Forever and a Day

by Mary McBride

  “Nothing,” Gideon said now. “Nothing you don’t already know, cousin. I’ll catch up as soon as I take care of the woman.”

  When the outlaw disappeared through the office door, Gideon tightened his grip on Honey’s arm. “Where’s the back door?”

  Her eyes widened, then glowed with comprehension. “Come on. Follow me.”

  She threw the bolt on the door behind the teller’s area. Her hand was on the knob when Gideon stopped her.

  “Wait. Take off your underskirt, Ed.”

  “What?” She laughed and looked down at the limp gathers of the big calico skirt. “I’m not wearing any.”

  “We need something white. A handkerchief. Anything.” He looked around. Maybe he should take off his shirt, he thought. It wasn’t white but it might do for a flag of surrender as he preceded her out the door.

  “We need to get out of here,” Honey said with urgency. “There’s only an alley out back. Nobody’s there. Come on.” She twisted the doorknob.

  “Honey!” Gideon reached for her but it was too late, and the door swung open on a boy with a rifle.

  The rifle cracked and spit a tongue of fire just as Honey cried out, “Zack! Don’t!”

  The world had exploded in gunfire and pure hellfire then, in shattering glass and the shouts of frantic men, all while Gideon sat on the floor with Honey’s limp and bloody body in his arms. The back door was still wide open and the rifle lay in the dust. The boy, though, was gone. A moment ago, an hour ago—Gideon was numb to the passage of time—the boy had stumbled to the door, staring down, his face a twisted mask of pain. Gideon remembered an instant of recognition—the dark hair, the shape of the face, the fierce, blue-green color of the boy’s eyes. Her brother!

  When the gunfire faded to a few random shots, Gideon became aware of the ticking of the clock on the wall, aware that he was rocking Honey’s body to the rhythm of the passage of time.

  “Let go of her.”

  The command skimmed through Gideon’s awareness. It meant nothing. Then a hammer clicked back on a pistol and he felt cold metal touch his temple.

  “Let my daughter go, Summerfield.”

  No. Never. He’d never let her go, Gideon thought. And it took a hard boot in his ribs and the butt of the gun crashing against his skull to make him release his hold on her.

  Chapter Twenty

  The bull-necked guard prodded Gideon—a quick, practiced jab to the kidney with his rifle stock—guaranteed not to bruise, only to hurt like hell. “Come on, troublemaker. Can’t you shuffle any faster than that? There’s people waiting.”

  “Let ‘em wait.” They could wait till hell froze over for all he cared, Gideon thought. Or maybe it already had. The long corridor was chilly and he was shivering in the thin cotton shirt the guard had given him to replace the stinking shirt he’d worn for weeks. Still no belt, though, or shoelaces. For chrissake, if they wanted him dead so much, why’d they go to such extremes to see he hadn’t any means to do it himself?

  The leg irons and the loose shoes crimped his gait, and even with wrist cuffs on, he had to keep his elbows close to his sides to keep his beltless pants from sliding right off his hips. Whoever was waiting for this sorry spectacle wasn’t going to be disappointed, he thought, as the burly guard prodded him around a corner and down another long, windowless corridor.

  “Wait here,” the man grunted when they reached a closed door.

  Gideon flashed him the grin that usually guaranteed an elbow in his gut and a heavy boot on his instep. “I ain’t going nowhere, boss,” he drawled.

  In return, the guard merely scowled and sucked briefly on a tooth before he opened the door. “I have the prisoner,” he announced to whoever was waiting inside.

  “Bring him in.”

  One more quick jab to his kidney sent Gideon into the room, where daylight from tall windows stabbed his eyes, nearly blinding him.

  Race Logan shifted abruptly in his chair at the far end of the large table. For a second it seemed he wasn’t looking at a prisoner in the Missouri Penitentiary. He wasn’t seeing a man at all, but instead was staring at a lean, gray wolf. Every nerve in Race’s body took warning at the sight, and his hands curled into tight fists beneath the table.

