by Janis Jakes
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, cocking his head in arrogance. “Why’re you asking?”
“Because this is a private conversation.”
“No prisoners yet,” he said. “I’ve got two cells ready and waiting. ‘Course, prisoners don’t stay around here long. They either die a mysterious death or disappear during the night.” A slight twitch moved over his upper lip as he grinned. “Funny how things like that happen.”
Luke wasn’t amused. Coldness seeped from his flesh into his bones. “What can you tell me about the bank robbery that cost a clerk his life?”
“Not much,” Sheriff McGregor said, shifting his weight then continuing without giving him a chance to respond. “Don’t plan on getting involved.” He tapped his fingers on the table, not the least anxious. “Leaving that one to the insurance company and the professionals to sort out.”
Luke’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re the one who submitted the criminal report. Right?”
Mocking eyes turned sinister, dripping with evil intent. “So?”
Luke remembered the time he watched a buffalo stomp a young brave to death. He’d only been eight or nine years old when his father took him on his first buffalo hunt. They’d cornered the herd and thought they’d have an easy go of it until one of the animals turned and barreled toward a brave, knocking his horse over then stomping him to death before anyone could stop him.
The memory of the brave’s screams and the horrible crunching of bones against hooves had left a horrible scar in Luke’s memory. The worst part of it all was when the bull finished stomping on him, it lifted his head and looked right at Luke—as if he were next.
A spear pierced the beast’s lungs and ended the bull’s rage, but Luke would never forget the look in its eyes that cold winter day. Merciless. Barbaric. Empty. That was the same look he saw when he met McGregor’s gaze—a bloodthirsty stare that made him question if the man even had a soul.
“Why’d you hide from the agency the fact that the suspect was a woman? You led everyone to think Billie was a man. Was it so they’d shoot first then ask questions later?”
McGregor gave a quick laugh. “Guess our friendly conversation is over.”
“It was over the second your boss decided to have me killed.”
“What boss?”
“Clovis Caldwell,” Luke said without flinching. Something on the inside of him had started to take root—a calmness that would keep his mind focused. His heartbeat slowed. “I know what happened in the backroom of that bank with Malcolm and Billie.”
“Since you’re so smart—” The sheriff’s upper lip twitched again. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“I don’t have to tell you. You were there. You murdered Malcolm.” Luke was bluffing—speaking rumors as if they were truth. From the vicious expression that erupted on the sheriff’s face, he’d hit pay dirt. “You would’ve killed Billie, too, but she escaped.”
McGregor shook his head, rubbing his fingers along his chin. The man seethed with a contempt that Luke could feel. “Seems to me you’re letting your affections for Billie Jo blind you to the truth. That means you know where she is. Have you told your employer that you’re derelict in your duty, or should I tell him?”
“If anyone has abandoned their oath,” Luke began. “It’s you.”
“Is that right?” The sheriff moved his right hand ever so slightly, bending his elbow.
“Don’t even think about it,” Luke said. “I can take you on your best day.”
Sheriff McGregor relaxed his right hand, but Luke could tell by his deathly stare that he’d almost reached his breaking point—that maybe Luke had pushed him too far.
“I didn’t come here to kill you,” Luke said. “I’d already done it if that was the plan. I came here to give you a message for Caldwell.”
The sheriff stared at him without speaking.
“Tell him he’d better leave Billie alone.”
“Or what?”
“Or he’ll be the one hunted.”
Sheriff McGregor stared.
Luke rose from the chair, turned around, and walked out the door—not once looking back but feeling pure hatred stabbing him in the back.
~*~
Billie squinted into the early sun looking at the cabin from a good hundred yards away. Even at that distance, she could see Abigail’s body in a heap of burgundy cloth on the front porch.
No!
Her heart pounded. She leaned forward, flicking the reins and holding tight as her horse took off on a full run. Had Caldwell’s men killed Abigail?
Please, God. Let her be alive!
Could she have fainted? When Billie left this morning, Abigail had been fine. She’d insisted she could watch Henry, Jr. Against her better judgment, Billie had agreed. Without having to hold a baby the entire way, she could make the trip back and forth in half the time. What a dreadful mistake. One more to add to her growing list.
Billie’s mind scrambled for answers before she made it to her friend. The baby’s wailing sounded inside the house as she drew closer. If Abigail were alive, she would never let Henry, Jr., cry. Her gaze darted about as she envisioned Caldwell’s men coming out of the mesquite trees and boulders with guns blazing, but no such thing happened.
Her feet landed on the ground before her horse completely stopped. She bumped the bucket of goat’s milk, sloshing a fair amount onto the dirt but not caring as she ran up the steps.
Billie fell on her knees beside Abigail, checking her wrist for a pulse. The woman’s cheeks shone scarlet, but the rest of her glistened a damp, pasty white. She was alive but limp and blazing hot. Her fever had returned with a vengeance.
Billie grabbed Abigail by the arms and pulled her through the cabin door, her wounded shoulder screaming in agony at the exertion. She glanced down, expecting to see blood trickling down her arm, but the bandage held.
