The Winter Widow

by Charlene Weir

  Susan heard the large barn door rattle open. Her breath caught, a pulse hammered in her ears. A neighbor coming to feed the mare? Or the bastard who bashed her head coming to make sure she was dead?

  Buttermilk waggled her rump and kicked out. Susan scrambled to the opposite corner, and the mare snaked her head around with a vicious clack of long teeth. She screamed and tossed her head, ears flattened, eyes showing rims of white.

  The stall door latches slid back with a squeak of metal and the doors opened. Weak light filtered in. Buttermilk clomped out, snatching a bite as she went past at whoever had opened the door.

  Susan, back against the wall, inched toward the doors and clasped her hands tightly together above her head. Someone in dark clothing leaned forward to shine a flashlight into the stall.

  She brought her hands down hard, aiming for the back of the neck. The person dodged aside and Susan’s hands landed on a shoulder. Numbing pain raced up her arms and the jar set off sparks in her head. A hand closed around one wrist.

  She jerked free, tried to rush past and found herself caught with arms like a vise around her shoulders, pinning her wrists against her stomach. Breathing hard, she kicked back with a booted foot, banged her head against his nose.

  “Jesus Christ. Take it easy.”

  She pulled away and spun around to face him, planting her feet and pulling in air. “You.”

  Parkhurst pressed exploring fingers against his nose. “You were expecting someone else?”

  “Depends. Did you come to kill me?”

  “No. I’ve been looking for you half the night. The sheriff tried to call and couldn’t get you.” He bent to pick up the flashlight. “What happened? You all right?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” She raked hair away from her face.

  “Your leg—”

  She looked at the black stains of blood on her jeans. “Just a cut. What did Sheriff Holmes want?”

  “To let you know Floyd Kimmell finally admitted Brenner hired him to slaughter cattle. Holmes picked up Vic Pollock and expects him to come through with Brenner’s name as the man who set up the toxic-waste business. We’d better get you to a doctor. Can you walk?”

  “Never mind that. I know who killed Daniel. Come on.”

  Parkhurst tipped his head and eyed her suspiciously. “Who?”

  “Come on.” She limped toward the barn door, dizzy and nauseated; her vision wasn’t too clear. Smacking her head against Parkhurst’s nose hadn’t done her head any good. Buttermilk glared balefully from a corner of the barn.

  “Susan—”

  “An error, a little slip. Cherry pie. Should have caught it immediately. If I’d been alert, I wouldn’t have spent the night in a barn.”

  She paused in the doorway looking out at the weak predawn light; quiet; crisp fresh air; somewhere a rooster crowed, birds stirred in the eaves, and along the outline of the hills a thin line of pinkish hue was barely visible.

  “Susan—”

  “Like sleet,” she told him angrily. “Just like sleet. Why did it take so long to figure that one?” She stepped outside.

  Parkhurst, beside her, said, “You’re not making any sense.”

  She shook her head to clear her vision and try to arrange thoughts in some coherent order. “Last night Helen talked about canning fruit, cherries, and then—”

  A rifle shot shattered the stillness.

  Parkhurst clutched his shoulder with a grunt of pain and a muttered curse, fell back against the barn door and began to slowly slide down it. She wedged her shoulder under his uninjured arm, and with her arms encircling his waist, half supported and half propelled him back inside.

  Slumping under his weight, she subsided to her knees and he went down with her; then he leaned back, propping himself against the wall. Buttermilk snorted resentment at these aliens returning to invade her territory, and ambled into her stall.

  Susan unsnapped the leather strip and yanked the .38 from the holster on his hip, then crouched by the open door. The flashlight he’d dropped lay in a fan of light. She blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear her vision and searched through the murky light for movement. Her eyes teared from the cold air; she had no idea where the shot had come from. Through the trees, she made out Parkhurst’s Bronco parked near the kitchen door.

  She looked at Parkhurst. He hadn’t moved. The bullet had caught him on the right side of the chest, about four inches above the nipple; a small hole and not much bleeding, at least on the outside. No telling how much on the inside. A lung might have been nicked. He needed medical attention immediately.

