by Cotton Smith
Holt gathered his personal winnings and looked around to see where Deed was walking to give him his personal winnings. From across the open field, he saw the mayor, Taliff, and the new schoolteacher walking. When he saw her face, he was stunned. This woman. This woman. Where had he been with her before? Another life? He couldn’t remember feeling this way about a woman. He was sweating. And cold. At the same time. She glanced his way and their eyes met for an instant. For Holt, it was like getting hit in the stomach. She quickly turned her attention to Taliff and laughed gaily at something he said.
All Holt could think of was to get away. He needed to be alone. To think. He went to the jail and told Hannah and Wheeler to go enjoy the box supper. He would watch the prisoners. Both men were glad to have the opportunity.
The box supper auction was lively. Blue and Deed bought their women’s offerings for five dollars each. Allison tried to find Holt to remind him which box was hers. She gave up and Logan Wheeler bought it for two dollars. Behesba Miller also looked briefly for Holt, but was just as happy to have her offering bought by one of the town’s leading men. Hannah bought his wife’s supper for two dollars as well.
Everyone spread out to eat, and the Corrigans went inside the schoolhouse as the day was cooling. After a dinner of fried chicken and biscuits, Blue and Bina headed home with their children, deciding to leave the dancing to the townsfolk. Silka rode with them, weary but happy.
Deed, Atlee, Benjamin, and Elizabeth were close behind. A warm blanket covered the children and another was wrapped around the adults’ legs in front. Elizabeth wore a paper crown displaying “Bee – 6” to show she had won her spelling-bee age group. Benjamin chattered about the day for a long time before falling asleep. At the stage station, Deed lifted the boy and carried him to his bed; Atlee carried Elizabeth.
Standing beside the rejuvenated fire, Atlee and Deed held each other. She stared into his eyes. “Deed Corrigan, I asked you to wait for me.”
“I will wait for you . . . forever.”
“I want to marry you now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The next day was both bright . . . and ugly. It was bright at the Rafter C, where plans were being made for a wedding on Thanksgiving day, a traditional gathering for the Corrigans and their friends as Deed and Atlee shared the news. Silka was easily the most excited and kept proclaiming that the ceremony should include some traditional Japanese aspects. Deed thought it would be fun to do; Atlee wasn’t so sure.
In town, however, the day began ugly.
Before dawn, Judd Johnson, drunk and vicious, tried to find his wife and children, going from saloon to saloon, yelling and making threats. In the Trail Dog, he made the mistake of getting into an argument with a freighter who was starting his day with some whiskey. In the ensuing fistfight, Judd hit his head against the bar and died. Deputy Wheeler was the only lawman on duty at the time, so he couldn’t leave the jail. The bartender handled the situation, getting Gausage out of bed. Both made the decision that the death was an accident, due to self-defense. Mrs. Johnson, Allison, and Oliver were the only people to come to the undertaker. It was said none of them cried.
With Tag at his side, Holt walked along the quiet boardwalk from his sheriff’s living quarters to the jail. He had laid down in his clothes, but had barely slept, and finally got up, shaved, and fed Tag. Here and there were left-behinds from yesterday’s celebration. He stepped over a drunk asleep propped against a building. Somebody had left his fiddle and Holt picked it up.
“We’d better keep this so it doesn’t get broken.”
Tag smelled the instrument and woofed. The drunk stirred, smiled, and mumbled, “That’s my favorite, Jimmy.”
They walked on, passing several empty supper boxes. He would talk to Hannah about getting three or four boys to make a run through the town, picking up trash. Maybe Wheeler’s boy would like to make a couple of extra dollars. His mind drifted once again to yesterday. Seeing Claire Baldwin was like a strange dream. Almost like he had been drunk.
On the way, he saw a crow perched on the corner of an overhanging roof. A sign of bad luck, he told himself. Damn. He reached into his pocket and felt for the reassurance of his medicine stone.
