Flint jumped to his feet and approached Ward, laying a hand on his arm, as if he knew his intentions. “It was Fletcher, Marshal. I believe you got the wrong end of the stick, here. Fletcher was hired by Mr. Babbitt to infiltrate the gang. He was not part of it.”
Ward stopped in his tracks and faced Flint, searching eyes that looked frankly back into his for only a second
Flint blinked, took a step back, his face puzzled. Ward glanced away to hide his disappointment and moved to the entrance, the sun behind him. He tugged the brim of his hat.
When he refocused on the men, Flint, who had resumed his seat, had his head bent toward Martin and was speaking so softly Ward could not distinguish what they said. He watched them until Flint looked up, guilt written across his face.
Ward ignored it for now. “Did Mr. Babbitt confide in any of you?”
Flint shook his head. “No, leastwise, not much. Our wives, as we said are sisters and had not seen each other in sixteen years. We’ve been busy helping them track each other down.”
Martin shook his head with a smile. “You and Thatcher did the tracking. I wasn’t involved.”
“You placed the advertisement in the paper—that’s how we found you,” Flint elaborated.
Ward was getting nowhere. He lifted his hat and ran a palm over his scar.
Flint frowned and shot Martin another look before addressing Ward. “What happened to you?”
Ward shrugged, as if it was of little consequence but allowed his hat to dangle from his fingers. “I was injured when a youngster. Don’t remember much about it.”
Flint turned to Martin whose brows rose, and they both stood, and moved toward Ward warily. He reseated his hat and tugged the brim.
Martin and Flint stopped a few feet away. Margin took the lead. “Will you indulge us and tell us your story?”
Ward frowned at him, wondering why he cared. “Some men attacked my family. Killed my parents, left me for dead.”
“Where were you when it happened?” he asked eagerly. “And what was your father’s profession?”
Ward tilted his head and surveyed him before he answered. “My father was a trapper, I was told, and we were in Mississippi at the time. I don’t remember much about it. Not anything, if truth be told.”
Even Thatcher turned, his eyes curious, but he shook his head, and stayed where he was. “Nah. Too much of a coincidence.”
Ward’s voice hardened. “What’s it to you?”
Martin didn’t answer but cast a glance to Flint who gave a slight nod.
Flint cleared his throat. “How old are you?”
Ward blinked and suddenly understood the intent of their questions. It struck Ward with such force his head spun, and the barn closed in on him. He forced himself to remain rooted to the spot since he agreed with Thatcher—it was too much of a coincidence. He had no sisters that he knew of. However, he decided to answer their questions, to relieve any possibility of doubt.
“I don’t rightly know my age. I was young when the Choctaw found me, maybe six or seven, and I was with them two or three years. When I arrived at the orphanage, they put me down as eleven—and that was twelve years ago.”
Thatcher moved toward him, his steps deliberate, skepticism on his face. “That would make you twenty-three?”
“Pretty simple math.” Uneasiness settled in Ward’s gut and made him shift his position.
Thatcher scoffed. “Melly said her brother was five when he was killed, so if he had lived, he’d be twenty, not twenty-three. He thinks we’re gullible enough to believe his story.”
Ward bristled. “What story? Y’all are the ones asking questions.”
Thatcher looked him up and down. “For starters, the story about you being a marshal. I’ve never met Howard Henderson, but you ain’t him. Marshal Henderson’s in his forties. You’re just some snot-nosed kid.”
Ward remained calm and gave a terse smile. “Never said I was Henderson. The sheriff assumed.”
Thatcher continued to study him, a sneer on his face. “And you let him? That’s the same as lying in my book.”
Flint blinked at Ward, looking confused. “He’s not a marshal? What’s he doing here then?”
Thatcher snorted. “Probably heard Trist had some money, thought he could horn in on the family with his story.”
Martin and Flint had allowed Thatcher to move ahead of them, but their faces remained open, curiosity gleaming in their eyes.
