The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection

by Kristin Billerbeck

  And such was the reason that Wyatt even lived.

  Instead of pulling the trigger, Wyatt eased backward, letting a shadow obscure his face.

  Before Wyatt could plan a move, the unbelievable sound of horses’ hooves thumping on the ground outside the cabin jarred him upright. He heard shouts, saw bright lights.

  Sidekicks. We’re done for. Wyatt squeezed his eyes closed and tried to imagine how it felt to die—and what would happen after Kirby’s bullet knocked him into the proverbial Kingdom Come. Was there really a heaven and hell like the family Bible depicted in those stuffy old picture plates? Or was it just lights-out, and nothing more than eternal darkness? Sort of like being locked in Crazy Pierre’s root cellar for eternity?

  Oh God, no…. Please. Anything but that.

  “This is Major Marshall from the Yellowstone National Park Cavalry,” barked a voice, echoing through the half-open door. “Kirby Crowder? Benjamin? I know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up, or I’ll fill you both full of bullets.”

  Wyatt opened one eye.

  The window shutters flung open, and two soldiers stood there in full uniform, light from lanterns and torches blazing against their brass buttons and cocked revolvers.

  “You’ve been poaching elk and bison off national park property, Crowder. And about two dozen mule deer. We’ve been tracking you for miles. You so much as fire one shot, and we’ll take you down.”

  Wyatt saw Kirby freeze, his pistol aimed at Jewel. Benjamin, who’d roused himself and started to climb to his feet, stood shakily.

  “Better come on out,” another stout voice rang out. “There are six of us here, and we’ll shoot you if we have to.”

  By jingle. He’s right. Wyatt felt his breath go out in a shaky spasm. The army ran Yellowstone now, and they were vigilant about cracking down on poachers. The last fellow who got caught poaching bison red-handed wound up in the guardhouse at Fort Yellowstone before he could reload his musket.

  “You’re surrounded, Kirby,” called the major. “I’ve got men on every side of this place.”

  Wyatt heard whispered curses and stamping feet, and both Crowders frantically rushed around the room, probably looking for an exit or a place to hide.

  The cellar. If either of the Crowders holed up down there, it could be days before the army got them out. But Wyatt couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Over the ruins of a broken table, Wyatt saw Jewel meet his eye, giving him a slight nod toward the basement.

  Me? Wyatt looked behind him to see if she was gesturing to someone else. She wants me to block the cellar?

  Wyatt licked his lips, sizing up the shadows and shapes in the room, and then suddenly leaped around the chimney, scrambled over stones, and ducked through the cellar door. He slammed the door shut behind him, trembling as he tugged the latch to hold it closed.

  “Wait a second—another one?” Kirby roared from the other side of the door, jerking it hard. “Who’s this? He looks like that scrawny Wyatt Kelly fella, if I didn’t know better.”

  Boots clattered on the floor, and bright light flooded the crack under the door. “Time’s up,” barked the major. “Kirby, Benjamin, drop your weapons and get your hands over your head before I count to three, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “You, half-breed,” Kirby rasped. “I’ll be back, you hear me? I know where the gold’s at, so don’t bother getting in our way.”

  The major spoke again, his tone harsh and strident. “Now, Kirby.” Wyatt heard someone kick the front door open followed by the sound of booted footsteps and metallic clinking of weapons.

  “There’s somebody else hiding in here, too,” bellowed Kirby in a hoarse voice, banging on the cellar door so hard it rattled Wyatt’s teeth. “And I aim to find out who it is.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Crazy Pierre’s ghost. All I care about is you and your deadbeat brother. It’s three in the doggone morning, and I’m sick of chasing you.” Wyatt heard the major cock his revolver. “One. Two.”

  Kirby’s guns clattered as they hit the floor.

  The US Army. The national park. Reality seemed to fade, ripple, as Wyatt sank to his knees.

  Yellowstone, they called the park—where thunderous falls roared over a yawning chasm of volcanic rock and sulfur steam boiled up from the ground like a watery furnace. Scalding water bubbled and spurted, sometimes hundreds of feet into the air—and shimmering pools of acid carved wildly colored rings and chambers into the rock like glazed Indian pottery.

