“So, Tom, where you headed? When you leave here, right after breakfast that my wife cooks?”
“I’ll be heading home, soon.”
“How soon?”
Tom shrugged, and while keeping one eye on Hugh, walked over to pick up his packed saddlebags and bedroll off the mound of straw.
Hugh was itching for a fight. A fight that would show Billy that the fastest gun won. Tom wasn’t willing to be a participant in that game. Not in front of the boy.
“Got business in Wyoming?”
“That’s the only reason I travel,” Tom said.
“Seems to me, a man on a business trip wouldn’t have time to help a pretty woman fix up her barn and house,” Hugh said. “Unless there was something in it for him.”
Tom carried his belongings to where his saddle hung on the stall wall. After flipping the bags over the boards, he tied his bedroll to the back of his saddle.
“Something fine and dandy,” Hugh said.
Once the knots were tight, Tom patted his saddle. “With the number of miles I’ve put in this seat, there’s not much I wouldn’t do for a hot meal. Pounding a few nails is a small trade-off.”
“But you did more than pound in a few nails, didn’t you, Tom?”
“We cut wood and made poles to fix the corral and pulled the tree out of the house and—”
Hugh squeezed Billy’s shoulder hard enough the boy flinched. “All that for a few hot meals?” Hugh sneered.
Flattening his hands against his thighs when they wanted to throttle Hugh, Tom nodded. “I like my meals hot. So does Billy. I think we should go in the house and eat the breakfast your wife is making while it’s hot.” Still not reacting to the defiant stare in Hugh’s eyes, Tom added, “What do you say, Billy? You ready to eat?”
“Yes, sir!” Looking up hopefully, Billy asked, “Are you ready to eat, Pa?”
Tom didn’t wait for Hugh’s response. Instead he started for the door. The man could easily shoot him in the back, but wouldn’t. He was too arrogant for that. Any man, or woman, Hugh Wilson killed, he wanted looking at him. That was where he got his glory.
* * *
A mixture of anger and fear that she couldn’t get under control had Clara’s stomach knotted tight. She knew there was no good way for this situation to play out. Her throat trembled with each breath and her chin wouldn’t stop quivering.
If only—Squeezing her eyes shut, she stopped her thoughts right there. She was sick and tired of if-onlys. Her life had been full of them, and contemplating any single one of them right now wouldn’t help in any way.
After dipping her fingers in the pail of water, she splayed droplets onto the pan, hoping it was finally hot enough to start frying pancakes. As the water snapped and sizzled, she flipped the ham slices and then poured batter into the other pan now hot. The faster she got breakfast done, the faster Tom could leave.
Footsteps on the porch had her pressing her heels firmly against the floor, bracing for the next half hour or more. Hugh had been egging Tom on out in the barn, and wouldn’t stop until he got a reaction. She sincerely hoped Tom’s patience would win out. If not, she had no idea what she’d do. What she could do.
They entered and sat, and Hugh kept it up all right, his innuendos growing worse. Without actually saying it, he kept implying that Tom had been in her bedroom for more than removing a tree. Tom never took the bait, but she could tell it was taking its toll. The entire house felt as if time was being counted down, and with each tick, she grew more nervous.
Oblivious to the tension, Billy had dug into his breakfast, but when a quiet moment appeared, he asked, “Aren’t you going to eat, Ma?”
“No, she’s not going to eat.” Hugh grabbed the pancake off his plate and threw it on the floor. “She’s going to make me some more ham. I don’t want no pancakes.”
She grasped the knife on the counter, and squeezed the handle tight while getting her spiking temper under control. Tom was looking at her, and when she used the knife to slice into the ham, a ham he’d purchased, he pushed away from the table.
“Where’re you going, Tom?” Hugh asked snidely. “You haven’t finished your breakfast.”
“I’ve had my fill,” Tom said.
“Looks like you found yourself a little chicken, Clara,” Hugh said. “A Tom-chicken.” He’d been using Tom’s name continuously, like it was the most disgusting word ever. “What’s a chicken say, Billy?”
