’un further. ’Tis all quiet b’cause ’tis suppertime.”

  “I hope you’re right, Biddy. But just to be sure, I’ll go in first.”

  “No, Hannah.” Glory put her fingers to her mouth, as if she meant to bite her fingernails. “We’ve just been gone the one night. What could go wrong between yesterday and today?”

  Now Jacey stood up and faced Glory. “Mama has babied you to death. Look around you, Glory. We live in No Man’s Land. You see any towns full of civilized folk? Hell, no. Just us, the prairie, and all the Indians you’d ever want to face right over that ridge. And if that ain’t enough, every two-bit gunman alive wants to make his reputation by shooting Papa. You—a daughter of J. C. Lawless—have to ask what could go wrong?”

  When Glory sucked in a ragged breath and abruptly sat down, Biddy turned faded-blue, pleading eyes on Jacey and Hannah. “Do you see the fuss you’re stirrin’? Like as not, you’ll have us all squawlin’ like Miz Hatfield’s baby.”

  Jacey stiffened. “The day I set to bawlin’ like a calf for its mama’s teat is the day I hang up my guns.”

  In the ensuing silence, Hannah looked from one to the other of the solemn women. If they hadn’t been scared before, they were now. Even Jacey was, for all her blustering. But the time for caution was past. Hannah stooped to reach for the Winchester under the seat. “Wait here.”

  Jacey’s hand on her arm stopped her as she turned to step over the side of the wagon. Hannah looked back questioningly, noting the set of Jacey’s jaw. “If one goes, we
all go.”

  She pried Jacey’s hand off her arm. “If I go in on foot and alone, I won’t make as much noise as the wagon or be as big a target. You wait here. I’ll wave to you if everything’s fine. But if you hear shooting, come running.”

  Glory and Biddy set up an instant protest, but Jacey waved them to silence. Putting her hands to her waist, she faced Hannah. “Like hell we’re waiting here. If one goes, we all go. And those are Papa’s words. We stick together. That’s the Lawless way.”

  Hannah took a silent poll of her family. Their solemn nods affirmed their agreement with Jacey. Relieved more than she’d admit, Hannah resettled herself on the wood seat and molded her hands around the Winchester she balanced on her lap. “All right. We’ll all go.”

  * * *

  Hannah wished they hadn’t come at all. Not to the bloody, nightmarish sight that began inside the ranch gates and continued into the ranch house itself, where Papa’s body slumped over Mama’s in the great room. Hearing again the hoarse cries that had torn from her and her sisters’ and Biddy’s throats at the sight, Hannah wished they could’ve stayed at Cora Nettleson’s place, laughing and celebrating her engagement forever and ever.

  Looking down at herself, she saw the blood that stained her skirt. Mama’s blood. Papa’s blood. Standing on the verandah, she wrapped an arm around one of the overhanging roof’s support posts. Laying her cheek against the rough wood, ignoring its splintery feel, she stared blankly at the moonlit wagon yard in front of the house.

  Only when her other hand fisted, closing around the charred wisp of stationery that she’d pulled from the fireplace, did she rouse herself. Willing herself to be strong, Hannah stepped back from the post and positioned herself in the moon’s light. She looked again at the fragile scrap. She hadn’t been wrong. The embossed letterhead was definitely that of the Wilton-Humeses. Mama’s family. She fought past her anguish and forced herself to face the one inescapable question that begged an answer. It pounded at her, forcing her hand to her temple.

  Why, after all the years of no correspondence between her mother and her family, would Wilton-Humes stationery show up today? And who was Slade Garrett? The man’s name, scrawled at the paper’s edge, was all that remained of its text. Obviously, he was in cahoots with Mama’s family. Hannah would bet the ranch that they hadn’t fired the actual bullets, but they sure as shooting were capable of pulling the strings all the way from Boston.

  Hannah fingered the stationery as she recalled Mama telling her daughters how she met Papa. He was an outlaw. She was a debutante, making her grand tour of the West with a friend and her family. In Tucson, Papa and his gang kidnapped her for ransom. But she and Papa fell in love and married. Papa even sent the ransom money back. His gang was fit to be tied, but Mama’s family was outraged that she married an outlaw. So, the Wilton-Humeses disowned her, declaring her dead to them.

  And now she really was dead, along with Papa. On the same day Wilton-Humes writing paper showed up in their house. This was no coincidence. Hannah’s heart throbbed painfully as her father’s outlaw blood battled with her mother’s gentle spirit. Papa said you’ve got your proof, go after the guilty ones. But Mama said not to rush to judgment, no matter the seeming evidence. Hannah nodded, as if she could really hear her parents talking to her. She would find the truth, she vowed. And then? The guilty ones would pay.

  With that promise driving her, Hannah decided to keep the paper’s existence a secret for now. Later, when emotions weren’t so raw, she’d reveal her evidence. She looked at it again, hating it as she did the Wilton-Humeses. They’re guilty, all right. Her emotion curled her features into a snarl. And they’ll pay, Mama, Papa. I swear it to you.

  Glory’s sudden keening cry jerked Hannah around to face the front door. Strangely unaffected, she listened a moment, hearing Biddy offering comfort. Hannah turned to face the yard. Numb with grief, chilled by the night’s crisp air, she stood there, staring into the darkness. Then, without warning, a silent wail tore through her. Oh, Mama, Papa—why? Her chin quivered as anguish crashed over her in a hot wave. She put a hand over her mouth. No, please, God, no more tears. Help me to be strong.

