Wolf Creek Widow (Wolf Creek, Arkansas Book 4)

by Penny Richards

  Malignant memories bombarded her from every direction, and she couldn’t think for the raw terror rising inside her. She turned in a circle, rubbing her upper arms, confused and unsure what to do next.

  Stay calm and breathe. Remember that Elton can’t hurt you anymore. If things seem overwhelming, think them through. First things first.

  Rachel’s voice, so soothing and sensible, played through Meg’s mind. She drew in several deep breaths and felt the anxiety begin to recede.

  First things first. Coffee. She wanted coffee. Needed coffee. Was there any here? She couldn’t remember. She recalled Gabe Gentry saying that he’d brought a few staples from the general store, but she had no idea what. She knew she should eat something, even though she had no appetite. Was there water in the bucket?

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples to try to still the pounding in her head.

  “Breathe.”

  She drew in another deep, cleansing breath. Her ribs throbbed in objection. Bit by bit, her alarm began to ease and her composure returned.

  Coffee. There were plenty of logs lying next to the fireplace, along with a bucket filled with slivers of resin-rich pine knot that would flame in an instant. Her heart sank. She could handle the kindling, but there was no way she could lift the logs with one arm. Doc Rachel was right. She wasn’t able to do this alone just yet.

  A loud rapping at the door sent her spinning around, the fire forgotten.

  “Come in,” she called and was surprised at how hoarse and unused her voice sounded.

  The knob turned, and Ace Allen, former inmate, the man who had killed her husband, stepped inside. The small room seemed even smaller when filled with his powerful presence.

  As if he sensed her sudden discomfort, he left the door open and made no effort to move closer.

  “Hello, Mrs. Thomerson. Do you remember me? Asa—Ace Allen? I’ve seen you in town a few times.”

  His voice was deep and as dark as his hair, but smooth-dark, like the black velvet dress Mrs. VanSickle sometimes wore to church in the wintertime.

  His eyes were compelling, perhaps because their crystalline blue was so unexpected in someone who, for the most part, had received his mother’s looks and coloring. There were lines fanning out at the corners of those incredible eyes. Faint furrows scored his forehead and his cheeks were lean and held grooves that might be attractive if he were not so stern-looking. There were scars, too, around his eyes and on his cheekbones. It was a face on a first-name basis with grief and pain. For the briefest second, her heart throbbed with empathy.

  “Why?”

  He seemed as surprised by the question as she was to hear it break the stillness of the room.

  “Why?” he asked, frowning.

  “Why do they call you Ace?”

  His gaze never faltered. He seemed to relax the slightest bit. The subtle shift in his demeanor and stance eased Meg’s own distress somewhat.

  “When I finished at the mission school in Oklahoma, I went to Texas and became a tracker for the Texas Rangers. They all said I was an ace tracker, so they shortened my name to Ace.”

  He—an Indian—had finished school. Meg had no schooling past the fifth grade. As usual, she felt lessened by the knowledge. “So...hunting men down is something you know how to do.”

  It was a statement, not a question. From the expression in his eyes, he took it as an accusation, even though she hadn’t meant it that way.

  “I shot him in the thigh, Mrs. Thomerson.” Instead of exhibiting the evasiveness she expected, he confronted the specter standing between them head-on.

  “He’d taken a shot at Colt that only missed by inches. I yelled and he turned and took a shot at me, just as I pulled the trigger. His bullet grazed the fleshy part of my arm, and I flinched. The plan was to disable him, not take his life.”

  He stated his side of things with simple directness and no attempt to color his actions one way or the other. She heard sincerity in his voice. Her instincts told her it was real, but she’d learned the hard way that her intuition was often wrong. Making a lie sound like the truth had been a hallmark of Elton’s. After a while she’d learned not to believe anything he said. Ace Allen wasn’t Elton, but those lessons had been hard-learned and not easily forgotten.

  “I didn’t know Elton shot at you, too.”

  It was the first she’d heard of that. Or maybe, like so many other things, she’d heard but didn’t remember. Though she had no doubt that Elton had brought about his own demise, she now understood more fully why Ace Allen had taken aim.

  “I know I can’t expect you to forgive me, but—”

  “Please,” she said, cutting him off with a raised hand. Hearing and accepting his apology, feeling as she did about Elton’s death, would be the height of hypocrisy. “No more. Please.”

  He gave a sharp nod.

  Meg focused on his face. “I can’t pay you.”

  He shrugged in a surprisingly graceful lift of wide shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. The way I see it, I owe you.”

  No. She owed him a debt of gratitude for releasing her from her prison of pain and degradation. Meg lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see the truth in her eyes. He wanted to make amends for leaving her without a husband, though he, more than most, would know that Elton hadn’t been worth much in that regard. Her husband’s contribution to the marriage had been two babies too fast and the occasional promise when he was filled with drunken self-pity to do better. Of course, when he drank even more and she did something to irritate him, that promise, like all his vows, went by the wayside.