Tom had already reached the door and didn’t slow his stride as he exited the house, closing the door behind him.
Hugh slapped the table in front of Billy. “Pock, pock! That’s what a chicken says.”
“Stop it, Hugh,” Clara said.
“Stop what, Clara?” He swiped one arm across the table, clearing everything in its path. Dishes clattered and broke as they hit the floor. “Eating? There, I’m done.”
“Pa?”
“Shut up, boy!” Hugh shouted as he jumped to his feet.
Clara shot across the room and grabbed Billy off his chair. Pushing him behind her, she said, “Leave him alone, Hugh. Go to bed. You’re tired. You rode all night.”
He laughed. “Go to bed? Why? So you can go out to the barn with your Tom-of-all-trades.”
“Stop it.”
“How many others have there been, Clara?” he asked while stepping closer. “You haven’t let me in your bed since Walter died. Is this why?”
He grabbed her upper arms, and dug his fingers and thumbs deep into her flesh. She refused to show him any pain. Any reaction whatsoever. Yet she would stick to the truth. “There haven’t been any others, and you know it.”
“I warned you, Clara,” he said, increasing his hold on her. “Over and over. You can’t say I didn’t.”
“Tom only—”
As fast as a whip, the back of his hand cracked across her cheek. Her eyes burned and her face stung, but she still didn’t react.
“Don’t say that name!” Hugh shouted right before he shoved her backward.
She tried to catch herself, but stumbled into Billy. They both fell. Hadn’t even hit the floor yet when Tom was opening the door.
“Stay inside!” he shouted.
* * *
Tom expected the slamming of the house door. He finished tightening the cinch on his saddle. If he didn’t ride out, there would be a killing here today. As little as he’d regret seeing Hugh facedown in the dirt, he didn’t want Billy to witness that. The smart thing would be to let things cool down. He’d ride as far as the ridge, then circle around and approach from the back side of the homestead. He hated the idea of leaving Clara and Billy alone with Hugh, but couldn’t think of another option. Other than a shoot-out.
There was one other thing. He wanted Hugh to pay for the people he’d hurt. Death would be the easy way out. Prison, where he had to think about and remember all he’d done, was what Hugh Wilson deserved, and Tom was willing to take a chance or two in order for that to happen.
“Tom! Tom, my friend, what are you doing in there?”
Leaving Bullet in the stall, Tom walked across the barn, stopping where the open barn door left him in full view. “You’re not my friend, Wilson.”
“You’re right—I’m not.”
The glint in Hugh’s eyes said it all.
Tom dived toward the mound of hay while pulling his gun. He got a shot off, and Hugh got off two. A pain in Tom’s hip that went all the way down his leg said one of Hugh’s bullets had hit its mark.
“Don’t move, Hugh!”
Clara’s voice had Tom scrambling to stand. His leg was dead weight, but he managed to get up and get to the door. What he saw sent chills down his spine.
Hugh had spun around, was now facing the house. One hand hanging at his side dripped blood, which said Tom’s bullet had hit him, but in Hugh’s other hand was a pistol, po
inted at Clara. She stood on the porch, with a gun pointed at Hugh.
Tom reached for his pistol and cursed. It was several feet behind him, on the floor where he’d scrambled to his feet.
“Drop the gun, Clara,” Hugh said.
She shook her head. “It’s over, Hugh. I’m done. Drop the gun or I’ll shoot.”
Tom turned cold as the door to the house opened and Billy walked out.
Hugh shifted the aim of his gun, leveling it on his son. “Last chance, Clara. Drop the gun.”
“Ma?” Billy said.
Tom would never know what happened first. He dived for his gun, aimed and fired, hitting Hugh in the leg, but other bullets had been fired. Relief washed over him as Clara rushed off the porch and Billy still stood upright, and then disappointment flashed inside him as Clara ran straight toward Hugh lying on the ground.
