Home Before Sundown

by Tinnean

  Home Before Sundown

  By Tinnean

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2017 Tinnean

  ISBN 9781634863636

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  I’d like to thank my son Joe, for letting me borrow his birthday for Charlie. I’d also like to Trisha, who not only saw to it I had a copy of The Examiner 100th Birthday: Queen City of the Trails, a book about Independence, MO, but was willing to look over what I’d come up with; to Tisha, who also read over bits and pieces; to Tim Mead for the information about Calvary Church in Gramercy (where the rich people worshipped); to Carole Daugherty, library assistant at the Bonita Springs branch for her help in researching this book; to Greg Camus, for the information regarding banjos; and as always, to Gail Morse, the world’s best friend and bets, for suggestions and invaluable help.

  This is for Bob.

  * * * *

  Home Before Sundown

  By Tinnean

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Tom Pettigrew had known his share of pain. He’d been injured when he served under General Zachary Taylor, leaving him with no choice but to muster out just months before the start of the Mexican-American War. In the time he’d traveled with the General, he’d been shot at and stabbed by men who should have known better than to hurt horses in his presence and kicked and thrown by the horses he trained for the Army.

  But he’d never felt such pain before.

  They’d all been so happy when they’d learned Analeigh was going to have another baby. George, their four-year-old son, had especially hoped for a baby sister.

  “I’ll teach her to ride and how to play a flute.”

  Tom had laughed because his son had no idea how to play a flute, but George’s Mama had told him proudly, “Of course you will, my son. You’ll be an excellent big brother.”

  Now Tom stood beside the open grave as the coffin holding the bodies of his wife and infant daughter was lowered into it. At his side was his little boy.

  The black-garbed padre murmured a final prayer. He was as devastated as Tom, since he’d known Analeigh her entire life. The padre had baptized her, had performed all the Catholic rites and rituals, had married them and baptized their son. And at the end, he’d given her the last rites.

  “God be with you, my son.” Father Felipe made the Sign of the Cross before Tom, then shook Tom’s hand. Even though Tom wasn’t Catholic, Father Felipe had been kind to him. “And God be with you also.” He patted George’s shoulder and gave a brief nod to Don Jorge before crossing to where his dusty donkey grazed.

  Don Jorge de Alessandro y Echevarría, his wife’s father, waited until the padre was gone before he glowered at Tom from the other side of the hole in the ground.

  “I want you away from here,” he snarled in Castilian Spanish. Tom understood him. His knowledge of Mexican had helped when he’d bargained for horses for the cavalry as they traveled west, but Analeigh, his beloved, had taught him the elegance of Spanish.

  Don Jorge never let anyone forget he was a Hidalgo, and while he’d only come to California thirty years before—Tom had the feeling the don’s violent temper had caused him to be banished from his homeland—his family had owned this land for over two hundred fifty years.

  Tom hadn’t expected anything less than this, although he was surprised Don Jorge would send the boy away. “We’ll be gone by dawn tomorrow, Don Jorge.”

  “The boy remains. Jorge is my last male heir.” Don Jorge had lost his namesake as well as his other sons, and he’d expected Tom to fill that gap with many sons of his own. When George was born, he’d been almost insanely pleased, and had insisted the boy be named after him. “Try to take him away from here, and I’ll see you dead.”

  Tom tightened his grip on his son’s hand. He knew his father-in-law too well to doubt his words. He also knew no one in the vicinity would interfere with the don. The best thing Tom could do just then was to appear to accommodate him. “Of course. I don’t want to die. But please…May I spend one last night with him?”

  Don Jorge curled his lip at him and muttered something about the spineless gringo before he turned on his heel and stalked away, his silver spurs jingling. Fortunately for Tom, the don was so full of himself he never doubted he’d be obeyed.

  “Papa?” His son’s blue eyes were huge and swimming with tears, and he stuck his thumb in his mouth. At four, George was too old to be sucking his thumb, but Tom didn’t have the heart to scold him for it, not after what had happened the day before.

  George had so badly wanted a baby sister. He’d had one for a handful of breaths before she was gone. The Mama he’d adored hadn’t lasted much longer.

  Something else Don Jorge blamed Tom for, because if Analeigh had survived, the don was certain she would have produced more grandsons for him.

  “It will be all right, Georgie.” Tom squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting back his own tears.