  Slowly, the wolf’s gray eyes adjusted to the light. And slowly, they grazed each face at the table until they came to rest on Race. Without surprise. Without hope. Without a trace of warmth. But there was something in them meant for Race alone. Sorrow. And, miraculously, honor.

  Almost against his will, Race felt his fisted hands relax. He leaned toward the dour man on his right. “Let’s get on with this, Governor.”

  * * *

  An hour later, as soon as the door clanged at his back, Gideon felt the raw November wind bite into him. A few months ago it would have elated him, just to feel weather—any kind. Now it only served as a sharp and bitter reminder that life indeed went on outside the penitentiary walls. Why? he wondered now.

  He took a few steps forward, briefly enjoying a length of stride uninhibited by chains. When he looked over his shoulder at the hulking, redbrick institution, he knew he should have felt happy or grateful or just plain relieved to be on the outside. But he wasn’t. The fact was if they opened the door this minute and said there’d been a mistake, Gideon would have shrugged indifferently and walked right back inside.

  Prison only hurt and rankled when a man believed there was something better beyond its walls. There wasn’t though. Not for him anyway. Hell was intolerable only because a man yearned for heaven. With his heaven dead, Gideon was indifferent to hell.

  “Summerfield.”

  Race Logan was standing in an arched doorway, the collar of his dark wool overcoat turned up against the wind. The resemblance to Honey turned Gideon inside out once again, just as it had earlier when he’d first seen Logan in the hearing room. She seemed to gaze out at him from her father’s turquoise eyes, full of impossible promises and dead dreams that shredded what was left of his soul.

  “Banker.” He had no other words for the man. Certainly no gratitude to express. If they shared a sorrow, it would have to go unspoken. Gideon shrugged, and turned to walk away.

  “She’s not dead, Summerfield.”

  Gideon halted. The sidewalk seemed to be coming up into his face. The red bricks of the prison wall appeared to rearrange themselves right before his eyes.

  “She came damn close,” Race continued. “When I put you on that train back to Missouri, I didn’t think Honey was going to make it another twenty-four hours. But the fact of the matter is I lied when I told you she was dead.”

  He turned toward the banker slowly, as if moving too quickly would make him disappear or somehow change what the man was saying. All he could do was search Race Logan’s face, quizzing him wordlessly, afraid even to speak now.

  “I didn’t want you ever coming back to look for her,” Race said. “I thought she’d be better off without you.”

  He had to force his lips to shape words. Cautious words. Cool ones. “Probably right.”

  “No. I was wrong.”

  “I’m the same man I was four months ago, Logan. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Only one thing, Summerfield. My daughter’s carrying your child.”

  Gideon’s heart, which had just begun to feel less than numb, surged now, crowding the air from his lungs. “Where is she?” he rasped.

  “Before I tell you that, I want to get a few things straight.”

  In two long strides, Gideon was directly in front of the taller, heavier man, his hands clamped on Race’s lapels. “You get this straight, Banker.” Drawing back one fist, Gideon unleashed a solid punch at Race’s face. “That’s for letting me believe the light of my life was dead.” He stepped back then, hands at his side. “You’re welcome to hit me back if you want, but know that short of killing me, there’s nothing you can do to keep me away from Honey or from claiming what’s mine.”

  Race’s blue-green eyes burned for a moment like the
deep heart of a flame. He lifted a hand to touch his bleeding nose, then his mouth twitched as a grin fought its way to his lips. “My wife’s gonna be tickled pink to see this, Summerfield,” he said. “She’s been wanting to do it herself for quite a while now.”

  Gideon stared down at the sidewalk, trying to get a grip on his ragged emotions. “Where is Honey, sir?”

  “Kansas.” With one hand, Race held a handkerchief to his profusely bleeding nose while his other hand slid into his breast pocket to withdraw an envelope. “The train will get you to Hutchinson. I’ve written directions and drawn a map to get you the rest of the way. There’s a few dollars in there, too.”

  “More than a few,” Gideon said, eyeing the contents.

  Race shrugged. “Buy my daughter a wedding ring.”

  Gideon smiled for the first time in months. “Yes, sir.”