Once inside, she lifted Abigail onto the bed then scurried outside to the water pump to wet a rag with fresh water. She lay the cloth across Abigail’s forehead, pressing the coolness into her pores. Abigail tried to push her hand away, but Billie wasn’t having it.
Billie feared for her friend’s life. She lit the stove and dropped the last of the black willow bark into the water to boil. Then she picked up little Henry and held him close.
Sobs wracked his tiny body, but her comforting softened his cries. She hurried outside, wrapping her fingers around the metal handle of the bucket and lifting it from the saddle horn. Goat’s milk sloshed against the side, but, thankfully, no more spilled. Henry, Jr., seemed to sense what was coming and began to fuss, wiggling about like a wet cat.
“Hold still, little man. I don’t want to drop you.” She sat down at the foot of the mattress where Abigail lay and let him suck the nursing cup holding the goat’s milk. He drank as if he’d gone days instead of a few hours without nourishment, barely stopping to take a breath.
As soon as he was satisfied, she placed him in the cradle and then poured the tea.
Abigail resisted. She coughed and sputtered at first then took the next swallows without protest.
Billie tipped the rest of the drink down her throat with a steady but slow hand.
Within half an hour, Abigail opened her eyes and a healthy color rested upon her cheeks.
“I thought you were dead.” Now that her friend was safe, exhaustion from fear and exertion set in. “How’d you get out there on that porch?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail mumbled. “Last thing I remember was wanting to get some milk for baby Henry. He was complaining something awful. I changed his diaper, and that’s all I can recall. I think I may have had fever sickness.”
“You had something. About scared the life out of me.”
“I’m sorry. I keep thinking I’m getting better, and then—” She shrugged.
Billie prepared some soup, poured it into a bowl, and placed it in Abigail’s hands. She set a plate with a slice of buttered bread and a whole apple on the table. “Well,
that settles that.”
“What settles what?” Abigail asked.
“I can’t leave this place until someone else comes to stay with you or until I’m certain you’re well enough to care for the baby. If this happens again, I don’t know if you’d make it.”
“I’m sorry.” Abigail looked at her with regret.
“When will your husband be back?”
“Soon,” Abigail said, her gaze shifting to the bowl of soup. “He sells all his wares before he returns.” She rolled the spoon about the liquid. “I know it’s not safe for you here.”
“Or you,” Billie reminded her. “Not as long as I’m here.”
“Maybe little Henry and I can go to the widow’s house and wait there for Henry. That way, you can leave before those men come back.”
Billie felt compassion swell within her heart. There was no room in the widow’s cabin. She’d seen the inside and it was only half the size of Abigail’s home, if that. It just wouldn’t do. “Little Henry is used to it here, and he’s doing better. I don’t think it would be wise to move him around.”
“Yes, but you need to go. Those men will kill you.”
Billie’s gaze moved from Abigail’s sweet expression to the window—drawn by an image that made her insides recoil. A posse of five or so men headed their way. She could see their figures tall in the saddle with dust from the hooves of horses surrounding them like an ominous cloud. The sun shone behind them, making them all appear like black stick figures. She closed her eyes. This could not be happening. “God, why?”
“Why what?” Abigail asked, sitting up on her elbows to see out the window.
“They’re back,” Billie said, her throat tightening. “Caldwell’s men.”
“You’ve got to hide,” Abigail exclaimed. “Get to the root cellar. And be quick about it.”
“No.” Billie stood up with fists clenched at her side, her chin hard, and her stare unbending. “I’m tired of hiding. I’m staying right where I’m at.”
9
The rush of blood pushed through Billie’s being and stirred her determination.
“Don’t be a ninny!” Abigail sat up slowly, sliding her legs over the edge of the mattress. “You’ll get us all killed. Go out back and hide in the root cellar.”
There was not an ounce of her that wanted to hide anywhere. She was tired of feeling like a hunted animal—always running but never getting away. “No. I’m tired of hiding.”
Anguish pressed into Abigail’s forehead. “Then do it for my sake and little Henry’s sake.”
Billie’s expression twisted in turmoil. Abigail’s words were a slap of reality across the face. “Did you forget? These men threatened to skin you alive. I’d never forgive myself if anything—”
“I know how to handle these men,” she interrupted with bold assurance that showed in the set of her jaw. “I used to bounty hunt with Luke. If I stay calm, I can say the right words that’ll send them down the road. But if I have to worry about you, I’ll trip over my tongue, and only the good Lord knows what I might say.”
Billie had never heard of a brother and sister bounty team. How far her world had tipped from her simple life as a teacher—a teacher who enjoyed Sundays with family and weekly dinners at the homes of her students.
Only a couple of weeks ago, the biggest excitement she’d had was buying a piece of taffy from the general store. Now, she was hiding on the outskirts of the desert—protected by bounty hunters and tracked by gunmen eager to make a few dollars off her life.
“Now, git,” Abigail ordered, rising from the bed with a stiff spine and clenched fist.
Billie hurried out the door, still not convinced she was doing the right thing. She grabbed a gun on the way out, determined to come out of hiding if she heard a single shot. She was not letting another friend die while doing nothing. She slid inside the root cellar, cracking the door to hear the conversation.
