Now and Forever

by Mary Connealy

  “My guess is Boyle’s behind this.”

  “He don’t look like a prosperous man. Where’s he getting the money to buy these folks out?”

  Coulter shook his head. “It costs pennies an acre. And why would he even want this place? Not much grass, and the water’s no good.”

  “Let’s look around some more.”

  Tucker found those same strange prints. He followed them to the nearest rocky patch where they vanished. “I’ll go after him later. I want to look around the place first.” He almost wished he’d kept tracking. He climbed over the burned logs that were left around Lansing’s small barn and found the carcass of a mule. “Look at this, Gage.”

  Coulter came up beside where Tucker was crouched by the dead animal. “What’s that cut?” Coulter glanced around, then overhead where part of the roof still stood like blackened ribs. “Did something fall on it and make those gashes?”

  Tucker felt his blood run cold. “Those are knife wounds. This mule wasn’t just trapped and left to die in the fire. The man who did this killed it first.”

  Coulter rubbed a thumb over his bottom lip as he studied the ugly cuts, too many of them. “Some animals don’t like being handled by strangers. Your grulla and my stallion wouldn’t put up with it.”

  Tucker was on the far side of the mule, and he looked across at Coulter. “Maybe the mule gave the man trouble, so he killed it.” Tucker paused and swallowed. “And once he started cutting, he kept going. This animal was cut by a man who went way beyond what it took to kill.”

  Coulter had dropped to one knee; now he stood. Scowling, he turned to Tucker. “I’ve known a couple of men with a taste for hurting animals. The time came for both of them when they decided they wanted to see if killing a man was as much fun.”

  Coulter’s square jaw turned hard as granite.

  “And when they found out it was?” Tucker had known of such a man.

  “They had to be stopped.”

  Tucker nodded and set out to track the odd prints. It would take hours, maybe days to find where the man left the rocks, but the day was wearing down. “I don’t want Shannon alone at night. I’m not going to be able to stay long enough to pick up a trail.”

  “He’s a knowing man. He chose his path of escape well.”

  Tucker and Coulter shared a long look before they reined their horses in opposite directions for home. Tucker was more certain than ever of the vital importance of keeping watch.

  Only now he was exhausted, thanks to Coulter and a long day trying to track a ghost over rock.

  That night, the middle of the seventh since they’d starting posting a watch, he finally gave up before he fell asleep and endangered them all. He crawled into bed with Shannon around two in the morning.

  “Ma’ll wake you in a couple of hours. You swear to me you’ll come and get me if there’s trouble?”

  “You know I will, Tucker. I promise.”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard, said, “I’ve missed you,” then fell asleep between one breath and the next.

  Shannon was afraid Tucker would just rest up for the night, then go back to taking care of sentry duty, but he kept taking turns. She loved the lookout post Bailey had built high up in a lodgepole pine. Tucker had finally let her point it out, and he liked the idea of her watching from up there, but he personally preferred to be on the ground, moving.

  The nights were growing cool with snow falling instead of rain. The days grew shorter, and Shannon had to bundle up to keep watch. Her perch was in a sheltered spot, though, and she was content to climb her tree and sit.

  It was a perfect lookout. If she could ever get her stubborn husband up here, he’d admit it. The pasture on the west and south side of the barn made that area wide open and easy to watch. The house was to the north with no trees between the two buildings. The river curved along close to the west side of the barn. Her lookout was just across the river, where she could see anyone approaching the barn from any direction.

  The intruder had come from this side before, and she figured he’d do the same this time. It was almost the only possible way to come in.

  From where she sat, she could watch those clearings on three sides of the barn with no trouble. If the man came back, there was a good chance he’d walk right beneath her.

  She kept her gun close to hand. She neither intended to shoot the man nor try and hold him prisoner. She’d get a look at him and then she’d fire into the air. Tucker and Sunrise would come running, and they’d be on him before he had a chance to run for his horse.

  Proud of her plan, she leaned against the tree, sitting on her platform and watching all around.

