by Griggs, Winnie; Pleiter, Allie; Hale, Deborah; Nelson, Jessica
Katrine felt her cheeks flush. “I was thanking God for our lives.” As she said the words, they struck her anew. Clint Thornton had reason to be thankful for his life today, too. He had risked his life to save hers. She believed that to be an enormous thing even if he didn’t seem to recognize it. “For all our lives.” That truth—coupled with the secret they now shared—seemed to bind her to the sheriff in unsettling ways.
She walked a mournful circle around the pile of rubble, feeling as though coming here solved nothing. Half of her wanted to run, to look away and never remember the home that had stood here. Another half, equally strong, wanted to claw through the wet, black timbers to find something—anything—worth saving. A wave of fear washed over her as she came across what was left of their front door. Their barred front door.
She gave a small, whispered yelp at the sight, and in seconds Sheriff Thornton dashed over to stand next to her. She heard him swallow hard. “Don’t think about it.”
How was that possible? Threats of harm were an old, evil menace for her, a tie back to a time in her life she tried hard to forget. It seemed unfair that in one single night all the peace she’d fought so hard for had been taken away.
The sheriff reached down and lifted up a curved piece of metal. Katrine recognized it as the decorative iron latch that had been on their door—one of the things Lars had brought from home. It was covered in soot, wet and bent out of shape.
He’d meant it as a hopeful gesture, but it made Katrine recall the terrible moment when she’d realized the door wouldn’t open. The remembered feel of the door refusing to give way sent ice down her spine even now.
He saw her response. “Okay, then talk about it. Don’t swallow it. It won’t help.”
Katrine didn’t want to talk about it, but when he took a bandana out of his pocket, wiped down the latch and handed it to her, it was as if the words burst out. “There is an old Danish superstition that you must leave a window open when someone dies. To give the soul a chance to fly to Heaven. I know faith is stronger than such things, but I thought about it when I knew they had nailed the door shut. I thought, how will my soul fly to Heaven? We had no windows.” The tears, never far from the surface all day, brimmed her eyes again.
“No one died.”
“I keep telling myself that but it is not working.”
“Then keep repeating it. Out loud when you can, in your head when you can’t.” He nodded at her, cueing her words.
“No one is dead.” Her words were wobbly and insufficient.
“No one is dead,” he repeated for her. Katrine found herself stunned by the compassion in his eyes. There were wounds behind those eyes. She could see their shadows before he broke the gaze and turned away.
There was a moment of raw silence until he caught sight of something and walked toward it. “Try thinking of last night this way—you made your own window.”
She wiped her wet lashes to watch him turn over a log with his boot, the recognition hitting her as fierce as the wind: the corner log. He must have tossed it far enough from the cabin when he pulled it out of the wall, for it hadn’t fully burned. When he bent to another, she knew that both logs of her “drafty corner” had somehow survived the fire.
Sheriff Thornton squatted down and inspected the logs. “You should save these,” he said, turning to her as she walked closer. “Build them into your new home.”
Katrine recoiled at the thought. “Why?”
“Lije says the strongest people make peace with their scars. You were brave to fight your way out last night, and you’re being mighty brave to do this now. It’d be good to remember.”
Remember. Was it worth it to remember when all the ashen pieces of home were blowing away in the wind? A black flake of charred wood settled on her hand and she flinched as if it still burned. “I think I might rather forget. Or not. I just do not know.” The tears threatened again.
To her surprise, the sheriff rose and carefully settled the logs on one end, like an odd little row of order in all the destruction. He extended a hand. “Maybe you don’t have to know yet. Lars would want you to see what else can be saved. Maybe it’s more than you think.”
She let him pull her closer to the blackened pile, still smoking in some places. With a tenuous smile, he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and began picking through the debris. She watched him for a moment, then began walking around the collapsed house, trying to feel Lars’s encouragement but failing miserably. She spied half a blackened bowl and swallowed hard. The two new bowls brought by neighbors couldn’t really replace it. New wasn’t always better, was it?
