by Jody Hedlund
Made up of stable and prominent men, the vigilance committee usually sent a warning to the offender in the form of a letter with a drawing of a tree and a man hanging from it. The word forewarned was penned into a picture of a coffin at the bottom.
As angry as he was with Brawley, the man didn’t deserve to die for killing his cattle. He needed to pay Wyatt back, maybe serve some jail time. But his offense wasn’t the hanging kind.
“Don’t know what to do,” Wyatt said. “But we can’t sit back and let him get away with this. If we do that, then he’s gonna think he can harass me come summer when I drive my Shorthorns here.”
“True enough.”
Brawley sauntered across the street, kicking up dust. He approached the livery just as Greta exited. She nearly collided with the man but recoiled just in time.
When Brawley grabbed her arm, Wyatt released a low growl and bolted to the door. He’d told Brawley not to touch Greta again. And he meant it.
“Where are you going?” Steele pushed away from his desk.
“Brawley’s out there,” Wyatt called over his shoulder. “And he’s got ahold of Greta.”
Wyatt charged out of the house and onto the street, his revolver out of his holster and aimed at Brawley, who was still holding Greta by the arm.
“Let her go, Brawley.” Wyatt cocked the hammer. “Or I’m shootin’.”
In the process of trying to shrug free of Roper Brawley’s grip, Greta halted. Wyatt stood in the street outside Steele’s house, his revolver aimed at Brawley. His feet were spread, his arm outstretched, his jaw rigid. And his eyes . . . they were already shooting bullets.
“She ain’t yours,” Brawley shouted, his rancid breath assaulting her. “Everyone’s sayin’ you ain’t been living as man and wife. That means she’s free for the taking.”
“She’s mine.” Wyatt’s voice was low and hard. “And she will be ’til my dying breath.”
Roper’s free hand dropped to the ivory handle of his revolver, his weathered skin and dirty fingernails contrasting against the smooth cream color. Her mind flashed with the image of the stagecoach robber’s hand when he’d pointed his revolver at them. Of course, any number of men could have the same brown fingers, crusty fingernails, and ivory-handled revolver.
Greta recalled Astrid’s statement from a few days ago, that Brawley sounded like the robber who’d held up their stagecoach. Had she been too quick in dismissing the possibility because the robber hadn’t been wearing an eye patch?
“Now step away from Greta real slow and easy.”
Brawley dragged her around, forcing her to stand in front of him. “You’re gonna have to fight me for her.”
Wyatt’s revolver wavered, and he flicked his gaze to her before he fixed it once again on Brawley.
Behind Wyatt, Mr. Steele stepped out of his front door, a revolver in his hand, and all around men were pouring out of the hotels and taverns and shops.
A chill swept under Greta’s cloak, which had nothing to do with the breeze that had been getting colder as the day progressed. She had to do something to put an end to the conflict before it got out of hand and people were needlessly hurt. Especially Wyatt.
“Brawley, please unhand me. Wyatt and I agreed that we’re planning to stay married.”
“I think I’m aimin’ to keep you for myself.” Brawley drew her back into the crook of his arm. “That is, unless McQuaid wants to strike a deal.”
Wyatt started across the street toward her, his revolver trained upon Brawley’s head.
The cold steel tip of Brawley’s revolver pressed into her neck, sending a shudder through her.
Wyatt froze, his attention riveted to the weapon. “Now hold on, Brawley. Put the gun down.”
“Come on, Brawley,” Mr. Steele called. “Don’t do this.”
Brawley laughed and pressed the barrel into her more firmly.
Wyatt’s eyes rounded, and he held out a hand as though that would stop the man. “What kind of deal do you want?”
“This purty little thing for the land.”
The land. Brawley wasn’t going to stop tormenting them until he wrested the homestead away from Wyatt. That much was certain.