  It had worked fine.

  Until tonight.

  An owl swooped so close, the rush of wings jarred her awake. Shaking her head, hoping to clear it, she stood, dragging in deep breaths of cold mountain air. She blinked and could barely bring her eyes back open. Looking around, she saw nothing. She’d caught herself nodding off again.

  She tried pinching herself, swinging her arms, mentally reciting Bible verses, imagining the wolves attacking again. But nothing helped.

  Tucker liked moving around during his turn at sentry. Shannon decided she’d better climb down and move, too. Just because her lookout was clearly a superior one didn’t mean she couldn’t watch from somewhere else for a while.

  Before descending, she studied the terrain one more time. Nothing. No barn-burning, sheep-killing sidewinder slithered through the forest.

  When she reached the ground, she decided to walk a quick circuit of the area on the west side of the river. Right now she was sure no one was around. But after a bit, she’d have to be more careful about being seen. While she didn’t have the skills of either Tucker or Sunrise, she wasn’t bad.

  Walking briskly to get her blood moving and to keep her mind sharp, she felt the grogginess of sleep let go, and as it did she became aware of something else. In the thick woods, with her senses alert now, something didn’t fit. Listening and watching while she walked, though it was almost silent, she heard a rustling that wasn’t natural to the woods.

  It wasn’t a footstep, and yet it could be nothing else.

  It matched her for speed. It was too soft, too furtive to be anything other than human.

  She stopped. The noise continued for a few moments, then stopped. She was certain it was footfalls.

  The sound was so quiet, so hushed, she thought of those odd dents in the floor of her barn.

  A man with rags binding his feet to conceal his prints. That would also muffle the sound of his steps.

  Trying to calm herself, to get her fear under control so she could think, she drew on her days in the war, hard lessons where she’d learned to go on when she wanted desperately to quit. She took the next step, making no attempt to be quiet. If there was someone back there, why not let them think she was unaware?

  The hushed sound began again, a bit faster this time. Not running, but fast enough to close on her. Catch her. He was no longer stalking her. He was coming.

  Shannon had her pistol on her hip. She’d use it when she knew what she faced, but for now she wasn’t about to start shooting when she didn’t know what or who she’d be shooting at.

  Right now, darkness was her best weapon. Her clothing, brown britches and a brown shirt, her dark hair. If she was careful and chose her spot, she could vanish in the dark. He might walk by her, pass within inches, and if she controlled her breathing, didn’t give off the scent of fear, was careful not to so much as twitch, she could make herself invisible.

  Once she disappeared, she’d lie in wait, and then she became the predator.

  Shannon knew her land. There was a small clearing ahead. Once she stepped into the open, he was close enough that she’d be visible before she reached the cover of the far side. Whether her pursuer had planned this or not, when he reached that clearing, that’s where he’d attack.

  She had to make her move first, and time was running out. Sh
e was on a narrow game trail, and he’d notice the second he couldn’t hear her. He’d already proved that when she’d stopped walking.

  So make any noise and he’d follow. And she needed speed, needed time to pick a spot to conceal herself.

  At last she saw what she’d been looking for. A massive oak log stretching away from the trail. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she studied it as she approached. She saw no twigs to snap, no rustling leaves to scatter under her feet. She stepped onto it, silently walked its length into the woods and ducked behind a thick copse of trees, drawing her gun, turning to face whoever approached.

  When he passed—if he passed—he’d step into the clearing.

  He’d be visible.

  He’d be prey, just like her sheep. Her hand tightened on the gun.

  In the darkness, a shape emerged with that same odd shuffling sound. Black against black. He seemed misshapen from head to foot, and it struck horror into her heart and it was all she could do not to have visions of monsters and ghouls. Things she didn’t believe in, but in the eerie night, when her eyes saw what didn’t make sense, her imagination ran wild.

  He drew even with the log and stopped.

