John pushed aside any thoughts of her for now, then stripped off his shirt and pants, going to his closet for fresh clothes. As he finished buttoning up his shirt he thought he heard a noise downstairs. He quickly pulled on his pants and hurried back into the examination room. All was quiet and Chaim was sleeping peacefully.
Still, a prickle of unease taunted him. Going to the window he glanced out, but saw nothing but the dark street. Slipping from the room, he was surprised to find Lily by the front door—as if his earlier thoughts had conjured her out of thin air.
“Lily, is everything all right?” He glanced at the clock. It was only fifteen minutes since Dustin had left. He took her hand and led her into the dimly lit kitchen.
“Yes, I…I just wanted to see how Chaim was. I guess I should have waited until morning.”
John pulled out a chair, careful to pick it up rather than sliding it across the wood floor. “Here, sit for a moment,” he whispered, “and I’ll give you an update on his condition.”
She hesitated, looking either frightened or nervous. “Lily?”
“I really should not, John. Tante was shaken badly by the storm. I cannot remember her ever being so upset. If she calls me and I am not there, she will be even more frightened.”
“Is she doing okay? I can come check on her.”
“No, that is not necessary. You look tired.” Her soft laugh seemed strained. “I think we all are. It is just the thunder and lightning that has her rattled. You need to get some sleep too.”
He nodded, then realized he still had hold of her hand. “Okay. Well, Chaim seems to be doing well. I’m happy with his condition. His temperature is good and he’s sleeping soundly. All we can do now is wait and hope that infection doesn’t set in.”
With that news she finally smiled. “Good. I am relieved to hear it.” She softly took her hand from his and turned. “You get some rest too, yes?”
John didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to tell her about him and Emmeline, and what had happened between them. And, about Emmeline and Chaim, too. What a difference a day made. But it seemed she was determined. “I will.” He went with her the few feet over to her shop and opened the door. “You get some sleep, yourself. Doctor’s orders.” He leaned over and pressed his cheek to hers. “If you need anything, Lily, just ask,” he said softly into her ear. “I mean it.”
Charity lay in the hotel bed, staring up at the crack in the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Becky sleeping by her side. So many things were rolling around in her head. Chaim, with blood covering his chest, as she tried to keep him in the saddle. Harland Shellston trying to kill her. She slammed her eyes closed when Brandon came into her thoughts. He’d given up on her. Ridden out of her life for good.
Everything will look better in the morning, she tried to convince herself. It was a tactic her mother always used to cheer her up, but unfortunately it never really worked. Problems were problems, period.
Unable to lay still another second, she lifted the blanket, careful not to awaken Becky, and cautiously got out of the bed. It squeaked loudly causing Becky’s breathing to stop for a moment, then the girl rolled over, lost again to her dream world. In the cool room, Charity slipped on her coat and carried a straight-backed chair over to the window and sat down. Careful not to make a sound, she pushed the pane open a few inches, welcoming the chilly night air.
Darkness pervaded the sleeping town. The sign at The Silk Garter’s creaked softly, and was the only sound until the footfalls of a horse coming up the street caught her attention. The rider was still too far away for her to see who it was through the shadows, but something about the outline of the rider kept her attention. In another few moments he would be directly in front of the hotel.
She stifled a gasp. No need for him to come closer. Even from this distance she’d know that silhouette anywhere. She’d been studying it for all of the ten years she’d known him. And that of the big, solid horse he rode, too.
Chapter Forty-Six
Brandon was back!
A wallop of adrenaline made Charity’s limbs shake. She ran to the door and pulled on her boots with unsteady hands, not caring that under her coat were only her pantaloons and chemise. Flattening her ear to the door, she checked for anyone in the hall. Time was of the essence. Before Brandon vanished again, she’d throw herself into his arms and beg his forgiveness. She’d tell him everything in her heart, holding nothing back.
