Abbie's Outlaw

by Victoria Bylin

  Silas had already been told to ride on top. Susanna thought prejudice was deplorable, but she envied him the chance to ride in the open air. Since she was still dressed as a boy, she turned to him. “Can I ride on top with you?”

  He pursed his lips. “It could be a long day.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I like the sunshine.”

  She also liked listening to Silas’s stories. The week at his ranch had been one of the best in her life. He had dozens of books and Susanna had read ten of them—including a history of ancient Egypt and a guide to the stars. He had taught her how to milk a cow and shown her a valley with more cattle than she had ever seen. In turn, she had told Silas about Washington and the mummies at the Smithsonian Castle.

  Susanna had been almost sorry when a neighbor led away the milk cow and Silas said they were ready to go. After boarding his horse and wagon at the livery, they had walked to the stage stop where the butter-yellow coach was waiting.

  Susanna gripped the satchel containing the Pinkerton’s reports. She had asked Silas about her father, but the old man had answered with stories that she didn’t understand. This morning before dawn he’d taken her outside to a hill where he’d pointed to Sirius, the dog star.

  “You won’t see better proof of God,” he’d said. “He knows all about you and your daddy.”

  Not sure what to say, she had told him about the planetarium she had visited with her classmates. He’d told her how fortunate she was to have grown up in a city with museums and schools. “Your mama’s done right by you. Your daddy’s gonna be proud.”

  For no reason at all, a lump had risen in Susanna’s throat as they’d stared up at the sky. “I don’t care what he thinks.”

  “Of course not, but I bet you want to know what he’s like.” The coldness in her heart had sealed Susanna’s lips, but Silas had kept talking. “When I first met him, he didn’t care about anything. Now he cares about everything, sometimes too much.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only that he feels things deep—both good and bad.”

  That had confused Susanna even more and she still hadn’t sorted out her thoughts. She was about to ask Silas again if she could ride on top when she saw a bony old man staring at her from across the street. With his close-cropped hair and sallow skin, he looked old, but Susanna guessed he was in his forties.

  Without breaking his stare, he strode toward them and stopped a foot away from her. His wiry shadow seemed to pass right through her legs.

  “Well, if it isn’t Silas Jones,” the man said in a gravelly voice. “Who’s that boy with you?”

  The stranger stank of whiskey, just like Robert Windsor sometimes smelled.

  “Hello, Ben,” said Silas, not answering the man’s question.

  As the man stared at her, Susanna realized she was looking at Ben Gantry. With a scornful glare, he said, “I know who you are, miss. I have a message for your father. Tell him I’m coming after him and blood’s gonna spill—both his and yours.”

  Terror snaked around Susanna’s throat and cut off her air. She could feel the hate rising from the man’s skin and see it in his pale eyes. At that moment Susanna wished she had never come to Bitterroot, had never been born. But the deed was done and this wasn’t the time for cowardice. “I’m not like him,” she said to Ben Gantry.

  “Young lady, I don’t give a damn about you. I lost my sons—all three of them. I want them back. I want—”

  Silas interrupted. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ben. So is John, but hate won’t bring them back.”

  “Just give him the message.” Gantry sneered at Susanna, revealing a mouthful of stained teeth. “As for you, miss, it don’t matter to me if you’re like your daddy or not. Do you know what the Egyptians did to the phay-roahs? When one of them went bad, they buried the whole damn family. Think about it,” he said. Then he walked away.

  Fear pulsed through Susanna. She didn’t care about John Leaf and she’d brought the danger on herself, but what if Ben Gantry hurt her mother or Robbie? She looked up at Silas. “Does he know where we’re going?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s no secret that your daddy writes me letters. All Ben has to do is ask at the post office.”

  Susanna wanted to turn back the calendar and pretend she had never heard of John Leaf. She hated him for what he’d done to all of them—Ben Gantry, her mother, even herself.

  The stage agent opened the door. “Hurry it up, folks. Climb in.”

  Silas spoke quietly. “If you still want to ride on top, I’ll tell you a story about your daddy and a dog named Bones.”