  “Sheriff Garrett says you can do laundry.”

  “I can do a lot of things,” he said with a solemn nod. “I won’t let you lose your business. It’s the least my mother and I can do. Maybe you can take up your mending again now that you’re home and the ironing as you get your strength back.”

  Thinking of her future, she moved toward the fireplace and rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms. Taking up her mending would be a step toward standing on her own two feet again, and it would give her something to do, keep her from feeling so helpless. Give her an inkling of hope that she could make a good life for herself and her babies.

  “I’ll make a fire and start some coffee, if you’d like.”

  Meg whirled at the sound of his voice. She’d been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d forgotten that the stranger was still there.

  Within arm’s reach.

  Her heart stumbled and she pressed her palm against the sudden tightening in her chest. How had he moved so silently? So quickly?

  As if he knew she was uneasy with his nearness, he went to the fireplace and squatted in front of the hearth, removing himself to a more comfortable distance.

  Her nerves quieted. How silly of her to feel frightened by him, she thought. Just because he looked dangerous didn’t mean he was. After all, he’d helped her before, and two of the most respected people in Wolf Creek had vouched for him.

  Meg had no solution for feelings she knew were irrational, but at the moment it hurt her brain too much to try to figure things out. She decided to fetch a shawl to ward off the chill that gripped her despite the warm morning. As she neared the door to her room she found herself drawn to the other bedroom, the one she’d avoided the previous night.

  The door swung wide on creaking hinges and she stepped inside. The room was musty-smelling after being empty so long. She reached for the tin of talcum powder that sat atop the chest of drawers next to a stack of diapers. Doctor Rachel had given it to her when Lucy was born.

  Twisting the top, she sprinkled a little onto the inside of her forearm and smoothed it in. She’d used the precious gift sparingly, but still, it was almost gone. She raised her arm and breathed in the pleasant lavender aroma. The scent triggered a vision of her now-nine
-and-a-half-month-old daughter, Lucy. Lucy of the sweet smile, chubby cheeks and dimpled knees.

  She was filled with the sharp pain of loss, and at the same time her body ached in memory of nursing her baby. But that was finished. Her milk had dried up weeks ago. Meg closed the top of the canister and blinked her burning eyes. What was done was done. There was no changing it. All she could do was move forward. Somehow.

  Holding the oval-shaped tin against her chest, she let her gaze roam the room. Some of the church ladies had come out and tidied up for her return. Teddy’s cot, with his ragged, patchwork rabbit sitting atop the pillow, was neatly made, as was Lucy’s little bed. Meg’s heart twisted in sudden longing.

  “You must miss them terribly.”

  She whirled at the sound of the unfamiliar feminine voice. Though middle-aged, the Indian woman who stood there was lovely. Her slender body was attired in a patterned skirt and blouse. A leather thong with a black stone hung around her neck. Her oval face boasted nicely shaped eyebrows, a bold nose and a pretty mouth. Ace Allen’s mother stood before her, a soft, understanding look in her dark eyes.

  Meg tried to rein in her emotions and gave a short nod. “I’m afraid—” she swallowed “—they’ll forget me.”

  “Then we should bring them home.”

  The first hope she’d felt since the day that had changed her life stirred in her heart. “But I... There’s no way I can take care of them yet.”

  “I’m here to help for as long as you need me.”

  Rachel Gentry was right. There were good people in Wolf Creek. “I can’t pay you,” Meg whispered.

  “I’m not looking for money,” Nita said. “Christians help each other out. And please accept my condolences on the loss of your husband. I understand how you’re feeling right now.”

  Nita and her son were Christians? Meg hoped her surprise didn’t show on her face. That thought fled in the face of another. How could Nita know how Meg felt about Elton? Had she said something while under the influence of the laudanum?

  “I lost my Yancy when Ace was eighteen.” A wistful smile curved the older woman’s lips. “A logging accident. It was hard, even though Ace was grown and away at school. Maybe harder since he wasn’t around to share my grief.”

  Meg wondered what Nita Allen would say if she knew Meg felt no grief, only joy. This gentle woman who’d had a good husband wouldn’t understand that.

  “I think it was the quiet that was the most disturbing,” Nita confessed.

  The blessed, blessed quiet... No cursing. No yelling. No foul name-calling...

  “Yancy was so big and blustery and fun-loving, he kept everyone laughing so hard they could hardly breathe when he was around, especially when he’d get to singing those Irish ditties.”

  Elton had kept everyone on pins and needles. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to do or say anything for fear of it being wrong. And no one felt like singing in his presence.

  “Your husband was Irish?” Meg asked, clinging to the single fact that jumped out at her.

  “He was,” Nita said with a reminiscing smile. “And as handsome as could be. Ace got his blue eyes from his father, though Yancy’s were not so light as Ace’s.”

