He sat straight up at the first sound.
The moon had fallen from the sky, and the room was totally black now. It was the middle of the night, silent beyond the sound that had woken him up. Any dream that may have pulled at Josiah slipped away, out of his grasp and memory, just like the images of Lily. He hadn’t been dreaming of her, he was sure of it—knew how that felt when he woke; like there was a hole in his chest and fire in his loins.
Out of instinct, his hand went to the empty side of the bed, always—still—checking for Lily to be there. The waste of time and motion could have proven costly since the thump that had woken him up in the first place happened again, only this time it was louder.
Josiah reached to the floor for the Colt Frontier, eased the hammer back, and aimed the barrel toward the door, all the while listening carefully for the next sound.
It only took a couple of heartbeats before the next thud came. Somebody was on the front porch.
As he eased out of bed, Lyle stirred. Josiah stopped, caught his breath, then slid past the boy’s bed and out into the front room. He hugged the wall and saw a shadow move across the window.
Two heavy footsteps stopped just outside the door.
The heavy knock on the door surprised Josiah. He wasn’t expecting it. He was expecting somebody to kick in the door and rush in, guns blazing.
“You in there, Wolfe!”
Josiah recognized the voice just as Lyle started to scream, startled out of his sleep in the middle of the night by the loud knock on the door. In a flash, Josiah went from protector, ready to kill, to angry as a bull—ready to kill.
“Come on, Wolfe. Wake up!” It was Scrap Elliot. And he was obviously as drunk as a cowboy fresh off the trail.
CHAPTER 24
Josiah lit a lamp, washing the house in a quick, bright light, then swung open the front door. He did not hesitate like he had with Juan Carlos, unsure and fearful that the Mexican was not alone. He didn’t care if Scrap wasn’t alone—didn’t care if the late night rousing was a trick and Scrap was O’Reilly’s ploy. The Colt was still in his hand, any fear lost, replaced with anger, close enough to erupt into an urge to kill. He couldn’t remember being so mad.
Scrap was leaning on the jamb, trying to hold himself up, smiling crookedly at Josiah. He smelled like he’d washed every part of his body in whiskey for the last week. He was pickled.
Lyle screamed at the top of his lungs from his bed.
“Get in here.” Josiah grabbed Scrap’s shirt collar and pulled him inside.
Scrap stumbled inside the door, crashing to the floor with a whoop, holler, and cackle. Lyle screamed even louder. Josiah looked out the door, up and down the street, and didn’t see hide nor hair of any living creature except Scrap’s blue roan mare, Missy, who was standing nervously in front of the house.
The damned horse wasn’t even tied to the post. A clue to how drunk Scrap really was. He never mistreated his horse, or any horse for that matter. Leaving an animal to fend for itself was a greater sin than killing a man in Scrap Elliot’s book.
Josiah rushed out of the house and quickly tied Missy to the hitching post.
He was aware of everything around him, still not certain that Scrap hadn’t been tricked into leading someone to the house. He had never seen Scrap so drunk, but mostly he was aware that his son was inside the house, screaming at the top of his lungs, afraid and unsure of what was happening. Ofelia was not there to calm the boy down. She would have had Lyle in her arms at the first whimper—now he was alone.
A light filled a neighbor’s house two houses down, and Josiah hurried back inside his own house, closing the door as gently as his anger would allow, but it was still a slam, and Lyle reacted in kind by screaming even louder.
Without saying a word, Josiah trudged past Scrap, who was on all fours, trying to pull himself up into a standing position. It looked like the floor beneath Scrap was made of ice for all the falling over he did. Seeing Scrap in such a state might have been funny in the right setting, but as it was, there was nothing funny about being awakened in the middle of the night by a drunken clown.
Lyle was standing up in his bed, tears rolling off his red cheeks, arms stretched out to Josiah as he made his way into the room.
“Ofelia, Ofelia! ¿Dónde estás?” the boy screamed.
Josiah swept Lyle up into his arms, unsure of what he’d just said—which made Josiah even angrier. Added to everything else, the fact that Lyle had peed himself made Josiah certain he was going to explode into a rage at any second.