  Susanna shook her head. She didn’t want to hear any more stories—not today. And especially not one about John Leaf and a dog. She loved animals. If he loved them too, she didn’t want to know.

  “I’ll ride inside,” she said. Leaving behind the sun and fresh air, Susanna plopped down next to Mrs. Garlic Breath, clutched the satchel in her lap and stared through the window as Ben Gantry walked into the post office.

  John didn’t know if he’d gone to heaven or hell. It was too hot for heaven, but the bed was too soft for hell, and an angel had climbed through his window. She had been wearing an ugly brown dress. Funny, he thought, angels usually wore white. He’d seen one before, a long time ago when he’d eaten peyote buttons with a Shoshone warrior he’d met in the middle of nowhere.

  “You’ll see God’s face,” the warrior had promised.

  But he’d been wrong. John had been attacked by spidery creatures with veined wings. He’d cried out, and then the angel had come in the form of a man on a white horse. The horseman had galloped across the sky, chasing away the monsters with a blast of light before he’d vanished into a mist.

  This angel hadn’t vanished. She had stayed with him for hours, and she smelled like bread. His mouth started to water but not from hunger. God help him, he was going to be sick. With his stomach heaving, John rolled to his side. A cool hand steadied his forehead, and a bowl appeared at the side of the bed as he retched.

  Pain ripped through him, but nothing came up. It had been years since he’d had the dry heaves—not since he’d ridden with the Too Tall gang. They had spent a week in Cooper Creek celebrating a train robbery, and all he remembered was waking up with a king-hell hangover.

  “Oh, Johnny. It has to be awful.”

  The angel sounded close to tears. She also sounded like Abbie Moore, the girl he had almost taken to Oregon. They had talked about it.

  I hate farming, but I’d make a hell of a lawman.

  You would, Johnny… We could build a house and plant apple trees.

  They had both been dreaming, talking as if he wasn’t already a lost cause as a man and she wasn’t too good to leave her ailing mother. Lying in his bed, he ached to hold her again, to be the kind of man who wanted a wife, a garden, a house full of children.

  As a groan tore from his throat, the angel laid her finger on his lips. “Stay still. You’re going to pull your stitches.”

  She was leaning over him now, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. When she lifted it off his brow, he wanted it back and so he gripped her wrist. Instead of the cloth, he felt her palm on his forehead and her fingers in his hair. Her skin felt cool like ice on a summer day. Like Christmas… Lord, be with me…

  Calmed by the prayer, John opened his eyes and saw that someone had pulled back the drapes. Judging by the dusky light, the sun had just set. A breeze stirred in the room and prickled over his belly. Confused, he raised his head and looked down the length of his chest to his abdomen where he saw a row of inflamed stitches.

  The details of the past few days came back in a rush. Thank God, he was in his own room. Sleeping in his own bed. Naked. Hellfire!

  Abbie was the angel, and John wasn’t wearing a stitch. She had folded the sheet so that it covered just his hips, and she was wiping his calves with a damp towel, working her way up, up, up. Judas was at full salute—not that it mattered at this point. Someone had been bathing hi
m with cool water, and those gentle hands sure hadn’t belonged to Doc Randall.

  “Oh, jeez,” he groaned. “Cover me up.”

  Abbie’s hand went still as she looked straight at him. “Are you cold? Otherwise it’s not a good idea.”

  He was burning up, so he lied. “I’ve got chills.”

  It hurt like the devil to move, but he wanted to sit up. Using both hands, he dragged his hips backward and bent slightly at the waist. Abbie jammed two pillows behind his back, grazing his skin with her damp hands.

  “This will help,” she said, spreading the comforter from his feet to his chest, giving him the weight of the blanket to keep Judas in check. After tucking it around his ribs, she stepped back. “You’ve been delirious from the fever. We had to cool you down.”

  “You should have shot me. It would have been kinder.”

  She gave him a playful smile. “Be nice or I still might. Doc Randall says you’re the worst patient he’s ever had. For once, I agree with him.”