Martin shot Ward a look and then spoke slowly, evenly. “Even if he allowed the sheriff to believe he was a marshal doesn’t mean he’s lying about the other. How do you explain the scar?”
“More than one way to get a scar like that,” Thatcher answered.
Flint frowned. “Still, he said he didn’t know his exact age. Twenty-three was a guess.”
Thatcher scoffed, but Martin nodded his agreement to Flint and continued to scrutinize Ward who kept his head down and tensed his muscles, ready for anything. He didn’t move but used his peripheral vision to watch the men.
After a moment, Martin glanced from Flint to Thatcher. “He’s a tall fellow—could have been tall when young, and the folks at the orphanage miscalculated.”
Thatcher shrugged. “Too bad he ain’t a mule so we could examine his teeth and check his age. Believe what you want. His story is too full of holes.”
Ward had enough of their speculations and raised his head. “I never said I had sisters. And our meeting is over. I will speak to your wives about Berren’s gang since they have first-hand knowledge.”
Thatcher bristled. “Nope, you’re not. You ain’t a marshal, and you have no jurisdiction here. You need to clear out.”
Flint nodded. “Besides, Melly’s in a delicate condition, and your questions might upset her.”
Ward turned his head to frown at Flint. “She’s expecting, you mean?” He turned back to narrow his eyes at Thatcher.
Thatcher only glared back, but Flint nodded again. Ward knew Melly’s story, how the woman had been kept isolated for years by one of Berren’s men. And this lout had gotten her out of the situation only to get her pregnant.
A wave of anger rolled over him. He pushed Thatcher’s left shoulder, forcing, not only him, but the other men to take a step back.
His voice was a growl. “She needed time to adjust after being in isolation so long. What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you care?” Thatcher snarled and moved forward to stand toe to toe with Ward.
Flint reached forward, as if to stop the argument, but Martin held him back.
Ward barely gave them a glance, slamming his flat palms into Thatcher’s chest. “I care if she’s my sister.”
“She ain’t your sister!” Thatcher swung, and his fist connected with Ward’s chin.
Ward stumbled back, and his hat fell to the ground. He left it there, regained his footing, and advanced on Thatcher, his fists clenched.
But the man’s eyes widened, and his hands fell limply to his side as he bowed his head.
White-hot anger surged through Ward as he continued to move toward Thatcher. “You gonna fight or what?”
Flint grasped Ward’s shoulder, but he shrugged him off. Martin blocked him, and he and Flint together pushed him back. It took a few minutes for Ward’s anger to fully dissipate.
His head throbbed, and he slumped down on the bale of hay, his head in his hands. Flint and Martin still stood in front of him, too close. As soon as the dizziness passed, he would leave, get out of the barn, that felt, more than ever, as if it would crush him.
“Ain’t no doubt now,” Flint said quietly.
“What does that mean?” Ward asked, raising his head slightly to peer at the men who stared at him.
Thatcher had joined Martin and Flint. He cleared his throat and looked away when he spoke, his voice low, apologetic. “Listen, Ward. You have Melly’s eyes. The spitting image.”
Flint nodded. “Ain’t many with eyes like that.”
Ward buried his h
ead in his hands again and moaned. Someone touched his shoulder, and he glared through his fingers.
It was Martin, his face inches from his, concerned. “You need to see a doctor. Can you stand?”
Ward struggled to his feet and swayed slightly. Martin and Flint urged him to let them help, but Ward pushed away and stumbled forward, out of the barn and toward the house, suddenly eager to see Grace. His thoughts were jumbled, confused, as he continued down the road toward the main house. But one thing was clear—his present, past, and future changed in an instant. He was someone else now, someone he didn’t know.
Halfway to his goal, he fell to his knees. Someone put a hand under his elbow, steadied him, and helped his rise. His eyes refused to focus, until he blinked, and his vision cleared. It was Thatcher. He tried to push away and staggered a few steps until the man hoisted him, like a sack of potatoes, to his shoulders.
Ward attempted to protest, but his words were slurred, his muscles weak. His vision darkened, as he fought to keep his eyes open. But the darkness only deepened, and he knew no more.