  “And do me a favor when you get to Kansas, will you, Summerfield?”

  “If I can.”

  Race sighed. “Tell my wife you broke my damn nose, and then put her on a train and send her home to me.”

  * * *

  “Don’t fuss over me so, Mama.” Honey lifted her chin a notch as Kate worked the last frog closure on her cape.

  “I’m not fussing, Honey. And as long as I can’t talk you into staying in here where it’s warm, I’m making sure you’ll be warm enough on one of your blasted treks through the fields.” Kate pulled the final stiff braid through its loop. “There. At least you won’t be catching your death out there. How’s your arm feeling this morning?”

  They had been in Kansas nearly a month now—Honey and her mother and Uncle Isaac—and in all that time, Kate hadn’t gone a single day without quizzing her daughter about some aspect of her recuperation.

  Honey gave her an exasperated sigh now, then launched into a well-practiced litany of well-being. “My shoulder’s fine, Mama. Only a little stiff today. I can wiggle my fingers to beat the band. See.” Poking her hand from the depths of her cloak, Honey demonstrated. “My breathing’s fine. My heart’s ticking like a Swiss watch. And my baby’s fluttering in my tummy like a butterfly.”

  Kate’s mouth curled down. “Then you should stay inside and not go traipsing off all by yourself.”

  Laughing as she fit her long hair beneath the hood of the cloak, Honey said, “Aren’t you the lady who climbed in a wagon and hit the Santa Fe trail when you were carrying me?”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Kate snapped.

  “Well, I do have a choice, Mama, and I choose to go out for my morning constitutional now.” She reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”

  How could she not worry? Kate thought as she watched her daughter walk out into the cold of a brittle November cornfield. How could she not be eaten away with worry for Honey and for herself as well?

  What had she been thinking, walking out on Race the way she had, throwing that ultimatum in his face? “Honey’s going to Kansas to have her baby, Race. I’m going with her, and I won’t be coming back until you do what you have to do to get that Summerfield man out of jail.”

  Blast his stubborn hide, he’d let her go, too. Kate hadn’t expected that. Neither one of them had backed down, not even at the train station when tears had pooled in Race’s beautiful eyes and her own hot tears had streamed down her cheeks.

  “Two damn mules.” That was what Isaac had called them. Two damn, hard-headed mules.

  And Honey was just as mulish. “He’ll come to me as soon as he can.” Her faith in the man was unshakable. But Kate wasn’t all that sure. In her head she believed Gideon Summerfield was a decent and honorable man, while her heart warned her that that same decency and honor could very well make him walk the other way when and if the prison doors opened, believing Honey was better off without him.

  “Another damn mule,” Kate muttered, swiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “You railing at Horace again, Miz Kate?”

  Kate turned to Isaac Goodman’s broad grin. “I thought you were out in the barn, Isaac.”

  He held his hands to the wood stove. “Gettin’ cold out there.”

  Kate shrugged. “It’s cold everywhere.”

  “Yup. All the mules need to be growing thicker coats now that winter’s settling in.” He lowered himself into the rocking chair by the fire. “I only hope I live long enough to see you all come to your senses.”

  Kate’s voice was little more than breath. “I hope so, too, old friend. I hope so, too.”

  * * *

  Honey made her way carefully over the frozen, uneven ground between the rows of dead cornstalks. The sky to the west was leaden, promising snow, and a chill wind lifted the hem of her cloak. The mask of hope she wore for her mother’s benefit was gone now, and her shoulder ached from the wet cold.

  She’d been able to hide her physical pain. If she hadn’t, her mother would never have allowed her to make the trip back to Kansas. Honey wondered, though, just how long she’d be able to conceal the other pain, the one that kept searing her heart like a knife held in a fire.

  Part of that pain was for her brother Zack, who had disappeared the day he had shot her by mistake. It was a heartache for her mother, made worse by the fact that her father refused to search for him. “Let him go,” he’d thundered. “If he didn’t have the decency to stay long enough to find out if his sister was living or dead, then let him go to blazes where he belongs.”

