She took her time cleaning up the kitchen, and with each dish she picked up off the floor, each scrap of food, anger bottled up tighter inside her. When she finally walked into the bedroom to see to Hugh, he accused her of being unfaithful, of calling Tom here on purpose and of trying to kill him. He said she still was trying to kill him by tying him to the bed.
She ignored him and his threats. He may have scared her at one time, but tied to the bed as he was, for the first time ever, she was in control, and liked it.
“Where’s my son?”
“Outside doing his chores,” she finally responded. The injury in his leg was little more than a flesh wound. Just above the knee, the bullet had passed through the edge of his thigh. After washing away the dried blood, she wrapped a bandage around it. “Don’t bother shouting for him to untie you. He won’t.”
He’d yelled for Billy to untie him as soon as he’d figured out that was what she’d been doing. She’d been sly about it, pretending to bandage his hand when he’d first lain down on the bed. Instead of bandaging it, she’d used the long strips of cloth to tie his arm to the bed frame and then did the same to the other arm. That was when he’d figured it out, but it had been too late. He’d kicked and squirmed and shouted for Billy while she’d tied both of his legs, but she’d already told her son to stay outside and not come in until she said.
“You can’t turn my son against me like this! Billy! Billy!”
Pressing a vinegar-soaked rag against the wound on his hand, knowing the sting would shut him up, she said, “It’s sad that the only hope a grown man has is the help of a seven-year-old boy.”
After much gasping and moaning from Hugh, most of which she felt was exaggerated, she tied a bandage over his hand and walked around the bed to see to the wound in his opposite shoulder.
As she cut away the material of his shirt, Hugh said, “I suppose you already saw to Tom’s wounds.”
She didn’t respond, other than to start washing aside the dried blood with a wet rag. Two swipes showed her bullet was still there, right below the shoulder blade.
“I bet you didn’t use any vinegar on him.”
She felt none of the compassion doctoring Hugh that she had while seeing to Tom’s wound, and that was somewhat sickening. Had more of Hugh rubbed off on her than she’d realized? The cold, uncaring and emotionless sensations inside her right now were just like him. He’d never cared about anyone other than himself.
Refusing to contemplate that any deeper, she said, “Yes, I did. He just didn’t act like a child like you are.”
She didn’t expect his silence, but didn’t worry about it, either, not even when he started talking again.
“Remember what it was like when we first met, Clara? How much fun we had?”
She remembered plenty, even things she’d told herself to forget. For a time she had forgotten certain things, even proclaimed they weren’t true when Walter had suspected them. Not ready to open that box inside her, she leaned back and wiped her hands with a clean rag.
“The bullet’s lodged in your shoulder blade.” It would be easy enough to remove, but her mind had gone to Tom’s wound. If her stitches worked loose, he’d start bleeding again. It was a long way to Kansas. With a bullet still in his shoulder, Hugh’s arm would be sorer, therefore making the trip harder on him. Which, ultimately, would make the trip easier for Tom. However, allowing the bullet to remain there could cause infection and leave Hugh too ill to travel, which could make things more difficult for Tom. Torn, she said, “I can try to take it out, but might do more damage than good. You need a real doctor. A surgeon.”
“Unless your Tom is a surgeon besides a lawman, there isn’t one for miles and miles,” Hugh snapped.
Not willing to admit Tom was a lawman or that his father was a surgeon, she shrugged.
“Get me some whiskey,” Hugh said.
“There isn’t any.” She always kept a bottle on hand, but Tom had used it to get her temperature down.
Hugh closed his eyes and growled, “Take it out.”
“You’ll have to lie still.”
“I am. You’ve tied me to the bed.”
Decision made, she grasped the scissors with one hand and pressed down hard on his shoulder with the other. “And this is why. Move an inch and the wound will be worse.”
Chapter Seven
By evening, Tom’s leg was about as sore as it could be, and would be. The healing process had already started. Clara had stitched up his pants so neatly, including the hole the bullet had made, he couldn’t even tell they’d been cut apart. But they had been. Far more than his pants had been cut apart today and all the stitches in the world wouldn’t put things back to how they’d been.
That was what Billy wanted. The boy had been solemn and spiteful all day, and hosted a nasty glare in his eyes every time he looked at Clara. Tom had been the recipient of that glare, too, but ignored it. The boy had a lot of figuring out to do, more than a child his age should ever have.
Clara had told Billy to stay out of her bedroom, that Hugh was sleeping, but every chance he got, the boy was sneaking in the room. Tom had tried to stay out of it, until this final time. With a look that dared a reaction, Billy sneaked around the table while Clara was at the stove, her back to the rest of the room.
Tom reached out and snagged the back of Billy’s shirt and hoisted him off the floor.
“Let go of me,” he growled. “I hate you. Let go of me, you no-good lawman.”
“Billy!” Clara snapped.
“I hate you, too,” Billy shouted. “For shooting my pa!”
Tom didn’t say a word, not even when a bout of laughter came from the bedroom. With Billy still squirming, Tom planted him on a chair at the table and kept his hold on Billy’s shirt, keeping him in the chair.