  “Knew you were the kind … only went to the best … places,” he said, his voice low and breathy, with a soft undercrackle that scared the shit out of her. It could mean blood pouring into his lung.

  Her mind flashed back to that squalid apartment and the eleven-year-old kid with a gun, the sound of the shot, astonishment and then the awful awareness of drowning in her own blood.

  “I hate to make you move, but I want a look at your back.”

  Kneeling at his side, she pulled him forward and winced at his obvious pain. His breathing stopped, then rushed on laboriously and his forehead dropped heavily onto her shoulder. She suppressed a sigh of relief—no exit wound three times larger than the entrance wound pumping his blood out on the barn floor. The bullet must have ricocheted before it got to him. She eased him back against the wall.

  “Who…?” The single word was only a soft overtone as he exhaled.

  “Jack.” She edged nearer the doorway and squinted out, trying to judge the likelihood of reaching the Bronco with the radio inside: Still not much light, trees for cover, but she wouldn’t put money on her chances. She had Parkhurst’s .38, but that left him without a weapon. Was there a better chance of getting inside the house and reaching the telephone? Even if she could creep around to the side or reach the front, she’d have to break a window to get in. Jack would hear and that would be the end of her. And Parkhurst.

  Where the hell was Jack? Waiting for her to do something idiotic like trying for the house? How long would he wait? Not forever, and what did he have in mind when he got tired of waiting? He must have a plan, he couldn’t simply skulk around out there until they all died of old age.

  Movement caught her eye, and she watched as the kitchen door opened and Jack came out carrying an armload of what looked like sheets or towels, cloth of some kind. Sheets?

  Icy chills crawled along her nerves. Dry old wood, hay and straw; the barn would go up like a torch.

  He still had the rifle, holding it level in one hand. A moment would be needed to get it in position to fire. She stretched out prone, .38 gripped in both hands. All she needed was one clear shot.

  Goddammit, he’d been in the house. While she’d been dithering around she could have streaked for the Bronco and radioed for help. Did he yank the phone? Probably.

  She shifted her position, trying to get a better angle, and raised the gun. Trees were in the way; she couldn’t get a shot.

  Jack zigzagged to the Bronco, opened the door and got in behind the wheel. In a moment or two he got out again. Just enough time to sabotage the radio. For some seconds he was out of sight; then she saw him. He was carrying a gas can. She had to get herself and Parkhurst out of here.

  Jack, in the dim light, darted from a tree, to the Bronco, to the house, careful not to give her a clear shot at him. He sprinted toward the barn. She fired, missed wide as he slid around the side.

  There was a long stillness broken only by the hammering of her heart and Parkhurst’s harsh breathing. Then something splashed against the barn wall.

  She squirmed backward away from the door and got to her feet. “Parkhurst,” she whispered. He grunted. Somehow he’d have to be carried out.

  She spotted harness hanging in one stall and ran to investigate. Awkward hands fumbled through halters, lead straps, a complicated set of straps and buckles for hitching to wagons. The smell of gasoline floated in the air. Finally, s
he found a bridle with reins intact, grabbed it and slung it over her shoulder.

  In the next stall, near stacked bales of hay, was a barrel of oats. She scooped several handfuls into a pan and forced herself to move slowly toward Buttermilk. The mare threw back her head and swung her rump back and forth. The odor of smoke was scaring her.

  “Just calm down,” Susan murmured, half to herself, half to the horse. Fire sputtered faintly as it bit into dry wood. “Calm down. It’s all right.” She shook the pan.

  Buttermilk’s ears pricked forward and she eyed Susan warily, huffing softly and stomping her forefeet, torn between greed and fear.

  Greed won out. She made little whickers of anticipation, allowed Susan to enter the stall and pour oats in the manger. Velvety lips nibbled daintily. Susan eased the bridle up the bony nose. Buttermilk flattened her ears, tipped her head to bite. Susan squeezed her nose. “Behave yourself,” she crooned. “We’ll all burn.”

  Nostrils flared; the upper lip peeled back. Susan tightened her grip and forced the bit between long teeth, and at the same time slid the bridle over the ears, then buckled the cheek strap and knotted the reins over the muscular neck.