“Where is Ofelia, Papa?” Lyle asked, trying to catch his breath, his chest lurching heavily in between every syllable.
“She is away.”
“Gone, gone?” Lyle wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, finally calming down, though tears still dripped out of both of his eyes.
Josiah shook his head no. “She’ll be back soon.”
Lyle whimpered, then looked over his shoulder. “Who that?” he said, pointing to Scrap, who had yet to make it up on two feet.
Josiah exhaled heavily. “A friend.”
“He’s funny.”
“Yes. Hysterical.” Josiah took another deep breath, then set about finding a set of fresh nightclothes for Lyle.
It didn’t take long to clean the boy up. By the time he was finished and had Lyle back in bed, Josiah found Scrap sprawled out on the floor, snoring like a newborn baby himself.
The sun beamed through the bedroom window, warming Josiah’s face. He woke up slowly, surprised that it was fully daylight outside. Lyle was sitting on the side of Josiah’s bed staring at him, smiling.
“What are you doing?” Josiah asked in a soft voice, wiping his eyes the rest of the way open.
“Nuttin’.”
Josiah smiled back at Lyle, and pulled him to him, giving him a big, hearty hug. Lyle giggled and tried to worm free, but Josiah wouldn’t let him go.
“Hungry, Papa.”
“Okay, okay.”
Josiah let loose of the boy and watched him scramble out of the room.
For a moment, the world felt like everything was right. He was home, had slept in his own bed, and Lyle was safe and sound. But it only took him a second to realize that everything was not right . . . that the days to come were going to be just as dangerous and uncertain as the days past.
Josiah expected to find Scrap Elliot still sleeping off his drunken state in the middle of the floor, but Scrap was nowhere to be seen. He was gone.
Lyle was sitting at the table, staring into an empty coffee cup. “Hungry, Papa.”
“All right, all right.”
Josiah wasn’t inept when it came to cooking. He cooked most of his own meals on the trail, and he had been served up a fine morning meal by Ofelia more times than he could count. So Josiah set about getting the woodstove fed, then tried to decide what to feed Lyle.
Scrap’s whereabouts would have to wait.
It didn’t take long for Josiah to find all of Ofelia’s food storage and wares, and he was soon in the midst of making a batter for johnnycakes.
It was amazing to Josiah how quickly life for him had changed. One day he was hiding in a barn, fleeing a bogus bounty, then the next day he’s in the kitchen taking the place of a Mexican wet nurse, caring for his young son. He was glad that his fellow Rangers weren’t anywhere near to witness the transition.
Thankfully, Lyle was of an age where he could communicate and practice the art of discipline. The boy sat patiently, waiting for his meal, never taking his eyes off of Josiah.
Finally, Josiah set a plate full of johnnycakes and eggs in front of Lyle.
“What that?” the boy asked.
“Breakfast.”
Lyle shook his head no.
Josiah nodded his head. “Yes, it is,” he said, making firm eye contact with Lyle.
Tears started to well up in Lyle’s eyes, and at that very moment, Josiah knew his realization the night before, that things had to change in his life, couldn’t be
more true—or more urgent.
When a knock sounded at the door, Josiah was reasonably confident that it was Scrap, come to finish what was left of breakfast.
The Colt Frontier was atop the cupboard on the same wall as the door, loaded, ready, and out of Lyle’s reach. Still, Josiah wasn’t taking any chances; he peered out the window before going to the door.
Lyle was sitting in the middle of the floor, playing with a locomotive carved simply out of wood.
Josiah was surprised that the person at the door wasn’t Scrap. It was Pedro Martinez, the manservant from the Fikes estate. He went to the door then and opened it.
“You’re not the person I expected to see on my doorstep this morning,” Josiah said.
Pedro was standing stiffly outside the door, holding a package wrapped in thick plain brown paper with the name “WATSON & WILLS FINE TAILORS” stamped on the side.
“Good morning, I hope the day finds you well, Ranger Wolfe,” Pedro said. He didn’t smile or change his facial expression at all. He was stone-faced, all business.
