Way Back

by Williams, Abbie;

  “I meant every word I said about the Yancys,” Cole went on. “They’re a treacherous, dangerous lot. Always have been.”

  Miles added, “Patricia’s father-in-law, Thomas Yancy, was once a marshal but he was run out of Iowa City back in ’sixty-eight, when he was my family’s neighbor. There were allegations at the time that he was involved in an attempted murder. He disappeared without a trace and my mama took in his sons, Fallon and Dredd. Then Fallon up and ran away. Scared my mama half to death. This was long ago, when we were just sprouts in Iowa.” Miles sighed and his gaze lifted up and to the left, as one looking backward through time. “The Yancys disappeared for a long time after that. Wasn’t until the mid-seventies that we heard word again, when they struck it rich with a silver vein in the mines near here. And since then they’ve multiplied their wealth seemingly without end, purchasing land and ore mines and investing in the market. Fallon, damn his rotten hide, has a knack for investment, so they claim, but he’s as dirty as they come. A thief, a killer, many times over. He’d do anything to increase his wealth and position but he’s a coward to his core. The family resides in Chicago these days. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of any Yancys in a good four years and don’t relish the thought of seeing any in the future.”

  I considered this information, disliking the notion that anyone connected to Patricia was a criminal. “Surely Patricia wasn’t aware of their illegal doings when she agreed to marry into their family. She’s so young. What’s her husband’s name again?” I only remembered thinking it had been an unusual one.

  “Dredd,” Miles supplied. “He’s the younger of the two. He lived with us for nearly half a year and I know him better by far than his brother. My mama believed most of the bad things Dredd ever did were because Fallon pushed him.”

  “Patricia is eighteen,” Cole added, his voice low and quiet. “I asked her on our walk. Her pa died a year ago, her ma back when she was just a little girl.”

  Miles glanced at his old friend; there was a winsome note in Cole’s voice not present earlier.

  His tone gaining strength, Cole said, “And a halfwit could see she ain’t happy.”

  “Spicer…” Miles spoke with a subtle note of concern, enough to bring Cole’s gaze back to his; Cole pressed his lips together in a stubborn manner, briefly closing his eyes.

  “Your family is still in Iowa?” I asked Miles, redirecting the conversation, curious to learn more about these people with whom I shared a last name. “Axton has told me some.”

  “They are.” Miles’s voice softened with fondness. “My parents reside in the same farmhouse in which my brothers and I were raised, along with Willie, my youngest brother. Cole’s family settled on the adjacent acreage in the summer of 1868, around the time Fallon ran away.”

  “And you believe Fallon is worse than Dredd?”

  Miles nodded. “He is by far the worst. I’ve hated him since our boyhoods. I don’t rightly know how to explain him, except to say he is dangerous. He cares for nothing and no one, except himself.”

  Cole interjected, “Fallon needs hanging. I vow to see that bastard at the end of a hanging rope before I die.” He paused. “I hope you don’t think me a terrible man for the saying so, Miss Ruthann.”

  “I don’t. If you say he’s dangerous, I believe you.” For whatever reason, I trusted their opinions.

  Miles said, “Though we haven’t seen the son of a bitch in nearly four years, I could not agree more.” Immediately he apologized. “Excuse my cursing.”

  “It’s all right,” I murmured and Miles reached and curved one hand around the back of my chair, his long arm making a V between us. I ignored the way my heart thrust at this simple, protective gesture, remembering something else. “There was speculation at Rilla’s just tonight that Thomas Yancy funded Bill Little’s gang once upon a time.”

  Both men nodded seriously.

  Miles said, “The Little brothers fought alongside Thomas Yancy in The War Between the States.”

  Cole picked up the story Miles had started. “My pa, Henry Spicer, and Miles’s pa were both soldiers in those days, too. My pa bought a farm neighboring the Rawleys’ place in the autumn of ’sixty-eight, like Miles said. We’d intended to reach Montana Territory but decided to settle in Iowa. My youngest brother and sister were desperate ill, you see. It’s only been since last winter that my folks have decided to finish the journey they originally started.”