  Burning wood crackled. Buttermilk started, tossed her head. Even in the dimness, Susan could see a haze of smoke. Tiny flames flickered along the edge where wall joined floor.

  Her eyes stung. She coughed, darted into the adjacent stall. Tugging and shoving, she maneuvered a bale of hay toward Parkhurst. His breathing was more labored, his skin pallid and his facial muscles tight with pain.

  With a whoosh, the stacked bales burst into flame. Roaring clouds of orange billowed up and licked at the hayloft. Smoke choked her. Her eyes watered. Buttermilk screamed. Parkhurst was seized by a racking cough.

  She ran for the mare, clutched the bridle near the bit and yanked. Buttermilk, eyes white-rimmed with fear, planted her feet and refused to budge. Flames raced up the sides of the stall. Susan shouted at her, smacked her cheekbone with an open palm. The straw under her hooves smoldered, then flared. The mare lurched from the stall. Susan led her to Parkhurst and Buttermilk stood, mouthing the bit and dripping foam.

  In the flickering firelight, beads of sweat glistened on his sallow face. His attention was wandering.

  “Listen,” she said sharply to bring him back. “Get on the horse.”

  “No. Asinine. Go.” The effort it caused him to say the three words left him breathless.

  “Do it!” She knelt beside him, put his uninjured arm around her shoulder and struggled to help him to his feet. He managed to get up on the bale and tried to put a leg over the broad back.

  “No,” he said. “You—”

  “Shut up!” Roughly, she jerked up his foot and shoved his leg over the mare, boosted on his rear to get him astride.

  Buttermilk flicked her ears and rippled the muscles along her shoulder. Flames roared through the hayloft with the noise of a freight train. A burning timber fell with a crash. Smoke poured around them.

  She twisted Buttermilk’s mane through Parkhurst’s fingers. “Stay awake for the next few minutes. And hang on.”

  She scrambled up behind him, put her arms around him and gripped the reins and the mane in both hands.

  Was Jack waiting?

  One side of the loft fell with a thundering crack. Fire shot up all around them. The heat was intense. Any moment the roof would come down.

  She clapped her heels against Buttermilk’s flanks. The mare clomped reluctantly to the open doorway, then stopped.

  “Go!” Susan dug in her heels. Buttermilk snorted, tossed her head, pranced sideways and backed into the roaring fire.

  Susan yelled. The mare jumped forward and burst through the door in a bone-jarring trot. Her hooves clattered on the gravel. Susan urged her faster. Buttermilk stopped. “Move, you stupid nag!” She kicked hard.

  A rifle shot whistled past her ear and grazed the horse’s rump. With a scream of panic, Buttermilk broke into a gallop. The rifle cracked again as they lumbered across an empty field. Parkhurst bounced and swayed. Her arms ached with the effort to keep him from falling.

  Buttermilk stumbled across a shallow ditch and headed up a hill. Above the roar and crackle of the fire, Susan heard the sound of a car engine. Some seconds later, headlights made erratic sweeps through the gray light as Jack’s car jounced over the uneven ground behind them.

  Their only hope was the woods, and she kicked the old mare faster down the slope. Parkhurst started to slip. She took one hand from the reins and fastened it on his belt. What was this doing to his injuries?

  Buttermilk, lathered in sweat, was tiring and blowing hard as she pounded toward the trees. She slowed of her own accord when Susan tried to guide her through trees and around wild tangles of brush. Susan’s arms trembled with strain. She couldn’t hold onto Parkhurst much longer.

  The gray dawn light didn’t penetrate the thick trees, and Jack couldn’t yet be right on their tail. She spotted an odd-shaped boulder; flat on top, one side slanting sharply in. A fallen tree lay across it, creating a makeshift cave.

  Stopping the mare, she slid off, then did no more than break Parkhurst’s fall as he tumbled. From the look of him, he was nearly unconscious: eyes glazed, face ashen. She staggered under his weight, pushed and prodded him into the space between the rock and the tree trunk.

  “Don’t move. I’ll get help.”

  He pressed cold fingers against her hand. “Be careful.”

  She nodded, shoved tumbleweeds around the opening and across the fallen tree to hide him. Jack had to be lured far away from this spot and then disposed of. She scrambled back on the mare.