“Fine.” Wyatt spat out the word. “You win. You can have it—”
“No!” Greta twisted and grabbed at Brawley’s face. She wasn’t about to let Wyatt lose his land. Not today, and not because of her.
“Greta, wait!” The fear in Wyatt’s voice drove deep inside her.
But her fingers were already connecting with Brawley’s eye patch. She wrenched at it as he jerked his head back, panic flashing across his features.
She didn’t release her hold, and as Brawley stumbled backward, the string holding the patch in place snapped, so she was left holding the felt cup.
Brawley fell to the ground, taking his revolver with him. “Give that back, woman!” He looked up at her long enough for her to see a lazy eye—the same lazy eye that had plagued the stagecoach robber.
Astrid had been right. Brawley was the leader of the Crooked-Eye Gang. And that would explain why he always had more than enough money to purchase oxen from miners when Wyatt struggled to come up with the necessary cash.
Before Brawley could right himself, the crack of a gun came from Wyatt’s direction. An instant later, a bullet tore into Brawley’s hand. He bellowed in pain and dropped his revolver.
All around men jumped into action. Several lunged for Brawley. Some grabbed his companions and disarmed them. Through the commotion and shouting, Wyatt stalked toward her, his worried eyes taking her in. “You alright?”
“I’m just fine.” She held out the eye patch. “Astrid told me Brawley was the leader of the Crooked-Eye Gang and now we have proof.”
Mr. Steele was right on Wyatt’s heels. “Proof of what?”
“That Brawley has a crooked eye, which is evidence that he and his men have been the ones robbing the stagecoaches coming over Kenosha Pass.”
Wyatt took the eye patch from her, examined it, and then handed it to Steele.
Brawley was clutching his injured hand, clearly in too much pain to think about the fact that he was showing his lazy eye for every man in town to see and revealing the lie he’d perpetuated about losing his eye in an Indian attack.
Mr. Steele glanced from the patch to Brawley and then back to Wyatt. “Guess I need to pull the vigilance committee together today after all.”
Wyatt’s expression turned grave. “Didn’t want things to come to this.”
Mr. Steele holstered his gun. “Me either. But we can’t let Brawley and his men rob and kill any more innocent people.”
“Reckon so.” Wyatt’s voice was soft, and his eyes radiated resignation.
Greta pulled her cloak about her tighter so Wyatt wouldn’t see her trembling hands. Now that the ordeal was over, she wanted to sink to the ground and give way to tears of relief that Wyatt was safe and Brawley could never again threaten him or the ranch.
The men pulled Brawley to his feet and began shoving him and his partners down the street. Wyatt watched for only a few moments before leveling a gaze at Steele. “I’m gonna take Greta on home if that’s alright by you. She’s already been through enough for one day.”
At their somber exchange of glances, Greta guessed Wyatt didn’t want to subject her to whatever the men planned to do to Brawley and his men. She could only shudder at the prospect.
When Wyatt reached for her hand, she didn’t resist. She grabbed hold of him and allowed him to lead her to her horse.
Chapter 29
In the fading evening light, Greta kept looking at Wyatt and memorizing him, from the strong way he held himself in his saddle to the powerful build of his torso. The determined tilt of his hat. The scruffy dark layer of whiskers on his face. The tough set of his jaw.
She loved everything about him and wanted to carry every detail with her when she left tomorrow. As much as she wanted to delay a few more days or even a week, the stagecoach driver had
warned her that this might be the last ride out. Already they’d had a hard time pushing through the highest passes with snow up to five feet in some places and the trail covered in ice in other spots.
Now that the plans were final, Greta’s last hurdle was convincing Astrid of the need to leave. Wyatt had promised to help. “She’ll go if she knows she can come back,” he’d said.
Greta prayed he was right.
“Let’s wait to tell her until the morning,” Greta said as the cabin came into view.
“Then you’re afraid she’ll run away again?”
“I don’t know what she’ll do.” The closer they drew to home, the more she dreaded facing the child with the news. Astrid would be devastated, maybe even feel betrayed, especially after how they’d bonded earlier in the day.