Josiah eyed the package curiously but said nothing. “I’m fine, thanks.” He looked over his shoulder to check on Lyle. The boy seemed to show no interest in Pedro.
“Miss Pearl has sent me to see you this fine morning.”
“I suspected as much.”
“She requests your presence this evening at six. Dinner will be served at seven.”
“I had forgotten all about the invitation. Are you sure it’s tonight?”
“Yes, Ranger Wolfe. I can inform Miss Pearl that this is an inopportune time for you, if you would like.”
Josiah stared at Pedro and didn’t respond. He had no idea where Scrap was, when Ofelia would actually return, and when she did, if she would be capable and willing to watch over Lyle—or if he even wanted Ofelia to watch over the boy every minute of the day, like he had in the past. Risking Ofelia’s absence again was not something he wanted to experience. And then there was the journey to Mexico with Juan Carlos to prepare for. For all he knew, the Mexican would just show up and expect Josiah to be ready to go at a moment’s notice—they had not set a specific time, other than Josiah’s protest that he needed time to prepare. A dinner at the Fikes estate was the last thing Josiah was prepared to deal with at the moment.
“I was told to bring you this, as well,” Pedro said, pushing the package toward Josiah.
“What is it?”
“A gift.”
Josiah looked at Pedro oddly, accepted the package, then pulled a piece of the paper back enough to get an idea of what was inside. The tear revealed black fabric, and a button. It was a shirt, at the very least. “I can’t accept this.”
“Please, Ranger Wolfe. I insist.”
“You?”
“Yes, me. I do not want you to feel out of place. It is as much for Miss Pearl as it is for you. Now, please, will you honor Miss Pearl with the pleasure of your company this evening?”
Josiah hesitated, stared upward, then said, “I’ll do my best to be there.”
“Good.” Pedro nodded, then backed off the porch, mounted a horse, and rode off in the direction of the governor’s mansion.
The horse looked familiar, like a chestnut mare that Josiah had saved the life of in the spring—named after Captain Fikes’s lover, Suzanne del Toro—Fat Susie. Surely, it couldn’t be the same horse. The Widow Fikes had ordered that horse killed—and Josiah had thought for certain it was safe in the livery. Perhaps Pedro had rescued it.
Josiah shook his head and walked back inside the house. Lyle barely paid him any mind, until Josiah set the package down on the table and started to unwrap it. To his great surprise, there was more than a shirt in the package—there was a fully equipped, formal suit: frock coat, pants, shirt, suspenders, tie, and even a pair of shoes.
A note inside instructed Josiah to stop by the tailors in the afternoon to make sure the garments fit properly.
“What that, Papa?” Lyle asked.
“Trouble,” Josiah answered. “Nothing but trouble.”
CHAPTER 25
Josiah found Scrap in the livery a half a block from his house.
Scrap was cleaning out Missy’s stall, arranging a clean coating of straw on the floor. He looked up as Josiah stopped at the gate, said nothing, and went back to finessing the straw with a pitchfork.
“I expected to find you still sleeping on the floor,” Josiah said. There was a hearty tone in his voice.
Scrap’s skin was as white as his eyes—if you could see the white in them, since the color was obscured by a series of hard red streaks—and his jaw was set hard. It was obvious that Scrap Elliot was in the midst of one heck of a hangover, and it was all Josiah could do not to bust up laughing.
Lyle stood by Josiah’s side, holding his hand, kicking at the straw, unaware of what was going on, not caring.
“Had things to do,” Scrap said. He set the pitchfork in the corner of the stall, but didn’t hook it up against anything, and it fell to the floor with a soft thud. Scrap grimaced, as if the little sound had hurt his head.
Josiah couldn’t restrain himself any longer and started laughing.
“What in tarnation is so funny, Wolfe? Can’t you see I ain’t in the best of shape. I got me a ferocious achin’ in the head.”
“That’s what’s so funny.” Lyle looked up at Josiah and then laughed, too. Josiah looked down at Lyle, put his index finger to his lips and said, “Shoosh. Mr. Scrap isn’t feeling well,” then started laughing again.