At the jail, he thanked Wheeler, and the tired farmer was glad to get to get some rest. He and his children were staying in the hotel. Before leaving, Wheeler suggested putting the fiddle on top of the small cabinet so it would be out of the way. Then he told Holt the prisoners had been fed their breakfast and taken out back to relieve themselves.
Rhey Selmon was the only prisoner awake as Holt placed the fiddle on top of the cabinet and made certain it wouldn’t fall.
“Corrigan! Why don’t you start your day real nice and let us go. I promise we’ll ride out of here and never come back. The whole town’s asleep. You can say we busted out during the night. ”
Holt told him that he was in no mood for jokes.
“Aw, come on, man. You know we’d keep riding. My half-brother was the crazy one and your brother killed him,” Rhey said, standing against the bars. Behind him, Hixon mumbled something no one understood.
“You’ll be lucky if you get any further than a hanging.”
Rhey swallowed and retreated from the bars.
Holt made a fresh pot of coffee and put a short log into the cast-iron stove to help chase away the edge of cold that had settled in the office. He poured himself a cup and sat behind the marshal’s desk. He drank a little of the hot brew and pulled his medicine stone from his pocket, fingered it, and laid the small rock on the desk. It had helped him get through some bad scrapes, he was certain. Even Silka believed.
Hannah was sleeping in and wasn’t due until the afternoon, so he would be alone until then. Hopefully, the town would remain quiet, recovering from yesterday’s activities.
Beside his chair, Tag was sleeping.
Holt’s own lack of sleep was catching up with him. He was unable to get the new schoolteacher out of his mind. It was silly, he kept telling himself, but that didn’t seem to matter. His mind relived seeing her and wishing he had gone over and at least introduced himself. What a fool.
A knock on the jail door broke his strange musings. He pulled one of his revolvers from his shoulder holsters and cocked it. Tag raised his head and growled.
“Come in,” he said without looking up, and cocked the gun. “With your hands empty.”
Into the small room stepped Claire Baldwin. She was stunning in a blue-and-white herringbone suit with large blue buttons and a short cape. A large blue hat set off her blond hair and matched her eyes. Seeing the gun, she was startled.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t. It comes with the badge.” Holt chuckled, uncocked the gun, and returned the Russian Smith & Wesson to its holster.
“Maybe this isn’t a good time,” she said and smiled tentatively. “I don’t believe we’ve had the opportunity to meet.”
Holt stood, almost losing his balance. “Uh, h-how are you, Miss Baldwin? Please come in. P-please.”
She walked into the office, to the desk, holding out her hand. “I wish that you would call me Claire.”
Tag approached her; his tail, wagging.
“Y-yes, ma’am . . . uh, Claire. I’m Holt Corrigan.”
“Everyone knows who you are, Holt Corrigan. You and your brothers are known all around this region.” She leaned down and patted the dog.
Holt realized he was staring at her and finally asked, “Would you like some coffee? I just made it.” His smile was genuine. “If you keep giving Tag attention like that, he’ll never go away.”
“Coffee sounds great. May I sit down?” She looked up and met his eyes. “Tag, is it? He’s a fine fellow. Reminds me of the dog I had growing up.”
Holt shook his head. “Where are my manners? Of course, please sit down.” He rushed around the desk and held a chair for her. He went to the cabinet and retrieved a coffee cup, then grabbed the coffeepo
t from the cast-iron stove.
“Would you like sugar . . . Claire? I’m sorry to tell you that we don’t have any cream.”
“One teaspoon. Please.” She rested her large handbag on the floor beside her chair.
As he was returning to the desk, she asked him about the medicine stone lying there. “What is this, Holt? I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before. May I hold it?”
“Sure. It’s just an old rock I came across.”
“I don’t think so. It looks magical to me.”
He handed her the cup, told her it was quite hot, and explained the stone’s significance. It surprised him that he told her, the words just jumping from his mouth. And that began a conversation that lasted for over an hour with both sharing highlights of their respective childhoods. She had grown up in Indiana and played with Indian children of the Upper Kispoko band of the Shawnee tribe. She was certain that an old shaman had owned a stone identical to Holt’s. As they talked, her eyes danced with his and time was forgotten.