“Well now, look here!” Katrine raised her gaze to see Sheriff Thornton holding Lars’s favorite tin coffee mug, the blue enamel still visible under spots of black soot and a considerable dent. He used his glove to wipe away some of the soot. “He’ll want this back, I reckon.”
He said it like a secret. He’d said over and over that this deception was necessary, that it was the best way to keep Lars safe, and Katrine wanted to believe him. Neither Lars nor the sheriff truly knew why this was so hard for her, but that had to stay a secret, as well. She lifted her chin to the sheriff. “I want to see him.”
Thornton came down off the pile and stood in front of her. “You know I can’t do that.”
Katrine felt the urge to stamp her foot in a childish fit. All the pain and loss was boiling up inside of her, and he’d told her not to swallow it, hadn’t he? “You could find a way. Do you know what it is like to sit in your brother’s house and hear people talk of Lars dead? They bring me food and clothes and they cry over my loss. It is awful. I want to run away, but…” She flung out her arms at the mound of ashes in front of her. “I have nowhere to go now, do I?”
“You could build a mansion out here and it’d be no good if men like McGraw are free to take it from you!”
She spun on him. “So it was McGraw!” The shouts from outside the cabin that horrible night clicked in her memory. Lars had hinted that he knew something about the men, but wouldn’t say outright, claiming she was safer not knowing. That hadn’t proved true, had it?
The sheriff kicked a fallen beam. “Hang it, I wasn’t supposed to say.” He pointed at her. “You forget you heard that. You’re in enough of a spot as it is.”
She had to agree with that. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
“Well, I don’t either,” he said quickly, then ran his hands down his face as if he hadn’t wanted to admit that. “It’s gonna be fine. I’ll get him. I’m already in with the load of ’em. We just need to get through this part until I have enough proof to put the Black Four away for good.”
“I need to see Lars.” She knew it was pointless, but she couldn’t help saying it. Without hearing Lars’s voice, without looking into the strength of his eyes, she wasn’t sure she could keep up this dangerous game. She waited for Thornton’s temper to rise at her childish insistence.
He sighed instead, walking over to hand her the battered mug. It wasn’t much of a peace offering, but he was trying, she could see that. “How about I take him a message? Write him a note, and I’ll bring you back his reply. Will that help?”
It wasn’t like seeing Lars, but it would have to do. “Yes. Yes, it would help very much.”
Chapter Four
An hour after returning Katrine to Lije’s house, Clint rode out of town toward the Cheyenne reservation. He wandered through the open prairie, following the hunting trails Lars used, deep into the wilderness where only those most familiar with the countryside would venture out. He watched the stones along the path until he began to see piles of three stones—carefully laid so that they looked natural and would not catch the eye of anyone not looking for such clues. When Clint saw three piles close together, he stopped his horse along the series of rocks Lars had marked and gave a long, low whistle. He waited, watching a hawk loop overhead, then gave the same whistle again.
A minute later, a long low whistle floated down fr
om the rocks to his left. Lars was here, and Lars was safe. He’d known that, of course, but he was still relieved to see his friend’s face peering out. All the talk of death and mourning he’d left back in Brave Rock made it a double joy to pull the pack of supplies off his saddle and climb up to shake Lars’s outstretched hand.
“It is good to see you, Thornton!” The man looked strained and tired as he accepted the pack from Clint. “How does our plan go?”
Their original plan had been for Lars to “lie low,” to be out hunting for a while just to ensure McGraw and his men didn’t try anything rash. They hadn’t been sure McGraw knew Lars had witnessed them planning to go so far as to burn down a home.
Up until last night, there was still a chance Clint and Lars were wrong. That chance had burned with Lars’s home. Clint considered it a blessing Lars was far enough out of town not to see the flames or smoke. For all Lars knew, Brave Rock had spent a quiet night.
“Not well. Not well at all.” Clint took a swig from his own canteen he’d brought up with Lars’s supplies.