Abigail stood on the porch only feet away, probably as weak as a newborn foal.
At least Billie had fed her and made her fever break.
“Morning,” Abigail said. Her voice sounded strong and clear.
“Morning, ma’am,” a man spoke. “Had any visitors in your part of the country?”
“Not lately,” Abigail said. “Who are you looking for?”
“A murderer,” he answered. “With a high price tag.”
“Who got murdered?” Abigail asked.
The men at the porch could not be the same group who’d come around before. How many regiments had Clovis sent after her? She was afraid to know.
“An elderly bank teller,” the man said. “Simply trying to do his job.”
“That’s horrible,” Abigail’s voice rose.
“Notice any missing food or other items from around your property?”
“No. We don’t have much, but it’s all here.”
“Mind if we look around?”
“Not at all,” Abigail said, sounding like she meant it.
Billie drew the door to the root cellar closed. The structure consisted of stone and wood across the front with a mound of cool dirt built into the hillside to keep the contents fresh. She could not stand up entirely but maneuvered about slightly hunched over. A small supply of potatoes lay in a basket near the door. Behind the potatoes sat a basket of apples given to the family by a neighbor. Several baskets of wood sat stacked to the ceiling in small enough bundles for Abigail to carry into the house as needed. Deeper into the cellar were the turnips, onions, and carrots, buried and waiting to be plucked out for the next meal. A shelf had been built which held several jars of blackberry jam. A slab of salt-cured ham hung from the ceiling.
Thinking quick, Billie moved the baskets holding the wood to the front of the entrance, forming a semi-shield she could hide behind by pressing herself against the dirt wall. The men might search the yard, too, and she wanted to be hidden in case anyone ventured inside.
Confident she’d made herself as invisible as possible, Billie crouched down behind the barrier and waited. Five minutes later, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, but her knees and back ached. The hip she thought had healed let her know it still had a ways to go. At least it was semi-cool where she hid, and she was alive. She prayed that no one would open the door—that it would remain invisible to the searchers.
A large spider moved across the floor in slow motion. She cringed, hoping there were no other insects or varmints nearby. The good Lord knew she would scream if a mouse or snake came near her.
She heard the muted sound of men’s voices then a single pair of footsteps nearing. She pressed herself against the wall—her breath ragged and heartbeat jumping. Lord, let them only peek inside and not dare enter. Please, Lord. Seconds later, the voices disappeared along with the sound of footsteps. Still, she remained frozen in place—not trusting who might wait on the other side of the door.
Another ten minutes later and the door creaked open, light shining a brilliant beam into the cool darkness. Billie’s stomach balled into an instant knot, and her heart felt as if it might stop in mid-beat. Her fingers tightened upon the gun.
“Billie?” Abigail called.
Billie’s shoulders rolled forward in relief. Her chin dropped.
“Come out of there. They’re gone.”
~*~
Luke walked with Theo toward a diner for a cup of coffee and breakfast.
Theo scratched his head and then raked his chin with knuckles dotted by silvery-blond hair. “So, you think McGregor and Caldwell set this whole thing up?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” Luke said.
The café faced the street. Wide windowpanes let passersby see inside.
“And I’m not the only one who thinks it. I talked to a couple at the general store—”
“Will they offer a statement?”
“Not likely. From what I heard, no one will speak out against Caldwell or McGregor. They’re afraid what happened to Malcolm will happen to them.” Luke scanned the d
ining room.
It was later in the morning, and most of the breakfast crowd had cleared out. Twenty people sat inside, though there was space for a good twenty more.
A young waitress greeted them with a smile. She was the only one taking care of the room and a familiar face to both men. “Good morning, gentlemen. Have a seat. I’ll be right there.”
Luke chose a table that allowed him to keep watch over the street. He wasn’t sure what he was watching for, but he’d know it when he saw it.
“You think someone is tailing you?” Theo asked, appearing much more relaxed than when they’d met a few days earlier. Perhaps because he’d left the confines of the office and overeager ears?
“I’m sure of it.”
“Caldwell?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” He glanced up as the waitress neared with two cups of black coffee in hand. “Whoever it is, they know what they’re doing.”
The waitress’s perky voice broke the tension. “What would you like for breakfast? We have the usual plus the best apple pie on this side of the Jordan River.”
Luke smiled at her before speaking. “I’ll take buttered biscuits and gravy.”
“Make that two.”
She disappeared after a quick bob and twirl.
“It’s not one of ours following you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Theo said. “You’re the only one we’ve got on the case. We trust you to handle it.”
“I think it’s Comanche. My native brothers aren’t happy with me.”
“Because …?”
Luke figured he’d already stepped in this far. Might as well wade in deeper. “Two reasons. I chose a different life than what they live. Then I made matters worse by refusing to marry into the tribe. It was a double ‘no, thank you’ to all they hold dear.”
Theo shrugged. “So, marry into the tribe. It’ll keep the peace. Besides, the Comanche allow you several wives. Right? You can always marry the one you love later.”
Luke shook his head, wondering why he’d thought it was a good idea to spend more time with Theo. “Marriage is a covenant between one man and one woman.”
