by Janis Jakes
“You would never—” Aunt Matilda began.
“I’ve been framed by a man who stole money from his own bank,” Billie began. “He took small amounts of gold from the miners over several months and adjusted deposit slips to hide his thieving. An employee at the bank, and a good friend of mine, uncovered his crime. He was going to report him, and—” Billie’s heart beat wildly in her chest.
“Instead, the owner of the bank had him killed,” Luke interjected. “He intended to kill Billie Jo, but she escaped.”
“Oh, my…” Aunt Matilda’s pale cheeks turned ghostly white.
“Now, the man who orchestrated the robbery and the murder is after Billie,” Luke continued. “He wants her dead because she knows the truth.”
“Yes. And while the man’s posse appears to have lost our trail, there’s no guarantee they won’t come after me. If I stay here, there’s a possibility of danger.”
“You are family,” Uncle Rupert said. “You will stay here. As long as you like.”
“Oh yes, dear.” Aunt Matilda nodded. “It’s probably one of the safest places you could be.”
Uncle Rupert’s gaze shifted toward Luke and then to Walking Stick. “You’re welcomed to stay, too, if you’d like. We can always use extra hands with the ranch and someone who can help show these young men what it’s like to do honest work.”
“Thank you,” Walking Stick said, the edges of his lips lifting. “For welcoming me into your home. The work you do here is of the Lord, and one day, I will return. I will teach your young men how to track and hunt and make arrows. But now, I must go to my daughter—a daughter I have only known from afar.”
“I intend to go with him,” Luke said. “Then take care of some unfinished business.”
“Luke saved my life,” Billie said, giving him a fond gaze and then glancing away. “He’s going back to El Paso then on to Justice City to capture the true criminals.”
“A person of principle.” Uncle Rupert lifted his chin with a gleam of pride. “I admire that in a man.”
“It’s what I was hired to do,” Luke said. “I work for Littleton and Clark Detective Agency as a recovery specialist. That’s just a fancy phrase for bounty hunter.”
Aunt Matilda’s face paled. Her hand rose to her bosom where she fumbled with her broach. “I see…”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. He has never killed a soul. He always brings the outlaws in alive.” Billie hoped they believed her.
Darkness had moved upward and over Luke’s features.
“Let’s not get into that.” Uncle Rupert’s brows were drawn together, but his eyes were kind. “You know how your aunt feels about guns.”
“What Luke does is no different than what a sheriff would do,” Billie’s tone was tart.
“Perhaps so…” Aunt Matilda began, her hands trembling in her lap.
Tension crawled up Billie’s spine. Walking Stick’s relaxed stance had now turned anxious—his spine stiff and legs slightly spread. Luke frowned, and his jaw clenched. She had to diffuse the situation before it was too late.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Billie continued. “I used to think the same way—that bounty hunters are hired guns. But that’s not the case. They catch criminals. It’s a service to society.”
Aunt Matilda pressed her lips closed.
“Of course, it is,” Uncle Rupert said, turning to Luke. “How good of a shot are you?”
“Rupert!” Aunt Matilda exclaimed. “Do you forget we have a cabin full of boys here? We do not need to fill their minds with visions of gun-slinging.”
Billie’s mouth opened to defend Luke, but he didn’t give her a chance.
He rose, dropping his hat back upon his head. “Perhaps I should go.”
“No, please.” Aunt Matilda began. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“It’s quite all right. I’m used to it.”
Uncle Rupert stood up. “We would like you to stay. You saved our niece’s life. That means more than what you do for a living.”
Billie cringed. The situation was growing worse by the second. She stood up, looking him square in the face. “Luke, please don’t go. Not yet. I’m not ready—“
Coldness permeated every syllable he spoke. “There’s never a good time to separate paths, is there?”
Billie’s heart fell. She knew that look—the distance that pushed her away and most likely protected his heart at the same time. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”
His eyes remained steadfast though sorrow seemed to linger barely beyond his gaze. “I’ll send someone to let you know the outcome.”