  A breeze billowed around the shapeless man, his arms floated, his head lifted and fell. He turned and seemed to look straight into her eyes. His face wasn’t there. Only a black circle where a head should be. And a flicker of moonlight seemed to make his eyes glow. She fought the need to scream.

  A tree bent in the breeze, and a bit of moonlight cut through, casting a stronger light. Her normal common sense returned. He wasn’t a ghoul, not a monster.

  He wore a cloak of some kind. Just as he’d disguised his feet with the rags, he’d covered his body and pulled a hood over his head.

  She wasn’t dealing with anything impossible or magical. She was facing a sneak. The kind of man who’d let a herd of sheep loose in an area infested with wolves.

  This was the man who’d run off at least three families and was out here tonight, planning to do the same to her. And somehow he’d spotted her in the woods and followed her.

  She lifted her six-gun, angry enough to fire, but she couldn’t. He was twenty feet away, and she was a crack shot. But no one fired a gun without knowing who or what they were shooting. As certain as she was that this man was up to no good, she couldn’t pull the trigger.

  Instead she stayed still. Finally the wraithlike figure faced forward and moved on down the trail. She stepped up on the log and hurried along it back to the trail.

  Rushing to the clearing, she froze.

  He was gone. The clearing was bathed in moonlight, and it was utterly empty. No caped figure to be seen.

  Fear broke over her like a crashing wave. She was swamped by that strange sense of his being a fiendish, unhuman creature.

  Like a mindless, deserting coward in the midst of battle, she turned and ran. In a flat-out panic, she dashed down the narrow trail for home. A root tripped her, and she slammed to the ground but was up like a shot and running again, ignoring torn knees in her britches and raw, bleeding palms. Branches reached like skeletal fingers and clawed, grabbed her, wanting to catch and hold her for a ghoul to do his worst.

  He was coming. Hot breath blasted her neck. Shuffled footsteps thundered now and hammered in her ears, pounding. She knew how far it was to the cabin and Tucker and safety, knew she’d never make it. He was gaining. She was almost to the edge of the forest, only a few paces from the river. Just as before with the forest clearing, she’d have to be in the open.

  Fighting to control the panic she swerved into the trees, and froze, hoping he’d go by. Each terrified breath was too loud as she struggled desperately to be silent. She watched, waited, and saw . . . no one.

  Had she lost him? Had he turned aside?

  A hand clamped over her mouth.

  24

  An arm, strong as an iron vise, wrenched her back against the hard chest of a man. A scream tore loose from her throat, but the hand held firm so that no sound escaped.

  “What are you doing?” the man asked just inches from her ear.

  Her knees gave out.

  Tucker swept her into his arms. In the pitch-dark of the forest, in the dead silence, they stood. Tucker watched, listened. Guarded her. Took care of everything.

  She clutched him and hung on for dear life, and suddenly, hard and fast, she fell completely in love with Matthew Tucker.

  “Why were you running?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Shannon didn’t want Tucker to know she’d gone after the intruder. He’d be furious. Then she had an idea. “I saw a man and I was coming for you.” Which was the absolute truth.

  “Where is he?” Tucker tensed, his attention on the trail and the woods around them.

  “He went that way.” Shannon pointed toward the clearing.

  “Heading away from the barn?”

  His tone scared her, and she looked up at him to try to figure out why.

  “Yes?” She was afraid to tell him that, so it came out sounding like a question.

  “The barn’s on fire!” Tucker set her down, grabbed her hand, and ran.

  Her trembling legs either had to work or she was going to get dragged. They charged across the river on the ford.

  Flames licked out from under the barn door.

  Of course the barn was on fire. The man she’d seen, that was what he’d come to do. He hadn’t been a ghoul and he hadn’t been chasing her, either. That had all been in her foolish imagination.

  He’d come here to cause trouble.

  In the moonlight, Sunrise came from behind the house straight for the barn. Her eyes landed on Tucker as he stepped out on the first rock to cross the river.