  “Will they settle in this area?” I asked.

  Cole nodded affirmation. “They plan to undertake the journey next March, or thereabouts. I spent the past month visiting them in Iowa and made good time on the ride here, what with the fair weather. Pa, Mama, and my brother Charles are readying to move, while my sister May and her scalawag of a husband –”

  “Who is my brother, Quinlan,” Miles interjected, with the slightest smile.

  “May and Quinlan married this past spring and will stay behind and farm our old land, in Iowa,” Cole explained. He bumped a fist against Miles’s shoulder. “Them two lovebirds. Quin is already to be a father.”

  I observed the subtle way these words affected Miles, striking him with a deeper significance – a married brother could acknowledge and welcome a child.

  “What are your plans here?” I asked Cole.

  “To visit this ingrate.” He nodded at Miles, with a grin. “And to scout the land near Grant’s homestead, to report back to Pa. They’d like to settle near Grant and Birdie if they are able.”

  “And also to give me unimaginable grief and trouble,” Miles said.

  “Shit,” Cole scoffed, with a laugh. “What else are friends for?” He looked my way. “Patricia asked me to remind you she’ll call on you in the morning.”

  “Good,” I murmured. I admitted, “I like her very much.”

  “She likes you, too.” Cole’s eyes moved upward but he was not seeing the rafters. Hushed and reverent, he muttered, “Those eyes. I expect she saw straight through to my soul.”

  Miles said, without challenge, “No good can come of that, my friend.”

  Cole’s chest expanded with a deep breath; he rose, all at once restless, and rooted around in the single cupboard like a dog after a bone, at last extracting a corked brown bottle. “Thanks be to Jesus you keep a supply, Rawley. You got three drinking glasses?”

  “None for me,” I said, eyeing the whiskey the way I would a dead skunk on the side of the road.

  Cole returned to the table with two small glasses, each with a three-quarters pour of clear amber liquid. As he took his seat, he asked Miles, “You think it might be true, what they’re saying about Little’s gang? That Vole might be alive and running the show?”

  “We have to assume it’s possible. You’d think Bill Little himself rose from the dead to hear the talk around these parts the past few days,” Miles said, downing a sip of his whiskey.

  I’d finished my biscuits and gravy, wishing there was something to drink that wasn’t eighty-proof. I watched Miles as he considered this new serious issue; his posture had changed, growing both threatening and defensive. He kept his hand on the back of my chair.

  “If it’s Vole riding this way, we’d best be ready,” Cole said, draining his glass in a neat gulp.

  “I agree. Though I doubt he would chance approaching us, not after all these years. He’s named after a varmint and it suits him. He went to ground years ago. I wasn’t a lawman back then, didn’t have the legitimacy to shoot him on sight, as I would now.”

  “If it’s him and he wants a fight, he’ll provoke it.” Cole leaned over the table. “He’s too much a chickenshit to come after us. He wants us to come after him. That might explain the killings and cattle rustlings. He’d recognize you’d have to investigate such matters.”

  “He is not an intelligent man, though intelligent enough to evade a hanging, thus far. But he must realize another marshal would control the territory that far east of here.”

  “Howardsville is the eastern-most of your range, a
in’t it?”

  “It is. Besides, if Vole rides this far he’ll skirt the town,” Miles said. “He always hated towns, if you’ll recall.”

  “We shoulda run down that rat-faced bastard and killed him four years back, regardless,” Cole said, with fire. “I knew it then. He’s goddamn slippery. And as Miss Ruthann just mentioned, he’s connected to the Yancys. Vole did Fallon’s dirty work once upon a time, and likely still does.”

  “Excuse us,” Miles said. “We are being unpardonably rude, speaking of matters unknown to you. We speak most freely with each other.”

  “It’s fine,” I insisted. “I feel safe with you two, like I can trust you. Maybe it’s crazy…”

  Cole spared me a warm grin. “It ain’t crazy.”

  Miles agreed, “It is not the slightest crazy. You may surely trust us,” and I experienced the sudden urge to collect his hand from the back of my chair and braid our fingers together.