“But I—” Crushing pain stopped any words. Tears clung to the edge of her lashes. She no longer cared what Luke or anyone else thought of her—whether they believed her weak, brave, brazen, or anything at all. She only knew she did not want him to leave. It was too soon. She needed time to adjust—time to mentally prepare for the inevitable.
Aunt Matilda stood with difficulty and reached for a cane. “I never intended to cause harm. Please do not leave, Mr. Lancaster. This is all my fault. I’m afraid of guns, but only because I accidentally shot myself in the foot when I was a young girl. I do appreciate all you’ve done for our niece.”
“That’s quite all right.” He gave her a gentle smile. “You’ve probably helped move a situation along that was bound to happen. I can’t stay, and Billie needs to stay, so we have little choice in the matter.” He glanced from Aunt Matilda to Uncle Rupert. “Thank you for the refreshment.”
Walking Stick bobbed his head in a silent good-bye, a look of regret fastening upon Billie before he disappeared out the door. Luke strode toward the exit with sure footsteps, intending to follow after his father.
“Luke Lancaster.” Billie rushed toward him, standing only inches away, anger permeating the air. “After all we’ve been through together, I would think a proper farewell is the least you can give me.”
Uncle Rupert motioned his wife back to her chair. He sat down in his own, nodding toward the door. “The porch will afford you more privacy.”
They’d barely stepped outside together before Billie fell into Luke’s arms. Walking Stick had disappeared, but that would not have stopped her. Her clenched fist rested on his chest even as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. How could he! How could he leave her so easily? Had she ever mattered to him?
“Stop that,” Luke whispered into her hair, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her against his hard chest. “You know I can’t stay.”
“Why not?” She stepped back, looking at him without bothering to hide her longing. “We could get married, and you and I could build a house nearby. My aunt and uncle might even let us stay here and help at the ranch.”
“And have you defend me for the rest of our lives?” He shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“I don’t care about that. I’d defend you to the entire world.”
“You probably would,” he said, adding a tender grin. “But at what cost?”
“You sound like your father.”
He winced.
“Instead of asking me all the questions, perhaps you should ask yourself one or two,” she began. “What is the cost of leaving? Are you willing to pay that price?”
“I’ll clear your name. Did you forget that part of this puzzle?”
“Forget clearing my name. Let them think what they will. I know the truth; you know the truth, and God knows the truth.”
He took a step backward, his palms cupping her elbows. “But it’s not fair to your murdered friend if we let Clovis Caldwell or Sheriff McGregor get away with their crime. Where’s the justice for Malcolm?”
Her entire body rose and fell in smooth upheaval. How could she argue with that logic? Malcolm deserved justice. If it meant she would lose Luke in the process, perhaps that was her due for leading her friend to make the wrong decision.
He dropped his hand then moved a stray tendril away from her face. She could feel his ang
uish as surely as it was her own. His eyes lowered to her lips, but he stepped away. “I’ve got to go into town while it’s still light. I need to refresh my supplies.” He stepped off the porch, moving toward his horse. “I’ll be gone tonight.”
She nodded, knowing there was nothing else she could say. He was already gone, miles away in his mind but forever nearby in her heart.
21
The young men and boys at the ranch gravitated toward Billie—drawn by her compassion toward them and the discipline they craved. With Uncle Rupert’s help, she purchased a desk and brought it into the room with the bunk beds. The boys moved the beds closer to the opposite end of the cabin then hung a sheet to partition off the classroom area.
It was far from perfect, but it would do for now. Eventually she hoped a separate schoolhouse could be added to the property.
As it turned out, Freddy was very helpful and appeared to be a leader—in part because he was the oldest but also because he knew how to do the most. She never asked any of the boys their circumstances or how they became orphaned. Instead, she devoted herself to preparing lessons and doing what she loved to do—teach.