Lars froze, his hand stilled inside the pack. “What has happened?”
No sense beating around the bush—there was no good way to deliver the news he bore. “I’m in with McGraw’s men.”
“That is good, ja?”
“Not the way it happened. Lars, you need to know that Katrine’s safe, but I’ve had to tell folks you’re dead.”
“What? Why?”
“Sit down, this is gonna take a bit of explaining.”
Lars motioned them into the small cave he’d often used while hunting, lifting the leather flap that served as both door and disguise. The shelter within was cool and comfortable, fitted with a makeshift pallet, rock table and stacks of supplies. “I do not understand,” Lars said, gesturing for Clint to sit on the pallet while he sat on another rock. “Why should I worry about Katrine and why are you telling people I am dead? This was not our plan and I am very sure I am alive.”
“You were right—McGraw was planning to burn a home down. Your home.”
“Our cabin?”
“Burned to the ground last night. Meant to burn you down with it, near as I can tell. That tells us for sure he knows what you know. Somehow, he’s found out you saw enough to link him to the Black Four. That means you’re not safe until they’re behind bars, so I thought it best to let him think he’d succeeded in killing you.”
Alarm widened Brinkerhoff’s bright blue eyes. “And Katrine?”
“I got her out in time.” The remark felt like putting that terrible night in too simple terms, but Clint would rather avoid the details. It would do Lars no good to know how cruel McGraw had been. The Dane did not need to hear of bloody feet or choking gasps or how the door was nailed shut. If Lars pressed him for details, he’d simply couch it in terms of Katrine’s desperate, brave escape. “But all of it burned. Katrine is staying with Lije and Alice. She’s fine enough, and she knows you are alive, but…well, I’m sorry.” Again, those two words didn’t seem near enough for what had happened, but Clint didn’t think this was a good place for particulars.
Lars muttered something in Danish. “I had expected trouble, but not this. Dangerous. These men are more dangerous than we thought. This is not a fence or a well. These were lives. To seek to kill like that.” He looked up at Clint. “To kill me.”
“That’s just it. If they thought you were still alive, they’d try again. Surely you can see that. You’ve got to know that you and Katrine are safer this way.”
Lars’s furrowed brow—altogether too much like his sister’s—told Clint his friend wasn’t quick to agree. “This was not our plan. I don’t know.”
“It’s not a perfect plan, and it’s hard on Katrine, but…”
“And Winona—she does not…”
In all his planning, Clint hadn’t thought to consider Winona Eaglefeather. The Cheyenne woman and Lars had been growing close during her many English lessons with Lije. Lars spoke the Cheyenne tongue fluently, and while Clint had always put their closeness down to the language, it was clear now that feelings between them ran deeper than mere translation. This plan was getting more complicated every minute. “Look, Lars,” he reasoned, “it can’t be helped. She can’t know.” He started to say, We’re playing with fire as it is, but stopped himself to simply utter, “The more people know you’re alive, the more dangerous this gets.”
“Winona cannot think I am gone,” Lars argued. Then, as if his feelings for her weren’t reason enough, he added, “And she can help.”
She could, in more than just practical ways, but it was still a bad idea. “Not yet. Not until we know what we’re dealing with.” When Lars only offered another frown, Clint added, “We’ll get you back to life as soon as possible, but for now you’d best stay dead. For your own sake as well as Katrine’s. And maybe even Winona’s.”
Lars blew out a frustrated breath. Clint waited until the Dane came around to his line of thinking. Finally, Lars turned and asked, “They believed you? Truly?”
“I made it in their best interest to believe me. After you and I talked about them likely burning down someone’s home, I got a bad feeling.”
“You and your hunches.” Lars was forever kidding Clint about his gut instincts where crime was concerned, and how funny he found the American term for it.