  “Thank you, marshal.” I dared to meet his eyes; he was not as close as he had been touching my face and my hair, but enough that I could have counted each of his numerous eyelashes. There was a hint of happiness in his expression, I was not imagining it.

  And yet the trench of sadness in my heart was deeper than ever.

  Chapter Eight

  MILES ESCORTED ME BACK TO RILLA’S NO MORE THAN FIFTEEN minutes later, gently buffering my elbow with his hand; the lantern light pouring out from the lively saloons and their many temptations intermittently gilded us as we walked along. I hadn’t removed his jacket and he made no comment.

  “What’s your horse’s name?” I’d paused outside the jailhouse to admire the animal, taking a moment to pat its neck, and the horse whickered in response.

  “Blade,” Miles replied. “I’ve had him from the day he was born.”

  We walked past yet another saloon and Miles’s long nose and black mustache were momentarily highlighted in spun gold. He’d donned his hat, leaving his eyes in shadow.

  “I haven’t named my horse yet.” I kept my gaze away from him in hopes of calming my hard-pounding heart. “Axton brought her to show me a few days ago but they keep her out at their claim shanty. He and Branch are so good to me.”

  “I am most happy to know this. Despite your earlier anger with me.”

  “My anger? It’s not my anger you should be concerned about.”

  “It is your opinion that concerns me.” He spoke in such a solemn tone. “I would rather you thought well of me.”

  “You should talk to Celia when we get there,” I insisted.

  “She will be engaged in…other ways, currently.”

  Though I wanted to, I didn’t think now was an opportune moment to remind him Celia was definitely ‘engaged’ right now, with his child growing inside of her. I persisted, “Tomorrow, then.”

  “I will, however, speak to Rilla Jaymes of what happened to you this night,” he declared, changing the subject with as little subtlety as any man. “I would have her know Aemon Turnbull will never be allowed near you again.”

  “Thank you for your help.” It seemed like a paltry offering after everything he’d done for me this evening, but I was uncertain how else to frame my gratitude.

  “You are most welcome. You will take care not to walk alone after dark?” I could feel the strength of his gaze even though I kept mine averted. “Especially now I am fearful one of the worst men with whom I have ever dealt may be roaming the countryside again.”

  I thought of the things he and Cole had discussed – the man named Vole, killings and cattle rustlings, the continued threat of the Yancys – as I promised, “I’ll take care.”

  We were nearing Rilla’s front entrance and my eyes roved to the alley where the laundry shack was located, where I’d been introduced to Patricia only hours ago. Miles surprised me by pausing in the glow of the lanterns adorning Rilla’s windows and turning to face me.

  He whispered, “May I?” and gently grasped my chin. I could not prevent a small intake of breath; his fingers were warm and the ever-present aching in my heart only intensified. “Your forehead is wounded. That bastard Turnbull hurt you and I would like to destroy him.”

  He sounded so dead-serious I envisioned him stalking back to the jailhouse and repeatedly smashing the man’s face against the iron bars, and he’d already beat the shit out of Aemon Turnbull earlier tonight. I grabbed his elbow and ordered, “No! Please don’t do such a thing.”

  “Ruthann Rawley,” he murmured, not seeming to recall what he’d just said about destroying a man, his eyes tracking all over my face, as if there would be a test later and he must memorize every detail. His thumb swept slowly back and forth beneath my lower lip; I had the distinct impression he didn’t realize he was stroking my skin this way.

  He wondered aloud, “How come you to have my name?”

  “It’s my name, too.” A lump swelled in my throat. “It’s the only thing I know for sure.”

  “You will take care of yourself?” He framed the question differently this time. “I dislike the thought of you being alone here. I dislike it very much.”

  “I will,” I whispered, knowing I should go inside but unwilling to part ways. Who knew when I would get the chance to see him again? I wanted to speak his name. I wanted him to keep touching me. But then, like icy water striking my flesh, I thought of Celia, and felt cold and sick with shame. I mumbled, “Good-night,” and shrugged from his jacket, shoving it into his hands and fleeing up the steps before I relented to the urge to touch his handsome, serious face.