She hurried down the green and pink carpet runner in the hall, past the room in which Uncle Winston and Aunt Winnie slept, then past the room they’d gotten for Dustin. Reaching the stairway, she glanced down, thankful there was no one in sight.
At least five minutes had elapsed. By now Brandon could be anywhere. Charity ran down the boardwalk past the saloon, wondering where he’d been heading. At the corner she looked over at John’s office, but his horse was nowhere in sight.
She looked up the street in the direction toward the bank and the church. She’d go that way first, then if she didn’t find him, she’d come back to this block. She ran across the street avoiding the puddles, then hugged the side of the buildings as she went, passing the barber shop and the tannery. A chicken darted out from an alcove and, in a multitude of feathers and frightened clucking, tripped her up. With a cry, she landed hard on her side, knocking the air from her lungs. Charity lay in the alley, dazed.
“What was that?”
Norman Shellston’s voice was easy to recognize. A door opened. Through the haze of her pain, Charity slowly rolled as close to the side of the bank wall as she could.
“Nada, Señor. Sounds of the night.”
Whoever was with the banker had a chilling voice. It flowed over Charity like something evil, threatening harm. The door that had opened now closed, leaving her to catch her breath. She crawled to her knees and then a crouching position. What was going on in the bank in the wee hours of the morning? Whatever it was, she felt sure, was meant to remain hidden.
She wished she had her Colt 45. She felt naked without it. She glanced down at her legs, feeling the breeze.
“Si!” A voice boomed. Whoever it was, he was exceedingly angry.
“Keep your voice down.”
Did they have Brandon against his will? Surely not. He wasn’t one to get waylaid unawares. But, what if they did? There was no way she could leave now without knowing for sure.
With her back pressed against the white bat-and-board siding, Charity inched along carefully, feeling her way with the palms of her hands. She stopped next to the window. It was chin height and, if she was careful, she might be able to see inside. The rumble of an argument taunted her, a little easier to hear, but she still couldn’t make out what was actually being said. Curiosity burned, and more—fear for Brandon drove her on.
She gripped the sill, peeking through the window, trying to stay low and out of sight. The room was dark, with only one small candle burning. Mr. Shellston was arguing, his hands waving in front of a man with a Mexican blanket slung over his shoulder. He looked like an outlaw. When the he turned, two bandoleers and a large knife were partially visible underneath the mantle.
Charity pulled back. She hadn’t noticed the dog coming up the alley until it let out a bark. In her surprise, she banged her head against the wall, then turned to him pleadingly.
“Shhhh, boy. It’s okay,” she squeaked in a panicked whisper. She held her hand out to him in invitation.
The dog growled. He lowered his head, taking a step closer.
Charity let out a yelp as rough hands gripped her from behind. She was swung around and slammed up against the wall of the bank. Stars danced before her eyes. Blinking to clear her sight, she was face to face with the Mexican. He took her arm and pulled her inside. Norman Shellston closed the door.
“What is going on?” she demanded, summoning the sternest voice she could from her fear-fogged brain. “I will have you know that my uncle is not going to like this one little bit.”
“Sit down, Miss
McCutcheon. And be quiet.”
Charity gasped, pretending outrage. She snugged the coat around her and drew herself up until she was eye to chin with the rough-looking character. She shoved her panic aside, sneering right back into his face. She knew the predicament she was in was far more precarious then she’d first thought. “I will do no such thing, Mr. Shellston. I demand you release me this instant.”
The Mexican laughed. He pushed her into a chair, causing her hip-length coat to hike up, giving the men ample view of her legs. He ran the toe of his boot up her pantaloons, and the sharp, spike-like spur glimmered dangerously in the candlelight. She sprang to her feet and bolted for the door. As quick as a snake, the bandito gripped her wrist and wrenched her arm behind her back, almost bending Charity to the ground. She hated sounding weak, but stopping the cry that tore from her throat was impossible.