  John groaned. He’d probably been cussing and throwing punches. His dreams had been that bad. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No, but you had a few choices words for the Man Upstairs.”

  John wasn’t surprised. He’d mouthed off to God before. For a grown man he had a real knack for pitching fits and then being sorry. “How long has this been going on?”

  “A day and half.”

  “I bet you’re dying to say ‘I told you so’ to the doc.”

  Triumph sparked in Abbie’s eyes. “He apologized to me last night. He did some reading and ordered carbolic.”

  John’s stomach rumbled. Trying for a smile, he said, “It sounds delicious.”

  “You must be feeling better. I have a pot of chicken broth on the stove. Would you like some?”

  “Sure.” John preferred food he could chew, but ailing men couldn’t be choosy.

  After wringing out the towel, Abbie draped it over the basin. “I’ll be right back.”

  As she stepped into the hallway, John wondered what the past two days had been like for her. Even without the fever, he sometimes had dreams so bad he cried out in his sleep. He preferred to keep those torments private, but fever had a way of stripping away a man’s pride.

  Two minutes later, Abbie walked through his door carrying a tray with a bowl of broth and a cup of tea. He saw that she’d cleared the clutter from half his desk, and that’s where she set the tray. When she handed him the cup, he took it with one hand, saw he was shaking and realized he was weaker than he’d guessed.

  “Here, let me,” she said.

  Covering his hand with both of hers, she raised the cup to his lips. The honey-rich tea slid down his throat and warmed his belly. He’d never tasted anything so welcome. Nor had he ever felt a woman’s hand stronger than his own. As Abbie’s fingertips warmed his knuckles, her strength flowed into him along with the tea.

  After he downed the last drop, she lifted the bowl of soup. She didn’t ask him what he wanted to do. She just went ahead and fed him. When he’d taken several sips, she set the bowl on the desk. “If you’re up to it, I have news about Susanna.”

  John wasn’t, but he had to ask. “Is she all right?”

  “Silas sent a wire. He’s bringing her to us.” Abbie’s face glowed as she took a telegram out of her pocket and handed it to him.

  Silas’s voice seemed to come from the paper. Your daughter. John felt a pain so deep he cringed. For Abbie’s sake, he tried to be nonchalant. “This is good news.”

  “When do you think they’ll get here?”

  John did some quick calculations. “Silas will have to find someone to see to his livestock, and then it’s a matter of taking the train. It’ll be a few weeks.”

  Abbie wrinkled her brow. “It’s a lot to ask of a stranger. I wish I could go myself.”

  John weighed the idea. He’d be sorry to see Abbie and her son leave town, but he wouldn’t have to face Susanna just yet. On the other hand, he’d be worried sick that Gantry had already gotten wind of the girl’s search for him. The ace in the hole was Silas.

  “I’ll send another wire,” he said. “If Silas thinks it’s safe, you could meet them halfway. You’d get to Kansas that much quicker.”

  Abbie shook her head. “I can’t leave until you’re well.”

  “I’m doing fine,” John replied. Never mind that he couldn’t stand up to pee, and the fever came at him in waves. “Your daughter’s more important than I am. If it’s safe, I want you to go to her.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Tell me the truth. Do you trust Silas?”

  “With my life.”

  “Then so do I. We’ll wait together. It’ll give us a chance to talk about her. I have so many stories—”

  “I’m sure you do.” John grunted, hoping Abbie would be quiet, but instead her voice picked up speed.

  “I have pictures of her,” she said. “Would you like to see them?”

  “Not now.” Not ever. Leaning back, he covered his eyes with his forearm. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

  “Of course.”

  She stood, blocking the last of the twilight from his face, and lifted the water basin. He felt like a weasel, but a bedridden man didn’t have a lot of options when it came to avoiding a caring woman. And he definitely needed to hide. John couldn’t stop imagining Abbie as a young mother with a baby at her breast—with her hair loose and her eyes brimming with a love that John couldn’t allow himself to feel. Determined to stay away from thoughts of babies and where they came from, he decided to think about locomotives…boilers…engine rods… When Abbie didn’t take the hint, he let his breathing go deep as if he’d dropped off to sleep.