Wyatt reined in his horse, and Greta did the same.
Ahead, the cabin and barn sat against the backdrop of the mountains with the glow of the setting sun reflected on the golden aspens, dark evergreens, and gray rocky crags. The few remaining cattle grazed in the barnyard along with the chickens. It was a stunning view, one she wanted to capture and take with her so she could remember everything about this rugged place during the days to come.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “And has so much potential.”
“It is mighty beautiful.” He swept his gaze over the landscape too. “But I can’t deny that I’m scared to death of what the future holds.”
She was scared too. Nothing was certain in life, not in this wild land where anything could happen—dangerous thieves, inclement weather, unpredictable Utes, wild animals, and crooked neighbors. The odds of being able to make it were stacked against them. Just like the odds were stacked against Astrid.
However, Greta refused to accept defeat with the ranch every bit as much as she refused to accept defeat with Astrid’s consumption. She had to cling to the impossible. Could she do so with their marriage too?
As though sensing her question, Wyatt dismounted, came around to her horse, and reached out a gloved hand. His eyes beckoned her to take hold.
She placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her down. When she was standing next to him, he slid his arm behind her and drew her into the crook of his body so they stood side by side gazing at the ranch together.
A red-tailed hawk soared above the open grassland with its wingtips spread and separated like fingers, the sun glinting off its rusty tail feathers. In the distance, a herd of pronghorns grazed along the foothills, seemingly without a care in the world.
She breathed in deeply of the glorious view and prayed she’d be able to come back and stand by Wyatt’s side in this exact spot for many years to come.
“This is ours, Greta. Yours. Mine. Ours.”
She nodded.
“Don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
His arm tightened around her. “And you won’t forget about me?”
“Of course I won’t.” Somehow this already felt like good-bye, and she didn’t like it. She sensed tomorrow morning would be worse. Especially for Astrid.
Greta focused on the cabin. The wisp of smoke rising from the stovepipe and the light glowing from the window told her that Astrid and Judd were probably having supper, or at least that Judd was cooking something.
Was she really doing the right thing by taking Astrid to Denver? The little girl’s impassioned plea came back to her: “Please, Greta, let me die here where I’m happy.”
Greta couldn’t deny that Astrid was happy here, happier than she’d been in a long time, in a way she wouldn’t be in Denver. Would it be better for Astrid to stay? Even if she never got well?
No, they couldn’t give up now. Not after all they’d already been through.
“When you’re in Denver, I want you to think of this picture.” Wyatt nodded ahead to the grandeur. “And remember all you’re missing.”
She lifted her hand to his chest and spread her fingers, relishing the solidness. “I won’t have any trouble remembering all that I’m missing.”
“You sure?”
“The trouble will be thinking about anything else.”
“Good. Here’s one more thing to make sure you don’t forget what you’re leaving behind.” With that, he shifted her, then touched his lips to hers. The pressure was sweet and light, and his mouth clung to hers for an extra heartbeat, as though he couldn’t quite let go.
When he started to pull back from their kiss, a swell of need rose within her, and she chased after his lips, pressing into him, wanting more.
He paused for only an instant before he fused his mouth to hers again, the gentleness gone and in its place a desperation that told her so much more than his words had—that he needed her and didn’t want to let her go.
Her skin was strangely alive and heat skipped along her nerve endings. His hands sliding over her back pressed her closer, the touch searing through her cloak. She didn’t want this taste of closeness to end, a taste that made her hungrier.
As though experiencing the same hunger, Wyatt started to lift her off her feet. She had the picture of him carrying her someplace private and spending the rest of the night showing her exactly what she was going to miss by leaving him.
She couldn’t let that happen.
With a force of will that had been born out of always doing hard things, she dropped her arms and broke from him. As she stepped away, he clung to her, his fingers gliding up her arms, to her neck, to her cheeks, beckoning her to be back against him where she belonged.