  He had come to the rancho, bringing with him the body of Don Jorge’s youngest son. Tom had met the young Californio a few years before the war with Mexico had ended, and they’d ridden together during that time, becoming good friends and building a solid reputation for being able to provide sound, saddle-broke horses. They’d been doing well until Guillermo had
been thrown during a roundup when his horse had stepped into a burrow while at a full gallop, breaking its leg and Guillermo’s neck. Tom had shot the horse, putting it out of its misery, and brought Guillermo’s body home.

  For some reason, Don Jorge hadn’t seemed upset by the loss of his son, muttering a Spanish word Tom didn’t recognize. Don Jorge had looked Tom over from head to foot, then hired him to gentle the horses he raised.

  Tom had never thought to fall in love. He’d trained horses for the cavalry and then became a horse wrangler. He was a tall, angular man, not the sort to draw interested looks from women, until one woman had given him such looks—the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen. The petite señorita had come out to the paddock where he was gentling a gelding intended for the don’s daughter. When she’d strolled up to the fence to watch, Tom’s fingers had twitched with the urge to stroke the silky black hair that cascaded down past her hips.

  He’d been dismayed to learn she was the don’s daughter, but he’d taken one look into her liquid brown eyes and had fallen head over heels in love.

  It had taken him almost six months to convince Don Jorge to give him his daughter’s hand, but he’d finally been successful. For five years he’d had a wonderful woman, who had given him an even more wonderful son.

  Before she’d died, Analeigh had pleaded with him not to let her father have the boy. She’d known that was most likely to happen, having lived with the man all her life.

  If it came to that, Tom had had years to become aware of the sort of man his father-in-law was.

  Did Don Jorge really think Tom would leave his son to be brought up by a man with no heart? No warmth?

  Tom looked down at George as he leaned against his leg. He stroked the blue-black hair that was so like his Mama’s, for while Tom was very fair, the only thing he had passed on to the boy were his blue eyes.

  “Papa?”

  “We need to leave, George,” he said softly in English, saddened when his son’s lip quivered. “I know Mama and Mora are here, but if we stay, your grandpapa will want you to be his boy. He’ll keep you and make me go away.” At least he’d try to.

  “Is that why he calls me Jorge instead of George?”

  “Yes.”

  George shivered, and Tom wanted to shoot his father-in-law.

  “Where will we go, Papa?”

  “Away from here.” Even speaking English, Tom couldn’t risk anyone overhearing that he intended to take his boy east, back to the States.

  The sound of clumps of dirt landing on the wooden coffin followed them as Tom led George to the cottage that wouldn’t be their home for much longer.

  * * * *

  A few hours after sundown, Tom woke his son. “It’s time to go, George.” He hurriedly dressed the boy. “I packed earlier, while you were sleeping.”

  Anyone who saw him filling the saddlebags and packs would assume he was doing so because of Don Jorge’s orders.

  His money belt held all the cash money that was left from what he’d earned with Guillermo. He had no intention of taking the gold coins Don Jorge kept in a chest in the hacienda. Considering how much the don wanted George, he’d accuse Tom of theft and see him strung up. Of Analeigh’s jewels, though—he took two ruby brooches; one he’d given her at the time of George’s birth and the other he’d planned to give her after this last baby was born. He paused a moment to catch his breath, almost overwhelmed by his loss, then closed his fist around the locket that held miniature paintings of Tom and Analeigh. That was mostly for their son to have something of his mother’s to remember her by.

  Tom had saddled Sunrise, his buckskin mare. He planned to leave behind the fat little pony he and Analeigh had given George on his last birthday and instead take Analeigh’s rangy black gelding—the horse he’d been gentling for her when they’d first met and which she’d named al Caer la Noche—Nightfall. He’d switch horses every few miles, enabling him to cover more ground without wearing them out. Having a remuda would have been better, but the additional horses would have made too much noise. He was bringing a mule, though. He’d worked with Sancho Panza since the mule had been foaled, and Tom knew he could trust him not to throw a tantrum at the worst possible moment.

  He gathered up his son, hurried to the stable, and swung George up on Sunrise’s back.

  “Papa?”

  “We need to make good time, and none of Don Jorge’s horses can keep up with Sunrise.” Tom slid his rifle into its scabbard and mounted behind his son. He’d tied the mule’s lead to his saddle, and now he caught up Nightfall’s reins and nudged Sunrise’s sides.

  “What will we do when we get to wherever we’re going, Papa?”