  Much as she ached for Zack, Honey ached for Gideon more. What if her father remained stubborn and intractable in his refusal to help with the parole he’d once promised? Or, if he did use his influence in Missouri to arrange the parole, what if her mother was right when she hinted that, despite love, Gideon might choose not to come? What if he didn’t come?

  Honey lifted a clenched fist toward the darkening sky. “What if?” she cried. “What if everything went right for a change? Is that so much to ask? I always thought I was doing things all wrong, but then I finally went and did something perfect, something so right.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the heavens, turning to wet brine on her lips.

  “I...I don’t know how to fix this. I’ve tried and I’ve tried. I’ve spent my whole life trying. So hard.” Her voice fell to a whisper as Honey gathered her cloak around her and went to her knees. She bowed her head. “I’m tired of trying so hard. Please...please let me just accept. Give me patience. Let me just fold my hands and wait.”

  * * *

  When she answered the knock on the door, Kate’s hand flew to her mouth and she uttered a choked little cry.

  Gideon met her surprise with a warm, lopsided grin. “I’m supposed to give you a message from your husband, Mrs. Logan. He said to tell you that I did you a favor by busting his nose—purely by accident, mind you—and he sorely needs you to come home.”

  She laughed as tears sprang to her eyes. “Welcome, Gideon. Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Hard as he tried to steady his gaze on Kate Logan, his eyes moved to scan the room behind her, hungering for the sight of Honey. Instead he saw an elderly man, rocking back and forth, grinning to beat the band.

  “Now we got us a true Missouri mule to add to the family,” Isaac said. “I surely hope I live long enough to see the consequences of this. Yup. I surely do.”

  “Where is she?” Gideon asked softly, returning his gaze to Kate.

  “Out walking,” Kate said, pointing over his shoulder. “Honey’s just about worn a road through all that corn.”

  Gideon stood there a moment, speechless, until Kate put her hands on his shoulders and turned him toward the field.

  “Go on,” she said. “You two have lost too much time already. Besides, I’ve got some fast packing to do if I’m going to make the afternoon train. And I do plan to be on that train.”

  * * *

  Gideon’s breath caught in his throat when he saw Honey sitting on the frozen ground between the corn rows. Her cloak riffled
around her in the wind. The hood had blown back, allowing the wind to toss her beautiful dark hair. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her head was bowed. And she was crying.

  Ah, God. He had caused that pain, those tears. The sight tore at his heart and his immediate instinct was to run in the opposite direction rather than risk hurting her more.

  But he stood there, dry-mouthed, hardly able to breathe. “Angel.” It was all he could say.

  She lifted her head, blinked as if she couldn’t believe her tear-bright eyes.

  Gideon summoned a grin as he sauntered toward her. “You ‘bout done crying?”

  “About.” Honey swiped the back of her hand across her wet cheek.

  He folded his legs and sat beside her. “Don’t stop on my account now. Get it all done, Ed, honey, ‘cause it’s the last time you’re going to do it.”

  Her tears came faster then, cascading over one another down her face, pooling in the corners of her smile. She tried to speak, but between the tears and the width of her smile, she couldn’t manage anything but a wet croak.

  Gideon slipped his arms around her, lifting her onto his lap, rocking her, nuzzling his face into the wet wool of her cloak. His hand slid under the folds of the fabric and found her warm belly. “We made a miracle, bright eyes. The two of us.”

  “I told you, Gideon. I told you dreams can come true.” She sniffed, snuggling into the warmth of his chest.

  He raised his head to gaze at the cornstalks. Close enough, he thought. Next summer they’d be green and he’d bring Honey and the baby out to hear the wind moving through the broad, glossy leaves.

  “Guess you’re going to make me prove myself as a farmer now,” he said. “I only hope I remember half as much as I’ve forgotten.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of men at the grange who will be happy to help.”

  His mouth tightened. “Well, don’t count on my being too welcome there, bright eyes. One small farmer with one bad past doesn’t count for much, sweetheart. But we’ll get by. I’ll do right by you, Honey. I swear.”