Getting up wasn’t any easier this time. His hip was on fire, but Tom made his way back to the doorway.
Clara met him there. “Your leg. You’re bleeding.” She dropped three guns at his feet and grabbed his arm. “Can you walk?”
“Ma! Ma! Pa’s bleeding!” Billy yelled. “Come quick!”
“Hugh,” Tom said.
“Can bleed to death,” she snapped.
Tom wouldn’t mind agreeing with her, but he couldn’t. Despite the anger and fear inside him, both times he’d fired, he’d aimed to wound, not kill. “No, he can’t.”
* * *
By the time Hugh was in Clara’s bed, screaming about the pain in his hand, leg and shoulder, Tom’s hip was killing him. Each step sent renewed pain. It was as if he could feel the bullet moving, digging in deeper. His pant leg was soaked with blood, and warmth splayed out with each step he took, saying it was still bleeding.
“Let me look at your leg,” Clara said.
Tom stood at the kitchen table, using it to hold him up while he gathered the wherewithal to walk into Billy’s room and remove his pants. He’d left her alone to see to Hugh’s injuries. “No, I’ll see to it,” he said. “You see to Hugh.”
“Tom—”
“I need him to stand trial, Clara.” The bullets he’d shot into Hugh’s hand and leg were minor, but the shot she’d sent into Hugh’s shoulder was significant.
“That won’t matter if you bleed to death before then.” She weaseled herself beneath an arm, and while hooking it around her shoulders grasped his waist. “Come on—I’ll help you into Billy’s room. Hugh’s in no danger of dying.”
Hugh’s screams echoed through the house.
Tom glanced toward her bedroom. “He sounds—”
“Like the coward he is,” Clara said.
She was stronger than she looked, and twisted him about. Partially because he gave in and let her help him. Once he was lying on the bed, she said, “Take off your gun belt.” Already pulling off one of his boots, she added, “And unbutton your pants, but don’t pull them down. I’ll cut up the side seam so I can fold back the material.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t argue with me. Not now.” She’d removed his other boot and stepped up to the side of the bed. “Not today.”
Unable to convince himself that he shouldn’t, Tom took her hand. “Are you doing all right?”
She wrapped her other hand around both of theirs. “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
Tom had the greatest urge to kiss her, and sensed she wanted the same thing.
“Ma, Pa needs you!”
She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “I’ll be right back. Don’t pull those pants down. I’m serious. You could do more harm than good.”
Tom couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt this useless. “I won’t. Take your time. I’ll be right here.”
“You better be,” she said with a grin as she walked out of the room.
He heard her call for Billy, but Hugh’s shouting and screaming was too loud to hear much of anything else. Tom was about to crawl off the bed when Clara walked in again.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” She pointed a pair of wicked-looking scissors at him. “Now unbuckle that gun belt and unbutton those pants.”
* * *
Clara wasn’t sure what was driving her. Anger still raged inside her, a form that she’d never known before and would never forget. The moment Hugh had shifted his gun toward Billy, something inside had let loose. The truth. The destiny she’d known was always right around the corner. She’d aimed her gun straight for his heart, but at the last moment, when Billy spoke, she’d shifted it slightly and put a bullet into Hugh’s shoulder instead. It was still there. And would stay there until she was good and ready to dig it out. Hopefully, his shoulder would be burning like hell by then. Which sounded nasty and mean, but that was how she felt, and she wasn’t in the mood to make that change.
The compassion inside her was for Tom. She’d seen Hugh draw on him with both guns through the open doorway, but was still running across the kitchen. Tom’s bullet had hit Hugh’s hand, and having seen Tom roll behind the barn door, she’d put all her faith in the idea that Hugh’s bullet hadn’t been deadly.
She wouldn’t know for sure until she got a look at Tom’s injury. He’d lost a lot of blood and could still bleed out. Working swiftly, yet carefully, she sliced open the seam of his pants, all the way to the waistband, and then, as she carefully folded back the material, her heart sank at the fresh blood running out of the top of his thigh.