  Jim Bridger and other explorers had written about “petrified birds and trees” and “waterfalls spouting upwards,” all stinking of volcanic smoke, but most folks thought they were weaving tall tales. Bridger, however, spoke the truth. Wyatt had seen the geysers himself as a skinny kid, prodded along by an impatient Uncle Hiram, who wanted to show him the pits of “fire and brimstone” where he was sure the devil lived. And where “boys who disrespect their elders go, too, when they die,” Hiram had added, giving an evil cackle.

  Wyatt had stared, horrified, into a shimmering basin of searing water, heat bubbles breaking on its steaming surface—recalling the black-clad street preacher in Cody who’d wept and shouted about hell, hanging graphic paintings of lost souls in a smoke-filled agony that looked an awful lot like Yellowstone.

  As the mists on the geyser pit lifted, Wyatt peered deep below the shivering water to an underwater pool of clearest crystalline blue—so blue the color hurt his eyes. Beyond it, streaks of red-gold and green intertwined like strands of multihued cliffs against a cobalt Wyoming sky.

  “Uncle Hiram,” he’d said, pointing. Breathless. “How could the devil make those colors? They’re so beautiful, don’t you think?”

  Hiram had leaned forward, scrunching his craggy brow. “Dunno, Wyatt. Mebbe he got bored there in hell. Ain’t nothin’ to do but burn.”

  Wyatt said nothing, gazing over the railing and wondering if Uncle Hiram and the street preacher were right, and the devil made it all. Or if both of them were wrong, and by some sort of divine, comic irony, God had made the whole thing.

  Wyatt had just turned to follow along the rickety boardwalk when a long snort at the far edge of the wood made him turn his head. And there, not thirty feet away, stood a colossal, full-grown bull bison—chest-deep in the hot springs, steam clouding all around him like heavenly stained glass. Two sharp horns curved toward the sky in reckless splendor.

  The biggest animal Wyatt had ever seen. So strong his sinews stood out under his massive brown hide in taut lines, shaggy fur mounting around his enormous head like a king’s chain-mail battle cloak. Daring anyone to disturb his respite on such a cool morning.

  The bison stamped his bushy feet, shaking the water into colored rings, and waded a pace or two deeper. Mockingbirds and meadowlarks parted; aspens cringed. He snorted again and tossed his magnificent head, horns gleaming. Breath misting over the water. Huge and defiant eyes caught Wyatt’s in an insolent gaze of absolute fearlessness, should Wyatt dare to challenge his majesty’s peace.

  Wyatt backed up, white-faced, and scrambled up the boardwalk to call for help.

  But no one had noticed the bison. Wyatt stopped, peering over his shoulder. The big beast turned his head away from Wyatt, silent and aloof.

  And Wyatt said nothing. Dry-mouthed. Keeping the secret to himself, a fluttering of pressed-down excitements too wonderful to voice.

  But as he rounded the forested bend, seeing nothing more of the bison but a cloud of steam through the aspen leaves, Wyatt knew one thing: No devil had made Yellowstone.

  It had to be God.

  Someone tugged open the cellar door, and Wyatt looked up at Jewel’s silhouette against stars in the open roof. Crazy Pierre’s dark and ruined house curved around her, silent.

  The stench of sour pickles wafted up from the root cellar, and Wyatt thought suddenly of spiders.

  “Are you all right?” Jewel knelt down and lit the lantern. The glow warmed her face and cupped hands.r />
  Wyatt tried to raise his head, but it felt heavy.

  “Mr. Kelly?” She shook his shoulder. “They’re gone. You can come out now.” She held up the lantern. “You should have covered me better, you know that? If it were up to you, I’d be dead by now. I think our deal should be more like sixty-forty, not fifty-fifty. But you did keep them out of the cellar. I suppose that counts for something.”

  Something twinkled over her head, like a spider dangling from a silken thread.

  “Did you shoot the buffalo, too?” he murmured, feeling a giddy blackness in his head. “I hope not. It’ll take more rounds than you’ve got in your revolver anyhow.”

  And Wyatt put his head down on the top step.