Clara didn’t say anything, either, just turned back to the stove. Billy squirmed and huffed, and flashed scowls at Tom with eyes that glistened with tears.
The change in Billy—from being so willing to please and helpful, to hurtful and mean—churned Tom’s stomach, and he questioned if he should take Billy outside and talk to him. He’d tried to talk to him earlier in the day, but Billy had sensed that and run in the other direction.
Clara carried two plates to the table, setting one in front of him and one in front of Billy.
As soon as she set his plate down, Billy swiped it aside with his hand, sending it and the food flying. “I don’t want no ham!” he shouted.
Tom was about to pull the boy off his chair and haul him out to the barn when Clara shook her head.
She grabbed Billy’s arm and pulled him off his chair. “Pick that up.”
“No,” Billy barked. “And you can’t make me.”
Tom had to force himself not to intervene. He was ready to, but once again, Clara had shaken her head. She also took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.
“Yes,” she said, “I can make you.” Her voice was soft and her expression serious, yet sad. “But I won’t, because I don’t like it when people make me do something that I don’t want to. Like shooting them because they were going to shoot someone else if I didn’t. That was a mean thing for someone to make me do. Just as mean as throwing food on the floor.”
Billy’s bottom lip started to quiver, but he tried to hide it by pinching his lips together.
“I don’t much care for having mean people around, because sooner or later, they make everyone around them act mean and nasty.” She let go of Billy and walked back to the counter where she picked up her plate.
Billy watched her the entire time, including when she walked back to the table and sat down.
Picking up her fork and knife, she sliced off a piece of ham. With a nod, she said, “Do let me know if you want more ham, Tom. There’s plenty.”
Tom couldn’t say if her way was better than the v
isits out back that he’d had when he was a child and that usually included a willow stick, but noted Billy was thinking just as long and hard about things as if he’d had such a visit.
“What about me?” Hugh shouted. “I’m hungry.”
Clara acted as if she didn’t hear. “There are more potatoes, too, Tom.”
Going along with her, Tom took a bite of ham. “This is a tasty ham.”
“Thank you,” she said. “The Ryans do a good job smoking their pigs.”
“Clara!” came from the bedroom.
“I added some onions to the potatoes tonight,” she said, once again ignoring Hugh. “I hope you like them.”
Tom already had respect for her, but felt it growing. She’d had one hell of a day, and yet sat here like little was out of the ordinary, the entire time teaching her son a solid lesson. She was an amazing woman, if only she’d see that in herself.
Hugh shouted again, and Billy, also tired of being ignored, said, “Ma, Pa’s hungry.”
“Did you hear anything, Tom?” she said.
Taking her clue, he shook his head. “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“Me, either. Then again, I only listen when people speak nicely and behave.” She sighed. “What do you think, Tom? Aren’t people more fun to be around when they behave?”
“I do agree,” he said. “And these potatoes are delicious.”
Billy watched them both eat for several moments before he sat down in his chair. Quiet and meek, he asked, “Can I have supper, Ma?”
Her eyes met his, but Tom knew she wasn’t looking at him, but seriously contemplating her next move. It didn’t take long.
“I already gave you some,” she said. “When you eat that, you can have more.”
Tom questioned the emotions inside him as Billy glanced down at the floor. The idea wasn’t appealing, but just as Clara must have deduced, the lesson her son needed to learn was the important thing here.
Billy climbed off his chair and scooped the ham and potatoes back onto his plate. Then he set it on the table and ate. When the plate was empty, just as she’d said, Clara refilled it.
Tom didn’t doubt Billy would remember this meal the rest of his life. He certainly would.
When they were done eating, Clara fixed a plate and carried it to Hugh. Tom, having already carried his plate to the counter, nodded at Billy. The boy was clearly still full of confusing emotions, especially when it came to him, but followed suit, and helped do the dishes like they had together while Clara had been ill.
There was no talking or companionship like there had been, but Tom let that be. It would take far more than one meal for Billy to work out all that had happened, and to come to terms with how he felt about it.
He was trying to come to terms with all that himself.
Sometime later, he was standing on the porch, watching the last glow of the sun slowly fade, when Clara walked out the door.
“I would suggest you give your leg time to heal, but know it’s useless, so I’ve already packed supplies. It should be more than enough to get you to Hendersonville.” Leaning her back against the post, she continued, “It may seem out of your way, but you can catch the train there, and traveling by rail will be easier on your leg than riding.”
How could she look so pretty, and be so calm and serene after the day she’d had? Because she was a strong and resilient woman. There was no other answer.
He nodded. “I’m going to Hendersonville.” There was no reason not to let her know his plans. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to get you and Billy there, too. With only two horses—”
“Billy and I aren’t going anywhere,” she said. “Nothing has changed that.”
“Everything’s changed. There’s no reason to stay here.”
“Yes, there is. It’s our home.” She leaned her head back against the post. “This is where we were coming, my parents and I, when we left Iowa. Uncle Walter was my father’s brother and wanted my father to help him run the ranch. He had several hundred head of cattle then.”