  As quickly as possible, she wound through the trees, with no idea where Jack was. He had to track them on foot and he might be uncertain which direction they’d taken. She saw no sign of him and heard no sounds of movement through the brush.

  Did she have to wave flags and send up flares to get his attention? A rifle shot cracked around her. Buttermilk lunged to a gallop. Susan ducked and dodged to avoid raking branches and glanced over her shoulder. The mare swerved against a tree trunk, smacked Susan’s knee and scraped her off.

  She sprawled in dead leaves and broken branches, rolled to her stomach and wriggled into the low brush. Sprigs snagged her jacket and scratched her face. In the center she found a hollow area, trampled flat for a bed by some small animal. There was barely enough room for her to sit hunched over bent knees. Long thorns pricked her skin through the jacket.

  With her forehead resting on her knees, she drew in deep breaths. She heard thrashing sounds, jerked her head up and froze like a wild animal aware of a predator. She tried to see through the thorny bush and could only make out small patches of pale light. Somewhere Buttermilk snorted and then Jack grunted with satisfaction. The riderless mare told him Susan had to be nearby. The thrashing sounds continued; she couldn’t tell how far away he was, only the direction he seemed to be moving.

  She waited. The lacy frost on the branches melted into crystal beads that rolled down the sprigs and dropped with tiny pit-pats. Her back ached, her muscles cramped. She inched out through thorns just far enough to see. Dark clouds seemed to rest on the treetops; here and there long rays of the rising sun filtered through the dark masses, slanted across the shallow hills and highlighted large boulders. The entire landscape was in dull colors of winter, shades of brown and beige and gray. Trails of smoke drifted like fog.

  Her eyes caught movement and she barely glimpsed Jack, brown pants and tweed jacket in harmony with the background. She pulled the .38 from her pocket. It was time to stop being the hunted and start being the hunter.

  She scuttled across the clearing and crouched behind a tree. Birds twittered in the branches. With the longer range and greater accuracy of the rifle, he had a definite advantage. He’d want to keep a safe distance and shoot at the first opportunity. With only a handgun, she needed to get within twenty-five yards to be certain of success; closer would be better. More daylight made her
more easily visible but would help her avoid nests of crackly leaves, twigs that could snap or rocks that might roll and have her flailing instinctively for balance.

  Carefully, she worked through low brush and the patches of frozen snow hidden in the densest areas, in the direction he’d gone.

  After what seemed like hours and might have been thirty minutes, she heard him ahead, crashing through the underbrush and breathing hard from the effort. Her lungs craved deep breaths also, but she didn’t dare give in, even under cover of his noise.

  She stopped behind the trunk of a huge cottonwood tree to wait, get her breathing under control. She felt light-headed. Cold breezes brushed her face. On a limb above, a squirrel, incensed at her trespass, scolded her with furious chatter, trembled with indignation and then with a final flick of his tail scampered off.

  Everything was quiet; no sounds. Alarmed, she risked a look around the tree trunk. Forty yards away, she spotted Jack, tweed jacket blending in with the brush. She raised the gun, fired and knew she’d missed. He was too far away.

  He dropped without a sound and crawled into the brush. “It’s all gone wrong,” he yelled, his voice thick with an anguish that burbled in his throat like blood. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt. He said it would be easy.”

  She didn’t respond, but watched the bushes thrashing and jiggling and wondered if he was distracted enough to allow her to cross an open area. She’d be vulnerable for only about two seconds. Taking a breath, she darted out. A bullet whacked into the tree behind her. She slithered into brush and waited, face in the dirt.

  “I’m sorry,” he called. “I have to. You knew—when I said ‘cherry pie.’”

  She crawled along a small, twisting path, probably an animal track, inside the tangle of growth. The air was heavy with the odors of earth, damp vegetation, rotting wood and tree sap. Over the rustling and crackling of her progress, she heard the sound of running water; a stream somewhere nearby. She fought her way to the edges of the brush and came on another open space. Just beyond was a ravine, a narrow groove that started out shallow, then dropped sharply and curved in a half-circle. If she could get to it, it might take her around behind him.