She told him about her reluctance to come to Wilkon after hearing about Agon Bordner and his plans to control the region. When she heard the Corrigan brothers had defeated the outlaw king, she changed her mind. He told her they were still dealing with the last of the gang and motioned toward the cells.
A heavy knock was followed by a stocky blacksmith rushing inside.
“Holt! Holt! Oh, excuse me, ma’am,” the blacksmith said, waving his arms.
“That’s quite all right. Is something the matter?” Holt asked, trying to hide being annoyed at the interruption.
“Rider coming up the street,” the townsman said, catching his breath. “He’s yelling that Judge Pence has been murdered. Found his body a mile outside of town.”
Holt rose and went toward the rifle rack. Claudia reached down for her heavy purse.
“I’ve got to go.” He winced.
“Of course. I understand. I want to continue this conversation, so I will wait to hear of your return.”
He raced out the door to his already saddled horse, mounted, and rode off with Tag running beside them. Just down the street a bit, he turned in his saddle and looked back at her.
She was standing in front of the marshal’s office, waving at him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COTTON SMITH’s novels bring an exciting picture of the human spirit making its way through life-changing trials, driving through physical and emotional barriers, and resurrecting itself from defeat. His stories of the West are praised for historical accuracy, unexpected plot twists, and memorable characters. They are also enjoyed for their insightful descriptions of life of that era—and for their rousing adventure. Dallas Morning News said, “This western writer has a keener fidelity to history than any of his predecessors.” Publishers Weekly said, “Smith knows cattle drives and cowboy lore.”
Don’t miss the first novel in
Cotton Smith’s Corrigan Brothers series . . .
RIDE AWAY
Deed Corrigan earned his reputation as a
gunfighter—the hard way. But now, after forging
cattle trails and fighting off the Comanche, he’s
setting his sights on a brighter future. With the help
of his older brother Blue, a Civil War veteran who
lost his arm in battle, Deed turns the homestead
into a successful working cattle ranch. But when a
land-grubbing banker tries to wipe out the
competition—slaughtering ranchers, robbing
farmers, and building an army of hired killers—
Deed and Blue have no choice but to fight back
with everything they’ve got. That means bringing
in the big guns. Settling old scores. And taking a
chance on a dangerous outlaw named
Holt Corrigan—their long-lost brother . . .
“Solid writing and superb storytelling.”
—American Cowboy Magazine
“Cotton Smith turns in a terrific story every time.”
—Roundup
RIDE AWAY
A CORRIGAN BROTHERS WESTERN
by Cotton Smith
Keep reading for a special excerpt of
Ride Away, available now!
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
CHAPTER ONE
The Texas mid-morning sky looked like God hadn’t decided what to make of the day as Tade Balkins drove the stagecoach toward the Wilkon relay station. No driver got more out of his horses, taking great pride in always being on time. He was well respected on the Southern Overland Mail line that ran from Hays City to El Paso, then on to Santa Fe, Tucson, San Diego, and finally Los Angeles. Even with railroad construction heating up again after the war, it was still an important route.
As far as the eye could see was empty desert plain, marked with rock, catclaw, dry brush, mesquite, and a creek bed with only the memory of water. To the north were dark crests promising better land and water. Tade was holding the six-horse team to a steady trot, talking to them as usual. He would bring them into a controlled run when the stage got closer to the station. A full gallop was really for appearance. It looked impressive to pull the charging horses to a hard stop in front of a destination. Sitting beside him, Hank Johnson rode shotgun and was having difficulty staying awake. Last night had been a drunken one.
“Doin’ good, boys. Doin’ good. Ah, that’s just a tumbleweed. Nothin’ to worry about,” Tade assured the horses, then glanced over at the dozing guard and nudged him awake. “Better stay alert, Hank. Bad country along here.”