  Chapter 4

  Wyatt flipped the Bible page and fixed his glasses, trying to look calm and nonchalant, as if he didn’t care a bit. “So you really think I fainted, Mrs. Moreau?” He watched Uncle Hiram in the rocking chair by the fireplace, dozing. His fingers steepled together and his eyes closed.

  “You did faint. I didn’t know you were so … sensitive.”

  “I’m not sensitive.” Wyatt felt heat flare in his cheeks.

  “And afraid of spiders.”

  Wyatt scooted his chair back in a huff, blood pulsing in his face. “That’s enough. Read the next Bible story, will you?” He glared over at his uncle again, wondering if he’d been bats to invite Jewel back for tutoring. But he needed to speak to her about the gold—and by George, Wyatt wasn’t the sort of fellow to slink around the ranch alone with a young girl—married or not—making the ranch hands whisper.

  Jewel looked up at him with a slight smile. “It’s all right, you know that?”

  “What’s all right?” Wyatt’s brow still made two angry lines.

  “To be afraid of things. To be … well, just like you are. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Wyatt bristled, turning the pages of the Bible faster than necessary. He scrubbed a fist along his cheek, scruffy with patchy red, and hoped he could hide the blush. “Are you going to read or not?” he asked crossly.

  Her gaze probed him with gentle curiosity before turning to the Bible before her. “‘Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,’” Jewel read aloud over Hiram’s snores, her words clear and beautifully strong. “‘Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear.’”

  “Does that make sense to you?” Wyatt stifled a yawn.

  “Not really.” Jewel blinked at the lines of type, following them with her finger. “Do you have faith, Mr. Kelly?”

  “In what?”

  “In God. In the truth of the Bible.”

  “I … I don’t know.” Wyatt squirmed uncomfortably. “Faith in anything seems a little impossible to me. Although I’m always interested in the truth.”

  “I know you are.”

  “You … what?” Wyatt scratched his red hair uncomfortably.

  “I can tell you’re a man who seeks the truth.” Jewel leaned back and regarded him coolly. “Of course, I could be mistaken. But people do say you keep your word.”

  Wyatt lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not sure anybody around here has a good word to say about me.”

  “You’re quite mistaken, Mr. Kelly.” Jewel leaned forward boldly. “You want to hear truth? You could do so much more with yourself if you stopped trying to be someone you’re not.”

  “Pardon?” Wyatt’s jaw slipped.

  “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and your own good gifts and strengths. You don’t need your uncle’s approval or anyone else’s.”

  Wyatt stared, sputtering for words. “How dare you speak that way about my uncle,” he managed, his heart beating fast in his chest. “He’s your superior. Your boss. He hired you.”

  “I never said not to respect your uncle.” Jewel raised her voice slightly. “He’s a good man, Mr. Kelly, and he deserves your respect—and mine. He’s raised you and looked after you his whole life. But he doesn’t own your future, and you certainly owe it to yourself to discover what you can really accomplish if you stop comparing yourself to someone else.”

  “Are you crazy?” Wyatt bristled. “I don’t compare myself to anybody!”

  “Yes, you do. All the time.”

  “Who?” He scooted his chair forward, making an ugly rasping sound. Uncle Hiram stirred, his snores sputtering.

  Jewel folded her hands and glanced up at the faded tintype photograph of Amos Kelly on the mantel. “You know who,” she whispered.

  Wyatt abruptly got up from the table and fidgeted with something on the shelf, trying to straighten the plates with quivery hands until he knocked them together. When he sat down again, he polished his glasses a long time without speaking and then growled, “You sure do speak your mind,” and stuck his glasses on his face at a twisted angle.

  “So should you.”

  “You’re wrong about all of it, you know that?” Heat climbed Wyatt’s neck. “Completely wrong.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “That’s enough!” Wyatt shut the Bible and pushed it to the side of the table, his fingertips shaking with anger. “Look. If you want to talk about the gold, then talk. Otherwise we’re done here tonight. Got it?”

  “Fine.” Jewel met his eyes without flinching. “Go ahead. You start.”