She’d not heard a word from Luke after he said good-bye to her on the front porch. Already, several weeks had passed. Far too often, it felt like yesterday. When she thought of Luke, every emotion remained raw and painful—a fresh wound that refused to heal.
Her heart hurt, and the tears flowed when she found herself alone, but that only served to make her more determined to work hard and pray more. Work and prayer seemed to bring the only relief.
Her Aunt Matilda needed help getting around—suffering terribly with an arthritic hip. At first, Billie only assisted her aunt in making the meals, but she soon found herself recruiting a couple of the young men to cook with her so they could relieve Aunt Matilda of the entire responsibility.
More than once, Aunt Matilda apologized for upsetting Billie’s “beau,” but Billie consoled her by telling her that God could turn the situation around if He saw fit.
Uncle Rupert appeared especially pleased with the fact she had taken on the organization of the meals. He wanted her to stay on. Over coffee one morning, while Aunt Matilda still rested and the boys had yet to awaken, he’d tried to convince her.
“The room is yours for as long as you’d like,” Uncle Rupert said. “It may be small, but you can call it your own.”
Billie tapped the top of her half-full coffee cup with her index finger. “I thought you wanted to save the room—in case Aunt Matilda ever needed a fulltime nurse.”
“She’s much better,” he said. “Now that you’ve taken over the meals and relieved her of so much standing. I’ve even heard her laugh a time or two, so I know she’s improving.”
“I don’t know,” Billie said with an inward groan as she maneuvered toward the hot stove. “I always hoped I’d go back to Justice City with my parents and my students.”
“You have students right here.”
“I do enjoy it here. I feel useful. And the boys are eager to learn. That brings joy to my heart.”
“You’re not only useful, Billie,” he said. “You’re needed. Please stay.”
She reached over and took a rag, wrapping it about the coffeepot handle and pouring another cup for her uncle. “I should pray about it, and so should you.”
“One day, your aunt and I will no longer be able to run this place. It would be good if we could leave it to a family member who loves the work and could oversee the operation.”
“The entire operation?” She set the coffeepot down with a thud. “I can only cook and teach. I know nothing about cattle and those sorts of things.”
“Perhaps you’ll marry someone who does.” He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Until then, you have Freddy. He might not know much yet, but he’s learning more every day. He’s only a fourteen-year-old kid, but in a few years, he’ll be a big help.”
“Well, marriage is out of the question. So, Freddy had better learn fast.”
“Are you happy here, Billie?” He asked. “Because this conversation is a waste of time if you’re not happy here.”
“I am comfortable,” she answered in truth. Happiness had walked out the door with Luke, but this was a good life. She felt tremendous gratitude toward her relatives, even though she did not often speak of it. She was not living in caves, nursing bullet wounds, or running for her life disguised as a man. God had kept her safe and brought her to this place. How could she complain? “You’ve opened your home to me and given me more than I dared hope. I am very grateful to you, Aunt Matilda, and the Lord. This life fits me, so I would say that I am comfortable.”
“But something is missing?”
“There is nothing you can do about that.” She glanced away to blink back the tears.
“Is it your beau?”
“I should push him out of my mind like he has pushed me out of his mind.”
Uncle Rupert chuckled. “How can you be so sure he won’t come back for you?”
“I can’t think about it. I’ve got meals to cook and students to teach.” She folded her arms. “And so what if he does come back? That doesn’t mean anything—not really. He walked out and left me. That’s what matters most.”
“Is that why you stay so busy? You don’t have time to think about what might’ve been?”
Her hands dropped to her side. “I should start gathering eggs…”
“A man doesn’t stay beside a woman like Luke stayed by you unless he cares a great deal about her. I dare to say, he might even love her.”