“Yeah, I know. Jes’ got a nasty headache.”
“Atlee Forsyth, she’ll have some good hot coffee. That’ll help.”
“Wish she had some whiskey.”
Tade frowned and returned to talking to his horses.
Inside the coach, seven passengers were dulled by the never-ending bouncing and the ever-swirling dust.
“Is your ranch near here, Mr. Corrigan?”
The question to Deed Corrigan came from Rebecca Tuttle, the younger of the two women sitting across from him. Clearly she wanted to talk and had been doing so almost nonstop since the stage rolled out in the morning.
Dressed like a woman ready to stroll down the main street of El Paso, her green dress shimmered with its overskirts caught up and accented with black ribbons. Her flat-crowned straw hat held one large bow in the center of her forehead, matching the smaller ones on her dress. A jacket bodice, with a neckline close to her neck and black cuffs, completed the outfit. Brown ringlets framed her round face; light rouge highlighted her ample cheeks. To those in the coach, she looked like a woman of high social standing. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Her last cent had been spent on this stagecoach ticket.
Without waiting for Deed to answer, Rebecca explained that she was on the way to El Paso to meet her intended, a farmer she had met two years before in Ohio. Indeed, it was her only hope. That wasn’t expressed—just a sweet smile when she stated her intention.
Politely, Deed Corrigan touched the brim of his ill-shaped hat and explained that his ranch was about three hours’ ride from the station and he was returning home from a cattle drive to Kansas. It was more than he had said on the trip so far. His face, accented by a thick mustache, was deeply tanned from countless days on horseback. Long brown hair brushed against his shoulders. The bullet belt around Deed’s waist held a heavy Remington .44 revolver with its long barrel extending past the holster’s open end. Tan leather cuffs covered the frayed ends of his faded red shirt. A once-blue neckerchief hung loosely around his neck. Spurs were Mexican in styling and his worn Levi’s were shoved into knee-high boots.
Around Deed’s neck hung a small, Oriental-looking brass circle on a rawhide thong. Engraved on the circle was the Japanese word, Bushido. No one asked what it meant. Hanging unseen down the back of his shirt was a sheathed throwing knife, attached to the thong.
Next to him sat a fat drummer, Persam Tor
ce, representing several companies making fine linens and other cloth goods. He had declared often of their quality, whether anyone asked or not. Stuffed into a store-bought suit that didn’t fit, he said he, too, was headed to El Paso and wondered if it was much farther, or if a railroad went there.
“It’s a ways, mister. No railroad yet, either,” Deed said, grinning. “Better get used to this.”
Frowning, Persam Torce looked at Deed. “Is it really necessary to be armed as you are, sir?”
“Only if you want to stay alive . . . sir.” Deed’s answer carried an edge.
Torce pulled on his collar. “Surely, there are law officers with the responsibility to protect us.”
On the far side of the same bench, sitting next to the drummer, a well-dressed passenger with long sideburns, thick spectacles, and black bowler leaned forward, laughed, and said, “Tell that to the next bunch of highwaymen, or war party, we see.”
Returning to his reading, the gentleman’s Victorian black suitcoat flared open to reveal the butt of a silver-plated revolver in a shoulder holster. He also carried a sleeve gun, probably a derringer, Deed figured by the way he favored his right wrist. On the man’s lap was an opened book of Tennyson he had been enjoying since the coach left Hays. This was the first time he had said anything to anyone, except to introduce himself earlier to Deed as James Hannah. A name known to many in the region; the name of a man of the gun—a gun for hire. The singular introduction was an indication Hannah was aware of Deed Corrigan’s reputation as a fighting man as well.
In the middle bench sat another drummer who sold Swedish furniture and held tightly to one of the straps hanging from the coach roof for use by middle-bench passengers to balance themselves. Wearing a dust-covered top hat, he acted as if he hadn’t heard the conversation or cared about it. He hadn’t said where he was headed.