Wiping the blood away, she followed it backward, to a point still under the material. Carefully, because there was resistance, she eased the material back a bit farther. Unable to tell, she asked, “What do you have in your pocket?”
“My badge. My badge is in that pocket.”
She snipped at the material with the scissors until she could see what she was dealing with. “Was. Your sheriff badge was in your pocket.” Biting her bottom lip, she examined the badge closely.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you in a moment.” From what she could tell, the badge was buried deep: two of the five points were completely under the skin. The good thing was, the bullet that could have gone far deeper into his leg was stuck directly in the center of the star.
“I need you to take a deep breath, and hold it,” she said. With a clean cloth ready to put pressure on the wound, she waited until she heard him drawing in air. Then swiftly pulled the badge out of his thigh.
Holding the bandage tightly against the rush of blood with one hand, she held the badge up with the other so he could see it.
“I’ll be damned,” Tom said, taking the badge. “It stopped the bullet.”
“It did, but unfortunately, the bullet forced the badge into your leg. I’m going to need to stitch the gash.” She’d stitched up wounds before, but had never felt this sort of concern for the injured person. “It’ll hurt.”
Tom covered her hand with his. “I know, but I trust you.”
“I have to do it now before—” She swallowed, not remembering a time when anything had been so difficult.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “Go ahead. I won’t move a muscle.”
“Can you put pressure on it while I thread the needle?”
“Yes.”
She slid her hand out from beneath his and willed her fingers to remain steady, both while threading the needle and then while stitching the flesh together. By the time she was done, sweat dripped down her temples and her nerves were shot. Not from Tom. He’d been an excellent patient. Hugh, however, was still squealing like a stuck pig.
“You best go see to him,” Tom said as she snipped off the thread.
“He’s fine.”
“What’s thudding?”
“The bed. I tied him to it.”
“You tied him to the bed?”
“Yes. He’s not trustworthy.” Proud to still be
holding it together on the outside—on the inside she was a mess—she gathered up her supplies. “We’ll need to remove your pants now. I’ll wash them and stitch the seam back together.”
“I’ll do that,” Tom said. “You go see to Hugh.”
Her hands were trembling, and she knew why. While touching him, his flesh, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of something she couldn’t quite describe. Each stitch she’d taken pained her, as if she was stitching her own flesh, or Billy’s. It was odd and made no sense, but the emotion inside her went deep, clear to her core, and was more than gratitude. She’d already admitted that she loved things about him, the memories she’d always have, but that didn’t mean she loved him. She’d long ago lost her ability to love anyone except Billy.
She was grateful that things had turned out as they had. They certainly could have been a lot worse. So that must be what she felt. Gratefulness.
At that thought, her lungs threatened to lock up. “I—I have to clean up the kitchen first,” she said, stepping away from the bed. “I’ll be back for your pants.”
Needing air, lots of air, she went outside. On the porch, she grabbed on to one of the posts and sucked in several deep breaths. After a time, breathing grew easy again, something she didn’t have to think about.
Billy stepped up onto the porch. “Is Pa going to be all right?”
“Yes, he’ll be fine.” She’d never said anything bad about Hugh to Billy, and refused to start now. Although she wanted to. Lord, how she wanted to in ways she never had before. “Did you unsaddle Tom’s horse?”
“Yes.”
The day had started early today. Normally she and Billy would just be eating breakfast at this time. “Go gather the eggs and see to milking the cows.”
“No, I want to—”
“Go do your chores,” she said sternly. “And don’t come in the house until I say.”
“I can’t do them all by myself.”
The whine in his voice and the pout on his face reminded her so much of Hugh she wanted to scream. Usually, he was excited to do things by himself. And proud. Controlling every impulse of voicing why that had changed, she turned around and walked to the door. “Yes, you can.”
In the Sheriff's Protection Page 8