  Hannah stood rigidly still … and waited, waited for God to hear her prayer. And to answer it. Within moments, she realized that the rigidity was indeed leaving her. In its place was a warm calm. Hannah straightened up, feeling the heavy mantle of responsibility settle on her shoulders. Not for her the luxury of forgetting or of running away. She was the oldest Lawless daughter. And she would be strong. For her sisters. For her parents’ memories.

  Accepting that, Hannah catalogued what she knew of tonight’s foul deeds. Mama and Papa and Old Pete and his animals were cut down without mercy or warning. She also knew that the murders had occurred right before she, her sisters, and Biddy arrived home this evening. Because there was a fire still glowing in the grate. But where were the murderers now? Were they out there watching her, and waiting?

  Jerking in fear, Hannah spun this way and that. But no shadows separated themselves from the night to threaten her. And Hannah reasoned why. Had the murderers wanted to kill her and her sisters, they would have waited for them to come home. It was that simple. That bloodcurdling.

  With aching weariness robbing her of emotion, Hannah turned again to the front door. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to go back inside. To the blood. Blood splattered everywhere. Mama’s and Papa’s. She swallowed convulsively, swiping angrily at her gathering tears. Crying wouldn’t bring Mama and Papa or Old Pete and his animals back. And neither would vengeance. But the stark emotion grew in her heart, hardening her.

  Something soft inside her died. Something hard took seed in its place and grew with each passing moment. It exploded through Hannah, transforming her. Until finally, it was an avenging angel who took a deep breath and turned back to go inside. The murderers would pay. It was a promise to herself, her parents, and to her sisters. And she’d see to it as soon as she buried her dead.

  * * *

  A week later, the last wagon rolled off Lawless land following the burial of J. C. and Catherine Lawless and Peter Anglin late in the afternoon of September 21, 1873. Inside the ranch house, Hannah awaited her sisters in the formal keeping room. Mama’s favorite place. It was Hannah’s too, what with its delicate furniture and tasseled lamps and lacy curtains.

  She fancied she could see Mama in here. This was where she’d run her family and had seen to the girls’ educations. When she wasn’t instructing them in their studies or their piano lessons, she’d help them practice the gentle arts of being a lady. Many mock-formal teas had taken place in this room, many exaggerated curtsies, many pretend fancy-dress balls.

  “We’re here now. What is it you wanted, Hannah?”

  Hannah jerked around at the sound of Jacey’s voice. She hadn’t even heard their footsteps. Jacey and Glory filed into the room. They sat down next to each other on the pink brocade circular sofa. At twenty-one and nineteen, only two and four years younger than herself, today they seemed more like lost children than the young women they were.

  Hannah’s gaze rested first on Jacey. Looking at her was to see Papa. Even her name was a play on his—Jacey for J.C. But tonight, above the high collar of her jet-adorned blouse, Jacey’s fine-boned face looked ladylike, for once. But it was also ashen under her tan. Or maybe she appeared pale because her eyes and hair were as lustrously black as her outfit.

  Hannah shifted her attention to Glory. She was dressed in black, too, but looked as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, so petite, so beautiful, her dark brown hair shining in the smoky lamplight, seeming to turn from copper to auburn to chestnut with each motion of her head. Her grass-green eyes, normally startling in their brightness, tonight appeared almost opaque. As if her tears had washed away their vibrant color.

  As for herself, Hannah imagined she must be a difficult sight for her sisters right now, since everyone always said she—

  “You look just like Mama, Hannah. Esp
ecially there by her piano. You’re tall and slender like her. And you carry yourself like her—like you’re gliding instead of walking.”

  A fleeting smile was all Hannah could manage for Glory. She knew that her blue-green eyes and chocolate-brown hair, thick as molasses and curly like a pig’s tail, made her Mama’s spittin’ image. And just might stop a guilty heart or two in Boston. Which was what she wanted to tell her sisters. She was leaving.

  But how to tell them? Since finding their parents murdered, they hadn’t let her out of their sight. Hannah took a deep breath. She couldn’t waffle with her decision now. So, putting her hand in her satiny skirt’s pocket, she fingered the charred scrap of stationery. Days ago, hoping to preserve it somewhat against her touch, she’d wrapped it in a lace hanky and tied a ribbon around it. She pulled it out now, unwrapping her handiwork and laying it open in her palm as she would a rose’s petals.

  “Well, here you girls are. I should’ve known.” Glory and Jacey jerked around, and Hannah looked up. Biddy filled the open doorway. “What’s that you have there, Hannah?”

  Hannah motioned her inside. “Come in. You need to hear this, too.”

  “Hear what, child? I’d think most things can wait until tomorrow, today being what it is.” Still, Biddy Jensen entered the room and took a seat on an upholstered wing chair. She reached over to solemnly pat Jacey’s and Glory’s hands in turn. Then, all three turned their attention back to Hannah.

  “I suppose the only way to do this is just to say it.” She held up her secret. “I have a piece of evidence that points to the people responsible for Mama’s and Papa’s … deaths.”

  A moment of silence followed Hannah’s words. She looked from one to the other of her sisters and Biddy. Then, as if they were of one mind, all three sprang to their feet and gathered around Hannah, exclaiming and questioning as they peered down at the bit of lace in her palm. “What is it, Hannah?” Jacey finally asked for them all.