Chapter Twelve
Grace was settled in the wagon. They were leaving the buggy for Ward to use when he returned to town. Rance picked up the lines as Joshua appeared over the slight rise, running toward them, his face tense. Grace jumped to her feet and clambered down.
Joshua was panting heavily but managed to speak. “Something happened to the marshal... I mean Ward. We need the doctor.”
“What has happened? Where is he?” Grace asked, calmly. The calmness that always descended when treating patients had not deserted her.
“Thatcher’s bringing him. He passed out.” Joshua’s gaze traveled to his feet, and he mumbled, “Thatcher hit him.”
Grace asked no more details. “Get him into the infirmary when they arrive. I’ll fetch Dr. Robbie.” She hiked her skirts and ran into the house, not even giving a glance to Rance. She slowed when she reached the infirmary wing.
Dr. Robbie still had not left the room where her husband had lain, although the body was no longer there. The undertaker must have taken it.
Grace folded her hands in front of her, took a steadying breath, and spoke quietly. “Dr. Robbie? I’m sorry to disturb you, but something has happened to Marshal Henderson. Mr. Rainer is bringing him in. They should be here any minute.”
Dr. Robbie, as professional as always, got to her feet, a tad slower than normal, and gave a nod. “They can bring him into the room next door. What happened?”
“Joshua said that Thatcher hit him, and he’s unconscious.”
Dr. Robbie gave a nod. “Let’s go to prepare, shall we?”
“Of course.”
They went next door, and Grace did not have time to puzzle over what happened for Thatcher arrived immediately, with Ward draped across his shoulders.
Carefully, with the women’s help, Thatcher laid Ward’s limp body on the raised bed. He backed away, and Dr. Robbie went to work. After her initial examination, she glanced up.
Thatcher had been joined by Joshua, Tristan, and Rance with similar expressions on their face, as if excitement and anticipation had fused into one.
“Where was Marshal Henderson struck?” Dr. Robbie asked.
Tristan answered. “In the chin.”
“Did the marshal strike his head when he fell?”
“Not that any of us saw,” Tristan, who seemed to be the designated spokesperson for the group, said. “Thatcher hit him just once.”
“Once appeared to have done the job,” Dr. Robbie said grimly.
“There’s something else... I don’t know if it’s relevant... but he received a shock. We discovered he’s our wives’ brother.”
Robbie gave a nod but was already preparing. “I’ll need for all of you to leave while we relieve the pressure on the brain. Please wait outside.”
Tristan spoke again. “Will he live?”
Dr. Robbie threw him a quick glance. “We can only pray.”
The men left, and Dr. Robbie raised a brow. “Their wives’ brother?”
“It’s difficult to believe.” Grace’s gaze involuntarily traveled to the closed door.
Dr. Robbie called her back to reality. “We’ll sort it out later. Be prepared to administer the ether.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And, as she prepared, she prayed fervently.
THREE HOURS LATER, Grace opened the door to be met by Joshua, Tristan, and Thatcher. They gathered around but only Tristan spoke.
“Is he alive?”
Grace nodded. “He appears to be doing well—his breathing, pulse, everything is normalizing, although he is still sleeping.”
There was a collective sigh of relief, but Grace did not want to give false hope. “That does not mean he did not suffer further brain damage. We’ll have to wait and see when he fully awakes.”
“How long will that be?” Tristan asked.
Grace shook her head slowly. “Each head injury differs—none follows a certain timeline.” She glanced away, tiredness washing over her.
Tristan touched her arm. “You need to get home and get some rest.”
She squared her shoulders. “I have a patient to care for.”
“And that patient has three brothers-in-law eager to help.”
Grace couldn’t help but glance in Thatcher’s direction, a frown on her face.
He inclined his head. “Especially me. I have amends to make.”
She regarded the others and noted they were all eager to forgive, at least for now, anything Thatcher had done. They would take good care of Ward.