  After the third breath, she said, “You’re a worse faker than Robbie. I’ll be in the kitchen, but the door’s staying open in case you need me.”

  He wasn’t going to need her or anyone else, but he couldn’t argue without proving just how much of a faker he was. Instead he added a little snore for good measure. The tap of her shoes stopped at the threshold. “Pleasant dreams, Johnny.”

  Her voice had a whispery edge, as if she knew that his dreams wouldn’t be pleasant at all. He could hope, but he knew he wouldn’t see rainbows and sunshine. He could feel the fever rising again, but he’d go up in flames before he’d ask Abbie to soothe him with that cool water. He liked her touch a little too much.

  Chapter Seven

  Abbie marched into the kitchen and dumped the water from the washbowl into the sink. Beth was dishing up supper and humming “Camptown Races.” After the fourth doo-dah, Abbie slammed down the basin. “That fool man is an idiot!”

  Beth chuckled. “What did he do?”

  Desperate to talk about her daughter, Abbie made a snap decision to confide in Beth as she would have confided in her housemates in Washington. Women needed each other, especially when they had a fight on their hands. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “For you, yes. What is it?”

  “I knew John a long time ago.”

  Beth left the spoon sitting in the mashed potatoes and looked at Abbie with wide eyes. “I thought there was something between you. I could feel it at Sally’s.”

  “It’s long over,” Abbie replied as she wiped the washbowl. “It lasted just a few weeks, but that’s why I’m here now. John is Susanna’s father. It’s up to him to claim her and say what he wants in public, but if I don’t talk to someone I’ll start breaking things. I’m so damn mad at him!”

  “Abbie! I’ve never heard you swear!”

  Beth’s light chuckle made Abbie feel sheepish. “I usually don’t, at least not out loud. It’s just that John’s being so reluctant. Susanna needs to know him, and he’s holding back like he’s going to poison her. It’s just plain stupid!”

  “I agree,” Beth said. “I loved my pa. I remember him telling stories about dragons and giant castles.”

  Abbie swiped again at the already-dry bowl. Susanna was too old for bedtime stories, but surely J
ohn could talk to her about adult things. Up until the fever struck, they had all enjoyed lively supper conversations about everything from politics to Indian folklore. Even breakfast had been full of talk, an activity Abbie found annoying until she’d had her morning tea.

  She hung the dish towel on a hook and put the basin in a cupboard. “I don’t understand why he’s being so cold about this. He’s a minister. You’d think he’d want to help her.”

  “Maybe he thinks he is.” Beth opened the silverware drawer. “He’s not like other preachers. He makes the Bible sound like a mix of poetry and a dime novel because that’s how he’s lived. There’s a sadness in him. I know, because I feel it, too. I’d change all sorts of things if I could.”

  The lament in Beth’s voice tugged at Abbie’s heart. “We all feel that way. It’s part of life.”

  “Maybe. But I wish I’d never married Ed, and I bet the Reverend wishes he’d never set foot in Bitterroot.”

  Abbie picked up a knife and sliced the ham. “What exactly did he do? I know he went to prison, but they let him out after three years. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

  Beth lowered her gaze as she set down the third plate. “It’s not my story to tell. You need to ask him.”

  Abbie decided to do exactly that, but she already knew that John’s past didn’t matter to her. Who didn’t have regrets? They were unavoidable, like the ashes from a fire that nourished the earth. Abbie had made mistakes, too. They were part of being a parent. The trick was to learn from them. A wry smile touched her lips. With his less-than-perfect past, John was more than qualified to be a father. Mistakes had made him wise and regret had made him humble.

  When she finished cutting the ham, she set the platter on the table as Beth called up the stairs. “Robbie? Supper’s ready.”

  Abbie listened for her son’s footsteps. The trip to Midas had worked wonders for his character. He’d made a point of showing her the box where he kept his savings. As for his spending money, the Midas Emporium had a new best customer when it came to penny candy.