He knew most of this, but let her talk.
“They were killed along the way. Late one night our horses were stolen and my parents shot. With arrows.” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Two days later, Hugh came along, and eventually, he brought me here. To where I’d been going.” Opening her eyes, she shook her head. “There wasn’t anywhere else for me to go back then, and there isn’t now.”
“With Hugh in jail, there’s no reason for you to stay here.” He waved an arm. “How will you survive?”
A gentle smile grew on her face. “We’ve managed for years, and will continue to.”
Any reason he thought of, she was sure to shoot down, yet he had to try. “Clara—”
“Promise you’ll let me know what happens with Hugh. That’s all I ask of you. All I need.” She stepped away from the post. “You can sleep in Billy’s room. I made him a bed on the floor.”
Knowing there was nothing he could say to change her mind, at least not right now because she was also an extremely stubborn woman, he stepped off the porch. “I’ll let you know, and I’ll sleep in the barn like I have been.”
* * *
In the quiet of the night, while everyone else was sleeping, Clara let her emotions loose. Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto the pillow she used to smother her sobs. The fears were as real right now as they had been while standing on the porch with her gun pointed at Hugh. Regret was there, too, and eventually, as the well inside her drained, relief came, and that was when she closed her eyes and let sleep envelop her.
The restfulness didn’t last long. A nightmarish dream awoke her. She couldn’t remember what it had been about, but hidden memories of how awful it had been wouldn’t let her fall back to sleep.
She left Billy’s bed and made her way out to the front porch and sat down in one of the rocking chairs. As her eyes settled on the barn, she couldn’t help but think about Tom and all the things that had changed since he’d arrived. Including things inside her.
A smile formed as she thought about the town he’d described and all the people there. Especially Angus O’Leary and his three coffins. It was a silly thing, but a person who planned his own funeral, and wanted it perfect, was a person who wasn’t afraid. Not to live or die.
That was what her problem was. She was afraid. Afraid to leave here. Hugh might have been the one who instilled that fear in her, but she was the one who’d let it grow and remain.
It wasn’t hard to admit that. The hard part would be doing something about it.
She set the rocking chair in motion and leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Yes, this was home. The only one Billy had ever known, but someday, it wouldn’t be enough for him. He’d need more than the teaching she provided.
When something woke her, dawn was breaking and the neigh of a horse said Tom was up. Three nights in a row he’d said he’d leave in the morning, and three mornings in a row, he hadn’t. Today, though, he would, and that disappointed her. Only because she’d miss him. Miss the life he made her almost believe was out there, and available to anyone who was brave enough to go after it.
And she’d worry about him. Traveling injured and all.
Telling herself that was the strongest reason inside her didn’t convince her completely, but she rose from the chair and went inside. She got dressed in Billy’s room and then, as quietly as possible, started a fire in the stove before she went back outside.
Tom was leading both his horse and Hugh’s to the house.
Glad to see he wasn’t limping or favoring the leg overmuch, she stepped off the porch. “I’ll have breakfast ready shortly.”
“No, we need to get started.”
“I’ll get the food I packed, along with Hugh’s saddlebags. I have no idea what’s in them, but maybe there’s evidence of whatever he did to se
nd you after him.” Afraid he might explain, she held up a hand while walking back to the porch. “I don’t want to know.”
In the house, she grabbed the saddlebags and bedroll Hugh had thrown on the floor in the bedroom and then gathered the food bag she’d packed. Back outside, she handed them to Tom.
“Someday, not knowing won’t be enough,” Tom said, tying everything behind his saddle.
“I know. But today’s not that day.” Resting her arms atop the other side of his saddle, she continued, “But there are some things I do know. Hugh can’t be trusted. Not even long enough to relieve himself. I already mentioned his shoulder is his worse injury, but even that isn’t too bad. He’s going to pretend to be in a lot of pain. Don’t believe him. Keep his hands tied at all times. His feet hobbled if possible, because even with his injuries, he’s going to try and escape.”
The wide brim of Tom’s hat kept most of his face covered, but she saw the grin on his lips. He had a nice smile. One she was going to remember forever because it made her insides feel warm and light. Burying any of those feelings, she said, “It’s not funny. He can’t be trusted.”
“I know he can’t,” Tom said, leaning across the saddle to look her straight in the face. “What I find funny is you telling me how to do my job. I’ve hauled in outlaws before.”
The glint in his dark eyes made her heart flutter, or maybe it was having his face so close to hers. Either way, she didn’t want it to stop. Not yet. “From what you said, Oak Grove doesn’t sound like a town full of ruffians.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
Tickled again, she asked, “I would, would I? Tell me, who was the most notorious prisoner in Oak Grove’s jail?”
“Well, I guess I’d have to say that was Maggie McCary.”
More intrigued by his genuine smile than the name, she asked, “A woman?”
“Yes.”
“Was she an outlaw?”
“She was breaking the law.”
Sure he was teasing, she smiled and challenged him by asking, “How?”
In the Sheriff's Protection Page 9