“Now, you will listen to me, Señor Shellston,” the Mexican hissed, turning back to Shellston. “You owe me. Time is past. We stopped that stage. My men died. You pay, or she will be next. Then, your son. And you.” He jerked Charity’s arm viciously. “And, I assure you this, it will be slow and painful. Si?”
“B-b-but,” Shellston stammered. “You didn’t get me the letter. Without it, the deal is void.” His voice was weak, pleading. “I could lose everything.” His face was red with anger or fright, Charity couldn’t tell which.
“Screw the letter! You have one day. Then—” he made a slashing motion across Charity’s neck.
Shellston was shaken. “All right. I’ll get you the money. Look for it in the planned spot. Just make sure she never makes it back to town.”
Charity gasped.
The Mexican shoved her roughly toward the door. “Vamos.”
Tucker rounded the corner of Main Street at a dead run, he stumbled, caught himself with his good hand, and sprinted on. He crashed into the doctor’s office, banging the door against the wall so hard it rattled the picture, almost sending it crashing to the floor. John and Dr. Bixby jumped up from their seat at the table, alarmed.
“What the hell is wrong with you, boy,” Dr. Bixby whispered loudly as he stared at him in disbelief. “We have a patient in there.”
“Char—”
Tucker gripped his side as he struggled to talk and breathe at the same time. “Charity…”
John pulled out a chair. “Sit down until you catch your breath.”
Tucker shook his head. “No. We have to help her…”
John put his hands on the young man’s shoulders, giving him a little shake. “What are you talking about? What’s happened to Charity?”
Tucker’s face was still bright red, his breathing labored. “She was taken by a man I’ve never seen. A Comanchero.” He spat the last word out as if it was something dirty.
“When? Which way did they go?” John was already halfway up the stairs to get his gun and hat.
“Few minutes ago. East on Church Street. Riding double.”
John took the stairs three at a time. In moments he loaded his Colt 45 and strapped his holster to his leg, all the while remembering the killing lust he’d seen from the top of the stage. He grabbed extra ammunition, shoved it into his saddlebag and crammed his Stetson on his head. Hurrying down, he was surprised to see Sheriff Dane waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. Just as he was about to tell the sheriff about Charity, something struck painfully against his skull and sent him crashing to the floor. He broke his fall with his hands and his gun slid across the floor.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Going somewhere, McCutcheon?” Boone asked as he stepped over John’s body from behind the staircase. He bent and picked up John’s gun, stuffing it in his belt.
John fought the blackness that threatened to take him down. When Tucker ran to his side to help, Boone lashed out with his boot and sent Tucker to the ground, smashing up against the door.
Bixby, stunned into silence until this point, stepped forward. “Sheriff, do something.”
Boone hefted John up by the arm and pressed the barrel of his gun against the side of John’s chest. “The heat getting a little too much for you, Doc? Leaving town?”
John struggled to stand on his own. “What’s this about?” he asked groggily. The sheriff looked about helplessly.
“Mr. Boone, uh, has some questions for you, John.” The sheriff’s voice wobbled and he took a step back. “I suggest you answer ‘em.”
Boone shoved John into the other room. “Open up your safe.”
John felt queasy as the image of Boone wavered before his eyes. Once he opened the safe and saw the jewel, the sheriff would take him into custody and lock him up. He needed to get to Charity. Before something horrible happened to her. He pushed back the panic he was feeling and turned to the safe, trying to focus on what to do next.
Wiping the moisture from his fingers, he spun the dial to the right several fast turns, clearing it out. Squeezing his eyes, he tried to focus on the small numbers. Carefully, he stopped on the number ten. He turned the dial to the left, stopping on ten again. Then to the right a second time, passing thirteen once, then completing the action on the number thirteen. Jerking the handle down, the door swung open. He turned.
As best he could, John blocked anyone from seeing inside.
Boone stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of his gun firmly to John’s forehead.