Scrap grabbed a brush and clenched it so hard his fingers turned red. His face was red now, too. The hangover had quickly been replaced by anger or embarrassment, Josiah wasn’t sure which.
“Ain’t funny, Wolfe,” Scrap said.
“Okay, okay, you’re right.”
Missy snorted loudly, kicked back her right leg a bit, and Lyle thought that was funny, too, so he kept laughing.
The sound of his son’s laughter was honey to Josiah’s ears, and he smiled broadly. It had been a long stretch of one bad day after the next recently, and there hadn’t been a stitch of laughter to be found anywhere this side of Comanche, Texas.
Josiah looked over to the next stall and saw that Lady Mead had already been tended to. Beyond the palomino mare was Josiah’s Appaloosa, Clipper.
The sight of the horse filled Josiah’s heart and took his memory back a few days—back to the attack of the Indians at the San Saba River. It seemed less an attack than a trap, and Red Overmeyer had paid dearly for Josiah’s failure to see the trap—with his life. Suddenly, Josiah’s mood changed, and he gripped Lyle’s hand a little harder, getting his son’s attention. “Okay, no more laughing.”
“How come, Papa?” Lyle asked.
“It’s just time.” Josiah nodded, and Lyle copied his movement, nodding back with a big smile on his face.
“Thanks for taking care of the horses,” Josiah said to Scrap in his normal tone, squaring his shoulders.
“That palomino is a fine horse. Needs some steady care, but she could be a beauty,” Scrap said.
“She’s been left to her own devices for a little while.”
“What are you gonna do with her?” Scrap asked, relaxing, taking the brush to Missy’s back.
“Take her back when I can. I’ll be glad to be on my saddle the next time, but I’ll kind of hate to part with the mare. She could be a good horse.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“What? Not keeping her?”
“Taking her back to Comanche?”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Josiah said.
Scrap shrugged, kept brushing, and didn’t respond any further. He seemed easily lost in the task, glad that Josiah was not laughing at him any longer.
The stalls were just inside two tall doors that were standing wide open. Bright sunlight beamed into the livery, making all of the straw look like gold strands lying on top of the hard dirt floor. From where Josiah was standing, he could see clear blue sk
ies, a reprieve from the dreariness of typical gray November skies. It looked to be a fine day, warm enough for just a long-sleeved shirt and no jacket.
The railroad was about thirty yards to the north of the large barn, and a whistle in the distance announced the coming thunder of steel and steam. It was the early train, one of two freights a day. The sound and rumble would be deafening. At least for Josiah.
Lyle started jumping up and down, squealing. He loved trains.
“Settle down there, boy,” Josiah said.
“Train’s a-comin’ ! Train’s a-comin’ !”
“I can hear that. Now, settle down.”
There was another noise that had captured Josiah’s attention. Only this one was closer—still distant—but closer. It sounded like yells, screams, hoots and hollers. He cocked his head, making sure he wasn’t hearing things.
The mob sounded about as far away as Congress Avenue.
“Train!” Lyle said, jumping up and down, pulling on Josiah’s hand toward the door.
“Hush now,” Josiah said, sternly.
Scrap stopped his chores and looked up. “Sounds like a hangin’ comin’ along with that train. Ain’t none that I know of. How about you, Wolfe?”
Josiah shook his head no. “How would I know?” He looked down at Lyle and gave him a gentle tug. “I said stop.”
The tone in Josiah’s voice got Lyle’s attention. He pursed his lips together tight, stiffened, and exhaled. “All right.”
“That’s not what you say, is it?”
Lyle looked up at Josiah curiously. “Yes?”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
No one said anything for a long minute. Josiah nodded his approval, then listened closer, his curiosity growing at the rising noise from a couple of blocks over.
Scrap walked out of the stall and stood next to Josiah. “Little hard on the boy, ain’t you?”
“He’s got to learn manners sooner or later.”
“You mean ones in English?”
Josiah shot Scrap an angry look; his blue eyes blazed hard as the railroad tracks. Scrap looked away and offered no apology for expressing his opinion about Lyle being raised by a Mexican.
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