The truth was, she loved kissing him and loved the way she felt when he kissed her. But the other truth was, that if she let their passion take root tonight, she wouldn’t be able to yank herself up and leave him tomorrow.
His breathing came out uneven just like hers. The intensity of his gaze, the longing etched into every handsome line of his face—it made her heart race with strange anticipation. And fear.
How could she leave him? How could she possibly ride away from him tomorrow?
He reached for her. “Greta.” The one word contained all his desire.
“No, Wyatt.” She held up her hands and took another step away. She couldn’t kiss him again, or she’d never be able to let him go. With tears stinging her eyes, she spun and stalked back to her horse. She climbed up into the saddle, blinking back the pain of their parting.
With a safe distance between them, she finally drew her emotion under control. “I’m leaving tomorrow, and I don’t want to complicate our good-byes.”
“I understand.” He stood motionless where she’d left him. Strong and proud and yet so humble.
“Good-bye, Wyatt. I love you.” The words tumbled out. Before he could respond or she could say or do anything else she might regret, she dug her heels into her horse and urged it homeward.
I love you. Her words lingered in the air long after she’d ridden away. He’d wanted to hear them, just not in the same breath as good-bye. Still, his heart thrilled in the knowledge that he hadn’t been mistaken. She loved him too.
Blast it all. Although he’d managed to keep her from marrying Hallock, in the end he was losing her anyway.
He gazed at the distant Kenosha Peak. Was he a horrible sinner for hoping it would snow tonight so the pass would close and prevent her from going?
But even as he wanted the weather to trap Greta and Astrid, deep inside he didn’t want to win them by default. If they stayed, he wanted Greta to make the choice, willingly. Which wasn’t about to happen . . .
All he could hang on to was that they’d only be apart till spring.
He drew in a deep breath. Somehow they’d have to be okay. They loved each other, and that would see them through the difficult days ahead. That and a lot of hard work. He’d drive himself hard over the winter and keep himself too busy to think about her.
He had a heap of work to do to get ready for his herd of Shorthorns. And although part of
him wanted to give up the new herd in order to be with Greta, another part of him thrummed with the anticipation of seeing the herd and driving them up onto his land.
If only she didn’t have to go away . . .
With a whispered prayer for strength to release her and to keep persevering, he mounted his horse and started toward the barn. As he drew closer to the homestead, he saw her touch everywhere, from the clothesline to the cellar to the new chickens. He even saw her in the little details like the braided cornhusk rug outside the cabin, the curtain she’d fashioned for the window, and the new huckleberry patch she’d cut and transplanted from the foothills.
In the weeks since she’d arrived, she’d transformed the ranch into a home. And he didn’t know how he could live there without her.
Pain pounded against his heart, and he forced himself to ride directly to the barn. He couldn’t spend the evening with her or see her again. If he did, he’d beg her not to leave.
Chapter 30
Strange silence settled around Greta as she stretched to wakefulness. Silence. It was blissful. For a moment, she burrowed under the warm covers, unwilling to face the chill of the cabin before the stove pumped out its heat.
But the quiet was too abnormal, and it could mean only one thing. She flipped over and felt the spot next to her. It was empty.
Greta’s eyes flew open to find the bedroom dark with only the first hints of dawn. Panic erupted. She scrambled up and pushed the covers away.
“Astrid?”
The stillness from the other room confirmed her worst fear. Astrid had run away again.
But why? When Greta had arrived home last night, she hadn’t mentioned anything to the little girl. Since their belongings were still packed from earlier in the week, she’d decided to finish readying to leave in the morning so she wouldn’t alert Astrid to the plans.
Perhaps she’d read the truth of their plans from Greta’s mood. Although Greta had tried really hard to mask her sadness, Astrid had pressed a hand against her cheek at bedtime and told her not to worry, that everything would work out the way it was supposed to.