  “Hush, George. I’ll tell you later. We don’t want anyone to know we’re leaving.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He dropped a kiss on his son’s curly hair, then settled George’s hat on his head. “Stay quiet until I tell you.” He kept the horses and the mule at an easy walk. Once they were out of sight of the hacienda, he’d set them at a ground-eating pace, heading northeast. Eventually they’d make their way back to the States, where they’d build a new life.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m really proud of the way you sit that mustang, George,” Papa said, “but we’ve got to get you a saddle.”

  “Yes, sir.” George grinned up at him. Papa was the best horseman he knew—even better than the Sioux and Cheyenne they’d crossed paths with—and hearing that made him proud.

  By the time they arrived at the town of Woody Draw in the Black Hills of Dakota a year or so later, George was riding Nightfall most of the time—except when memories of those last days on the rancho threatened to overcome him. Then Papa would take him up before him on Sunrise and hold him until he felt better.

  Woody Draw wasn’t much of a town at that point, although its populace had great hopes for it—since the stage line already had a stop there, it made sense to them that the railroad would have a branch as well. That was somewhere down the road, though. Now, mostly it was still a tent city. However, wooden buildings were starting to go up. On the main street there were a number of houses leading into town and a number leading out—the better, Papa said, to avoid the dust of summer and the mud of winter and spring. In between were clusters of businesses, consisting of the jail, a telegraph office, the stage depot, the livery stable, a general store, a hotel, and a couple of saloons.

  George stared wide-eyed at the women who lounged on the wooden walk in front of one of the saloons that had a sign above the door that read Diamond Garter.

  “They’re so pretty!” Not as pretty as his Mama had been, but still very nice to look at.

  “Thank you, young man,” one of the women called out, and George blushed.

  “She called me a man, Papa!”

  “So she did.” Papa tipped his hat to them and said in a quiet voice, “Those ladies live over the saloon. They have to work for their living, and while I don’t want you mingling with them—at least not until you’re older—you’re always to be polite to them.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Papa raised his voice. “Ma’am, can you tell me if your fine town has a saddle maker?”

  “That it does, handsome. Ike down to the livery stable has a talent for them, along with mucking out the stalls.” She laughed. “It’s right down thataway.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  “I’m Polly.”

  “Polly.” Papa tipped his hat again.

  “Come back and see us,” one of the younger women called.

  “Shut up, you cow. “ Polly slapped her. “He’s got his kid with him.”

  “Hey! I gotta work tonight! Oral’ll dock me if you mark my face.”

  “Then watch your tongue.”

  As they began to ride on, George heard the woman say in a soft tone, “Ma’am. You hear that? I’m a lady, I am.”

  Their raucous laughter followed George and Papa down the dusty street.

  It didn’t take
too long to reach the stable, and as Polly had mentioned, a man was mucking out a stall.

  “Are you Ike?” Papa asked.

  “I am.”

  “I’ve been told you’re a good saddle maker.”

  “I am.”

  “My boy needs a saddle.”

  The man leaned on the pitchfork and looked over Papa’s saddle. “I can make you a saddle,” he told George. “Can’t promise it’ll be as fancy as the one your pa is setting on. Not to say I couldn’t make it, just that all that fancy leatherwork would take me about six months.”

  “I don’t need anything fancy, sir.”

  “That’s a right polite boy you’ve got there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “For the black?”

  “Yeah,” Papa said again. Nightfall was bigger than Papa’s mare, but he had a calmer temperament, which was why Papa had George ride him. That didn’t mean George couldn’t ride Sunrise…

  George could see Papa was nervous. He always got nervous when anyone commented about him, afraid word might get back to his grandpapa. But George wasn’t worried. Don Jorge hadn’t caught up with them yet.

  “How long will it take for you to finish the saddle?”

  “How fast do you need it? What I mean is, if you’re not in much of a rush, I can do a bang-up job, but I’ll need about a month.”

  “That long?” Papa didn’t like to stay in any one place for long.

  “I don’t have the leather just now, but a man I know should be coming into town in a few days.” He grinned at George, showing a gap between his teeth. “Want me to dye the leather? I can make it black like your horse.”

  George would like that, but they couldn’t stay that long. He glanced at Papa, surprised to see his intent gaze. “Papa?”

  Papa turned back to the saddle maker. “How much?” he asked.

  Señor Ike told him, and Papa let out a whistle.

  “It’ll be worth the wait.”

  “It’s gonna cost enough,” Papa said.

  “Tell you what. If you ain’t happy with it, you won’t owe me a single red cent.”

  “What do you say?” Papa glanced at George.

  “I don’t need a saddle now.” He knew the money belt Papa wore under his shirt was starting to get thin.