  Left alone in the spill of light, I knew he watched me go.

  Morning arrived, along with Patricia Yancy, who was dressed in a fashionable narrow skirt and matching jacket of periwinkle blue, the jacket fitted at the waist, the material falling in graceful pleats to the back hem. The collar of her ivory blouse was high, almost severe; her honey-brown hair arranged in a series of intricate topknots, with soft, curly bangs adorning her forehead. Her eyes were the shade of morning glory blossoms, bluer by far than her clothing, and her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

  “It’s what Mrs. Mason calls the ‘lunatic fringe,’” she said gaily, indicating her bangs. “It is the absolute latest in hairstyling. We shall trim one for you, if you wish, though your hair is already so curly. You needn’t the hot irons to make ringlets. Lucky girl.” Fingertips hovering near my right temple, she whispered, “Are you feeling well? Your poor forehead. It is so bruised this morning.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at her chatter. I stood on the front porch, prepared to start the laundry, but paused to speak with her, setting aside both the bundle of dirty linen and the basket of clothes pins. Patricia looked so different than the women I was accustomed to seeing on a daily basis – she was tidy and proper, clean and beautiful. Her hands were slim and delicate, the left adorned by an ample diamond that threw multicolored sparkles in the sunlight. My left thumb moved almost instinctively, reaching to caress my third finger as if expecting to encounter a ring; of course it was bare.

  Though the day was hot, I shivered.

  “Did you speak long with Marshal Rawley last night? What of the man Turnbull, who attacked you?”

  “He’s still in the jail, as far as I know.” My eyes flickered in that direction; unfortunately Miles and Blade were nowhere in view on the dusty morning street. I did, however, catch sight of a most welcome horse and rider.

  “Ruthann, what’s happened? Marshal Rawley rode out to our claim last night and told us you’d been hurt.” Axton dismounted Ranger and scooped me into an embrace. I hugged him hard in return, patting his back, noticing as if removed from myself that his hair still smelled clean. Patricia, ever helpful, caught up the reins Axton had dropped in his haste to hug me.

  “I ain’t to let you out of my sight after dark, Marshal Rawley said.” Axton held me by each shoulder as he studied my bruised face with his brows drawn inward. “He’s leaving Howardsville tomorrow and ordered me to look after you.”

  “Tom
orrow?” I repeated dumbly.

  “Aemon Turnbull did this to you?” Axton continued, low-voiced with anger. “I’ll kill him myself.”

  I put aside all thoughts of Miles leaving town and spoke firmly. “Ax, don’t worry, really. I’m all right. I was lucky enough that Patricia Yancy intervened. I’d like you to meet her.”

  Patricia, close behind him, offered a glimmering smile as Axton turned. And just as quickly, all anger fell from his face. He froze, then blinked in slow motion, clearly as beguiled by her beauty as everyone who met her. In fact, he was so comically speechless I had to step in and make an introduction for him.

  “Patricia, this is Axton Douglas, my dear friend.” I sent her a smile acknowledging his fluster.

  “I am most pleased to meet any friend of Ruthann’s.” Patricia offered her right hand, clutching Ranger’s lead line in the other. Axton’s throat bobbed as he swallowed; he wiped his palms briskly over his thighs, finally taking her proffered hand between both of his, cradling rather than shaking it.

  Oh, buddy, I thought sympathetically, now biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from giggling.

  Patricia was amused, and touched, I could tell, discreetly withdrawing her hand and passing Ranger’s reins back to Axton. She commented, “Your horse is a beautiful animal. What is his name, Mr. Douglas?”

  “Please, do call me Axton.” He gained partial control and cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders and saying more calmly, “Ranger is his name. I’ve raised him from a foal.”

  “When I was a girl my father stabled two riding horses for our personal use. Mine was a roan mare named Dancer and I loved her dearly. I was inconsolable when she died.”

  Axton was so lost in Patricia’s eyes it took him a second to realize he wasn’t entirely certain what ‘inconsolable’ meant. At last he murmured, “I am sorry to hear that. Have you a horse now?”

  “Not one of my own, unfortunately.”