“If McGraw had any inkling you were on to him…” Clint shrugged off a chill despite the hot day. “I couldn’t shake that hunch, so I rode by your cabin on the way back to town just to be sure.” He looked away from Lars, not wanting his good friend to be able to read any of last night’s dread in his eyes. “That’s when I saw the torches. They were setting your shed on fire by the time I got there. They weren’t even trying to make this look like an accident. McGraw’s gotten so cocky he wasn’t even wearing a black bandana.” The use of dark clothes and black bandanas had earned the mysterious gang its name. Clint forced the sound of the crackling rosebushes as well as the sickening thump of Katrine’s kicking from his memory. “It came to me in a flash, but I had to act right then and there. I had the perfect chance to show I’d be loyal to them, to get in close enough to be ready for whatever the Black Four planned next. I took it.”
“It was a big chance to take.” Lars shook his head.
“Katrine is safe with Elijah and Alice. Lije, Alice, Gideon—they all think you’re dead. They’re taking it pretty hard, actually. Folks have brought Katrine food and supplies and all kinds of comfort.”
“Of course they would. Brave Rock is a good place with good people.”
“Well, tomorrow morning, you’re Brave Rock’s first funeral.”
Lars gave a shiver. What man wouldn’t at hearing talk of his own funeral? “It is not an honor I enjoy.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do, but a chance like this to get in with McGraw may not come again. This is the safest place for you to be. You just need to keep your head down until I’ve got enough proof to expose McGraw and his men as the Black Four. It’s our original plan, and it still holds. It’s just a mite more…complicated now.”
“And Katrine? You are sure she is not in danger?”
He wanted to give Lars an outright no, but found he couldn’t. “I hope not. I’ve convinced McGraw she doesn’t know anything important.” She surely knew enough to be in danger now, but he left that out. He also left out the near-lecherous tone the private had used when discussing her. Lars was protective of Katrine, but Clint was about to double those efforts. That louse would never get within a mile of her. “He’s got better things to do right now, anyways.” Clint leaned in and held Lars’s gaze. “He’s plotting more ‘accidents,’ and I aim to know what they are so we can catch all four in the act.”
Lars’s eyes narrowed. “Brave Rock will be no place to call home until they are gone.”
Clint suddenly remembered the most valuable provision he’d brought. “Here. It’s a message from Katrine. I told her I’d bring one back from you. She’ll be just fin
e if she can hear from you.” Clint handed over the folded note, envying the eagerness with which Lars snatched it from his hands. Family meant everything out here.
Ducking out of the cave to give Lars some privacy, Clint surveyed the landscape. If a man had to carve out a future somewhere on this earth, Oklahoma Territory was a fine place to do it. The rolling green plains begged for homesteads, the clear air gave a man space to think. Plagued with growing pains as it was, there was a brand of fierce hope out here that Clint had never found anywhere else. The kind of hope that made a man feel capable, almost unstoppable. It egged a man on to grabbing his slice of the future with both hands.
Clint’s two brothers, Elijah and Gideon, had surely grabbed their futures with both hands. Not only had they settled lands, but settled their hearts, as well. The iron-clad trio of the Thornton brothers was still there, but it had widened to include two women—wives, now, actually. Lije and Gideon had wives. Within Clint, marvel battled with a hefty dose of envy. He’d never quite forgiven God for making him want a big family—a whole noisy passel of sons and daughters—and then taking away his ability to do so. Back when Cousin Obadiah told him that disease “cursed” him to never be a father, he’d been too young to understand what a curse it truly was. Now he was old enough to feel its weight every single day.
Lars’s groan behind him pulled him from such thoughts. “She is not telling me everything, Clint. She is very upset and picking words with care. Watch over her for me, will you?”
“Just a while, Lars. She’s strong enough to hang on that long.”
Lars came and stood next to him, handing him a reply to bring back to Katrine. “I want your word, Clint, that you will protect her.”
That was easy to give. “You have my word, Lars. On my life, she’ll be safe.”
The oath took a bit of the strain out of Brinkerhoff’s face, but not all of it. “I will hold you to that, friend.”