“Just a minute, Boone,” the sheriff tried to reason, “there ain’t no reason—”
“Shut up.” Boone shouted. He swung around and smashed the sheriff’s head with his gun. The sheriff crumpled to the ground.
White-faced and shaking, Dr. Bixby bent down and checked for a pulse. “He’s dead.”
“Move aside, McCutcheon.”
John did. With gritted teeth and a blinding anger, he watched Boone scatter his things, as his gut kept screaming his need to go after Charity. The packages of morphine, two clean vials, and several slides fell to the floor in a clatter.
Boone turned around. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” John shot back, regaining a little of his strength. Boone had missed it? Somehow, the bounty hunter hadn’t found the jewel? John’s mind was racing. “You never told me what you’re after.”
“You’re full of it, McCutcheon. You know exactly what I want. The blue sapphire. A full carat.” In a fit of rage, Boone’s face flamed red and John saw his hand tighten on the gun. “Get it.”
John went to the safe and shuffled the few remaining things around, looking. Finally, he turned around in astonishment. The jewel was nowhere to be found. “I don’t have it. You’ve seen for yourself. Now, I’m walking out of here so stand aside.”
“I don’t think I’m going to let you do that.” The man backed away a few feet as if he didn’t like the thought of getting splattered with blood. “Harland Shellston saw it.” Again, the gun was pointing at John, but this time it was shaking from Boone’s uncontrollable rage, then he smiled. “Let’s go ask your girl. The one who stole it in the first place.” He took his eyes off John only long enough to look at Tucker and Bixby. “You’re coming, too.”
At gun-point Boone marched the three of them over to Lily’s shop. “Knock on the door, McCutcheon.”
John didn’t want to let this dangerous animal anywhere near Lily. He stood his ground. “She doesn’t have the jewel. I’ll get it for—”
Boone pulled Tucker to his side, placing the barrel of his gun on the boy’s temple. “One, two…”
John knocked. Footsteps sounded from within. He searched his mind, trying to think of a way to overpower the man before Lily was put at risk. The door opened. “John?” Her eyes went wide as she took in the scene.
Boone shoved them all into her shop. “Where’s the jewel?”
Stunned, Lily looked from Boone’s face back to John’s. He could see she was deciding what to do.
“Once he has it, we’re all dead,” John said, guessing that she’d come in at some time and taken the jewel from his safe. �
��He won’t want any witnesses.”
“Shut up,” Boone screamed, spittle flying from his lips.
“He killed the sheriff,” Tucker said under his breath.
Boone went to the cutting table and began pulling things from under the shelf. He dumped out the button box on top and spread the contents out with the palm of his hand, all the while keeping his gun trained on the group. “I know it’s here.” He swung around, pulled the dressing room drapes from their rod, tossing them to the side.
John could hear Lily’s breathing, rugged and strong behind him, as she huddled with Tucker.
Boone struck a match. “You’ll talk.” He held the tiny flame to the curtain in the kitchen window. “Or the old granny upstairs will cook like a turkey at Thanksgiving.” The muslin ignited slowly, the flame licking up the fabric.
John gathered himself and launched, taking Boone by surprise and shoving him to the floor. The two men rolled in the kitchen and John smashed Boone’s face several times with his fist, driven by a violent rush of anger. Fury fed by fear for his loved ones surged up, powering his strength. Bumping next to the iron stove, Boone smacked John’s head with his own, momentarily knocking John off the fight. Ducking when Boone tried again, John felt the bulge of his Colt 45 wedged between their bodies, stuck in Boone’s belt. Instantly and instinctively he reached for it, squeezing the trigger even before pulling it clear.
Boone screamed in pain, then yanked his pistol from its holster as the two men rolled over again. John grabbed his arm and hammered it on the floor, trying to knock the six shooter from his hand.
“Drop it,” Brandon demanded from the doorway. He stepped in and pointed the muzzle of his gun at Boone’s head. “Now.”
Texas Twilight Page 24