The problem was that she did not want to leave—not until Ward had awakened. But what excuse could she give to stay? She’d only met Ward yesterday and what could he mean to her in such a short time? Besides she needed to get home and check on Mother and Gus.
“I’ll have to make sure Dr. Robbie agrees that I may leave. She sent me to have Mrs. Franklin prepare a pot of tea and a light supper for her—she’ll remain with Ward... Marshal Henderson until she is sure he is out of danger.”
“I’ll deliver the message,” Joshua said and hurried off before Grace could respond.
She went back in and explained to Dr. Robbie who agreed Grace could go home, that Ward’s new-found family would be sufficient to give him the proper care. Dr. Robbie went out to speak to them while Grace lingered for a minute.
She noted the coppery gold highlights, not many in the few hairs left on his head, but they shimmered from the hair shavings on the floor. It reminded her of something, and then she recalled the same highlights in Melly’s hair. Melly had always kept in the shadows, the few times Grace had seen her, but the glory of her hair could not be hidden so easily.
She swept up the hair from the floor, made sure all was tidy, and moved to stand by Ward, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, telling herself she checked for fever.
After she could find no more reason to stay, she left, and Dr. Robbie returned to stand vigilance over Ward.
Grace found Rance on the front porch, as if three hours had not passed. He drove her home in silence. When they arrived, he went in with her to gather Ward’s things, planning to take them to the ranch the next day, and left.
Mother and Gus were out. As tired as she was, she got supper on and hoped she would not have to go to the saloon to drag Gus home. But he came back with Mother when she was finishing up, and they sat down at the kitchen table to eat. They sat down as a family, and Grace could not remember the last time they had done so. Despite that, her thoughts were elsewhere, back at the ranch with Ward, which was ridiculous. She should have been more concerned about her future employment.
Mother looked at her and asked if she were ill. Grace shook her head.
Gus surveyed her as well, frowning. His eyes became thoughtful. “I took Mother visiting today.”
“Visiting?” Grace asked, listlessly.
“We paid our respects to some of those whose family members died,” Mother said. “We stopped at the
bakery to buy pies since we didn’t want to arrive empty handed. I asked Mr. Masters to charge them.”
Grace placed her fork beside her plate, taking the utmost care that it was lined up properly. She shook her head slowly. “Please do not incur any more debt. More than likely, I will soon be unemployed.”
Her mother gave a short laugh. “Surely not! Mr. Ander Babbitt will not turn his own sister-in-law and niece from the house. He will allow...” Her mother made a visible effort but still could not stop her nose from assuming a sneer, for she had never approved of the idea of a married woman working. She swallowed and took a sip of water, bringing her face under control, before she continued. “He will certainly allow Dr. Rutherford to practice from the ranch. I am sure of it. Besides, even if he doesn’t, she can set up practice in town.”
Grace shook her head slowly. “Even if she practices in town, her expenses will increase. She will not be able to continue paying me, and we have already discussed that possible scenario.”
Her mother beamed at her brightly. “In that case, you’ll simply have to find another job. You are intelligent and capable.”
Her mother had never said those words to her before, and she cast a look to her brother who stirred under her scrutiny.
He cleared his throat and addressed their mother. “While it is true Grace is intelligent and a diligent worker, much more so than I will ever be, employment for a woman is not that easy to procure.”
Her mother gave her son an indulgent look. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Besides, Grace can always accept the sheriff’s proposal.”
Grace blinked at her mother. Who had told her Rance had proposed? Grace pushed back from the table and felt the floor sway beneath her.
She leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table as if it were a lifeline. “I have no intention of accepting his proposal—not now, not later.”
And for the first time in her life, at least since she’d been a little girl, her façade crumbled, and she quickly turned and headed to her room, her tears blinding her.
At least, she had her own bedroom back. But the room felt empty, devoid of life. A knock sounded at her door, but she did not answer. She fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief, embroidered with lace, bought the same day her father had purchased the locket. The sight of it brought forth a fresh flood of tears. She found another handkerchief to use instead.
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