  Wyatt shuffled his feet irritably under the table, glancing over at Uncle Hiram’s sleeping figure. “All right then. What do you think of the contents of the box?” He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Do you think Crazy Pierre really buried it, or did someone else take what he’d originally left and replace it with something else?”

  “You said you saw him bury it.”

  “I did, but that was years ago. Somebody might have dug it up since then.” Wyatt rubbed his forehead with his fist, letting his temper cool down. And keeping his father’s photograph out of his line of vision. “If it was Pierre, what was he thinking leaving nothing in that box but a rusted old set of spurs?”

  “And his letter to my husband doesn’t help much: ‘Le trône de solitude dans la lumière de la lune.’” Perfectly accented words rolled off her tongue like kisses. “‘Throne of solitude in the light of the moon,’” she translated. “But it makes no sense to me. Pierre said something about looking under the whiskey jug if my husband was too dense to figure it out.”

  “Under the whiskey jug.” Wyatt rested his chin in his hand. “That’s pretty cryptic.”

  “Not only that, but Pierre wrote that letter over four years ago. Even if he left a specific whiskey jug, maybe down in the root cellar, it would almost certainly be gone by now.”

  “So what next? I don’t get the spurs or the letter. A throne is where a king sits. Something royal? Expensive?” He raised his palms in frustration. “Or something up in the sky, like … like a constellation. Is that what he meant by solitude and the moon?”

  “Maybe something related to a horse, then, because of the spurs?” Jewel played with the Bible page.

  “Is there some … horse-shaped constellation?”

  “What? No.” Jewel stopped another laugh with her palm, and Wyatt glared.

  “I’m just trying things, you know,” he grumbled. “You could at least be civil.”

  “Wait a moment.” Her smile faded. “Pegasus. The winged horse.”

  “Why, you’re right.” Wyatt ran a hand over his jaw in surprise, thinking. “No, I’m right. The big square in the winter sky.”

  “Could the big square be a box? Like the box we found?” Jewel gasped. “And one other thing. A horseshoe could look like a moon. A crescent moon.”

  Wyatt studied her briefly, the candle flickering between them. A bead of wax slipped slowly down, melting into a molten ivory pool.

  Jewel actually hadn’t shown him the letter. Who knew if she’d told the whole truth—or even part of it? “Is there anything else in the letter, Mrs. Moreau?” h
e asked carefully. “Anything at all?”

  Jewel didn’t answer, twisting the wedding band on her finger.

  Wyatt crossed his arms. “You’re keeping something from me, aren’t you?”

  “Should I?” She eyed him with a suspicious look. “If I tell you everything up-front, you could figure it out and take the entire stash yourself.”

  “Me?” Wyatt pointed to his chest, openmouthed. “I’d never do that.”

  “How can I believe you?” Jewel held his gaze. “No shrewd treasure hunter shows the landowner the full map before she asks permission to dig.” The candle flame flickered from her breath.

  Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “You promised me fifty-fifty. That was the deal. And that means you tell me everything.” He raised an eyebrow. “Partner.”

  “How do I know you’ve told me everything? Prove it, Mr. Kelly.”

  “I gave you my word, and that should be enough.” He leaned across the Bible. “You admitted yourself that I’m a man of my word.”

  They regarded each other across the table, and neither spoke. A log snapped in the fire, sending up showering sparks. Outside the house, the wind rattled a loose shutter, which banged and groaned.

  “So long as you doubt me, how can I trust you with any evidence I find? Or my ideas, or … or anything?” Wyatt banged a fist in his palm for emphasis. “Fact is, I don’t even know who you are. What’s to ensure me you won’t take what I say and run off with the treasure yourself?”

  “Nothing. Do you trust me?”

  Wyatt studied her, his jaw tight. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “So you don’t know for sure.”

  He picked at his nails in the lamplight. “I’d like to,” he said finally, lacing his calloused, freckled fingers together. “But how do I know if you trust me? I could ask you the same question.”

  “Neither of us can know anything for sure.” Jewel reached across the table and touched the corner of the Bible, nearly brushing Wyatt’s hand. “But I’m learning a bit about faith from this book—and faith never asks me to believe foolishly or throw all my caution to the wind without counting the consequences.”