  Sunrise rushed to the barn door, unfastened the hasp, and kicked the door wide, then stepped back. The door was on fire. A bucket sat right inside the door. She darted in, grabbed it, spun, and ran for the river.

  As Sunrise ran she shouted, “Only the door! No fire inside.”

  Tucker glanced back at Shannon without slowing down. “Why would he do that?”

  “How would he do that?” Shannon kept running.

  “Shannon, get inside the barn and keep the sheep inside. My grulla is dangerous. If she charges you, let her go. I can get her back later. Just worry about the sheep.”

  Sunrise threw a bucket of water on the door. The flames dropped to about half their size. The frame around the door was also ablaze. It would take a lot of buckets to put it out, and Shannon knew where another one was.

  When they’d crossed the river, Tucker let go of Shannon, ripped his shirt off his back in the chill night, and stopped to douse it in the water.

  “I’ll get another bucket for you from the oat bin.” Shannon raced ahead. The fire would probably keep the sheep from running out, but she wouldn’t put it past them to stray too close to the fire and smoke.

  Tucker was only a long stride behind her. She ran inside. A second later she heard his sodden shirt slap at the fire. The crackle and hiss behind her faded as she heard the bleating of her terrified sheep.

  Shannon spotted them huddling in the farthest corner of the barn. The grulla had them pinned there, holding them like a trained shepherd dog.

  Dashing for the oat bucket, Shannon returned it to Tucker. A second after she handed it over, Sunrise came with her second bucketful of water and threw it on the doorframe.

  “We’re going to beat this in no time.” Tucker’s eyes shone with glee as if he liked such madness. Her husband wasn’t cut out for a quiet life. A shame, because that was her dream.

  Tucker was gone again, running for water. The sheep were under the care of the horse. Shannon saw Tucker’s shirt cast aside, so she grabbed it and beat at the flames. Tucker came with more water, and Shannon stepped aside. Sunrise was right behind him, moving with amazing speed for an elderly woman. Once they were gone, Shannon went back to pounding on the wood frame of the door, hoping to keep the fire from spreading. She realized that right bes
ide the door was a stack of dirty straw. They always cleaned out the stalls at night. If it got late, they threw used straw by the door in a heap to be hauled away the next morning.

  It had burned away to nothing. When Shannon had to step aside for the bucket brigade, she studied the burned refuse and realized what else she saw. Hoofprints. A horse’s hoofprints.

  Tucker quenched the fire’s thirst, and the last of the fire was gone. Sunrise stood behind him, out of breath.

  “Here, I’ll take that, Ma.” Shannon should have done that. She should have been running with the buckets.

  With these two, so smart, so ready to act in a time of trouble, she’d barely had time to think of the shirt. She also realized daylight was pushing back the night, and the gray light of dawn was making it possible to see without the flickering blaze of fire.

  “You both saved my barn. Tucker, Sunrise, look at this.” She waved her open hand at the blackened straw. “Your mare did, too.”

  Tucker, still looking for smoldering wood to put his last bucket of water to good use, peered in the direction she pointed. Sunrise came up beside him, and then the two walked inside.

  They looked at the ground, churned up by Shannon beating at the doorframe and the clear sign of stomping hooves.

  “Huh . . .” Then Tucker smiled, looked sideways at his mare. “My horse put out the fire.”

  “Fought wolves, too. An uncommon horse.” Sunrise rested a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “How is your leg?”

  Shannon had completely forgotten about that.

  Tucker got a thoughtful look on his face and lifted his left leg, twisted his foot around. “It feels good. I don’t think I did any damage. I reckon considering all the running I did . . .”

  “Not to mention carrying me around,” Shannon said.

  Tucker grinned. “Yep, but you’re not heavy. I must be well and truly healed.”

  He took his shirt out of her hands and started to pull it on, then saw a few big holes burned in it and shook his head.

  “I have a shirt and pants made from buckskin ready for you in my teepee. I will bring them to you in the morning.” Sunrise took the shirt and tossed it on the straw.