Billie froze, her gaze locked upon the wooden floorboards. His words sent an arrow slicing into her heart. If he only knew how much it hurt to contemplate such a thing—to consider the possibility that she’d let love slip between her fingers. What could she have done differently? How could she have convinced him to stay? Luke was gone, and a wise woman would let him go.
Uncle Rupert leaned back in his chair. “Just thought you might want to know.”
There was one thing Uncle Rupert didn’t know, but she did. Luke had wanderlust in his veins. Until that changed, no woman would claim his heart.
“Thank you.” Billie offered up a faint smile, wanting the conversation to cease. “I’ll be back soon and start breakfast.”
~*~
Luke’s shrill whistle ricocheted about the countryside.
Walking Stick drew the horse to a sudden stop, staring at his son. “Why did you do that?”
“Your daughter is a better shot than most men. I don’t want to surprise her.”
He reached up, wiping faint beads of sweat off his forehead and then down his deerskin pants. “I’m not sure this is a good plan. Perhaps I should have sent you ahead, to prepare her.”
“You’re not nervous, are you?” Luke asked, trying not to chuckle.
“I have only seen Abigail from afar. What if—”
“You know what my mother always said?”
Walking Stick nodded. “She said what ifs were faith in worry, not faith in God.”
From the distance, Abigail appeared on the porch. A man stood with her, holding a child.
“Abigail has a heart like our mother. She won’t turn you away.” He hoped and prayed he told the truth. Abigail could be unpredictable at times.
Walking Stick clicked the reins, moving in slow motion. Luke kept pace, not trying to lead, but letting his father guide them forward. Though he never said the words, he was proud of his father—proud that he wanted restoration and a renewed relationship with his children. His only regret was that his mother was not alive to see the miracle.
They were still quite a distance away when Abigail stepped from the porch. Her hand rose to lay across her bosom as she stepped forward.
“She is beautiful, like your mother,” Walking Stick whispered.
Abigail lifted her skirts above her ankles and ran out to meet them. Several strands of hair tumbled about her shoulders and her breath came in ragged gasps. She knew. Lu
ke could see it in her eyes. Without a word being spoken, she knew Walking Stick was their father.
Without a second of hesitation, Walking Stick slid from his horse. She rushed into his arms, tears wetting her cheeks. Luke watched in silent gratitude.
After several seconds Abigail loosened her grip and looked up at Luke in brown-eyed amazement. “How?”
“How?” Luke pointed upward. “That’s how. Now, can two weary travelers get a fresh drink of water, or have you forgotten how to treat guests?”
“I don’t care about water,” Walking Stick said. “I want to meet my grandson. I already know he has lungs like a wolf.”
“How can you know that?” Abigail said, her face washed in confusion.
“There is much we need to talk about,” Luke said.
“I also want to see your mother’s grave,” Walking Stick said, surprising them both. “I have a few words I need to say.”
“What can you say to her? She’s not there. It’s just bones,” Luke said.
Abigail’s gentle expression turned toward her father. “We do not believe in a happy hunting ground. We believe her spirit is with the Lord.”
“I believe, as well. My words are to Him, not to her.”
22
It was two hours later before Abigail and Luke showed their father where their mother was laid to rest. It was on several acres of land surrounded by mesquite with a naturally flowing stream nearby. The burnt rubble of a house still remained, though much of the wood had rotted or floated away in gray ash. It was a sight that still hurt Luke’s heart.
“We buried her here, on her land. It was what she would’ve wanted,” he said.
Walking Stick stood silent as he stared at the single white cross only feet away.
Henry, Sr., stood beside his wife, his arm draped across her shoulder. Abigail had already told them she was expecting again. That explained the glow upon her cheeks and the quiet beauty that surrounded her like a delicate veil.
A deep voice began to speak toward heaven as Walking Stick lifted his gaze upward. “Father God, You have brought Your son home. You have given me more than I deserve. I thank You for all You have done, and I ask You to forgive me for a past I cannot undo. Let me be the son You want me to be, from this day forward, and forevermore.”