  Meg found the notion of two people marrying from such disparate upbringings an intriguing notion. “Was it difficult, the two of you having such different backgrounds?”

  “I won’t say it was always easy, but we had enough love and joy to make up for the bad. My Yancy was not a boring man.” Memories softened her smile. “He loved life and he was filled with Celtic songs and stories and romantic dreams and notions.”

  “How on earth did you meet?” Meg asked, her problems forgotten as Nita Allen talked of her love for her Yancy.

  Another smile curved the older woman’s lips. “He’d come to America and was just roaming around, looking over his new country, he said. We were drawn to each other from the very first and married, despite my parents’ fears of the worst.”

  “And the worst never happened?”

  “People can be very judgmental,” she said cautiously. “A white man married to an Indian woman...well, it isn’t always accepted. Yancy and I were able to look past it in most cases, and more often than not, people were standoffish rather than mean.”

  Meg, whose own background wasn’t something she liked to remember, had often found that to be true with her, as well. With her mother’s lifestyle often the talk of the town, most people just avoided her as if she had the plague.

  “Ace is the one who suffered the most. He grew up not really belonging anywhere. He lived with us until he convinced us to let him go live with his grandmother on the reservation, but he didn’t fit in there, either. He was neither white nor Indian. He was a half-breed. Believe me, it’s much more than a name people call you. It took him years to figure out who he is and what his place is in this world.”

  Meg looked through the open door into the other room, where the man they were discussing had a small fire burning in the hearth. He still squatted, placing logs just so. It was strange to think of him as vulnerable in any way.

  “And as for repayment,” Nita said, “someday you can return the favor.”

  “What?” Meg said, as the words brought her thoughts back to their conversation.

  “Someday I may need help from you, or someone else will. Then you’ll do what you can for them.”

  Yes, she would. Somehow she would find a way to pay back the woman with the kind eyes and gentle manner who had taken her mind off her guilt and hopelessness for a few precious minutes. She would pay her back somehow, if it were the last thing she ever did.

  * * *

  Ace heard the murmur of the feminine voices coming from the other room. Maybe he should have listened to his mother. Maybe Meg Thomerson would have been a bit more receptive to his apology after some time spent with his mother and a good breakfast, but he had overridden her wishes and insisted on speaking to Meg first. At the time it had seemed imperative that he tell her what was on his mind and in his heart, to try to make her understand, at least as much as he did, about what had happened that day.

  Elton’s widow hadn’t wanted to hear what had happened or know how terrible he felt for robbing her of her life’s partner. As rotten as Ace knew Elton Thomerson was, he’d still been a husband and a father, and Meg must have seen something in him to love or she would never have married him.

  He brushed his palms on his thighs and stood, planting his hands on his hips and staring into the flickering flames. He wanted to do the right thing, but he could already see that it would be much harder than he’d expected.

  Chapter Two

  The breakfast Nita fixed might have been sawdust for all the enjoyment Meg seemed to take from it. Ace and his mother made desultory conversation while trying not to watch the way Meg pushed the eggs and bacon around on her plate, partially covering them with buttery grits when she thought no one was looking so that they would think she’d eaten at least a few bites.

  “Do you think we can go get the children today?” she asked as Ace mopped up some yolk with a piece of biscuit.

  “You can’t go anywhere,” Nita said. “Doctor Rachel made that very clear to us. She said the wagon trip out here about did you in, and she doesn’t want anything setting back your recovery.”

  “I’ll be better when I can hold them,” Meg insisted.

  Ace thought he heard a bit of steel in that voice, the first emotion he’d seen besides her very real fear of him and that disturbing melancholy. He shot his mother a questioning glance, and she answered with a slight lift of her eyebrows and an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders.

  “I was going to cut down a couple more trees this morning,” he told her, pushing back his chair and carrying his plate to the waiting dishpan of hot sudsy water. “Winter will be here before we know it, and I d
on’t want you running short of wood.”

  He didn’t tell her that if her husband had been taking care of his family instead of robbing people, the wood would have been cut and stacked long ago, making starting a fire a lot easier.

  If you hadn’t killed him, he could be here right now, doing just that.

  The voice inside his head that reminded him of his sin several times a day put a stop to his mental criticism of Elton Thomerson. Meg had grown up a country girl; Ace figured she knew you needed a mix of seasoned and green logs to keep things going.

  He also knew there was no way the fragile woman sitting across from him could have done the work herself. How would she have kept warm when she’d burned the scant supply of wood in the lean-to? Despite his attempt to not think ill of the dead, a muscle in his jaw knotted in anger at a man he’d known only by reputation.

  He turned to face her, leaning against the narrow table that sat against the wall. “Would you like for me to go and see about bringing them home instead of chopping more wood?”

  “Would you?” she breathed, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

  “I’d be glad to.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Though it was fitting that he step up and do the right thing for the woman whose husband he’d shot, Ace hadn’t realized how hard it would be. Not the work—he was no stranger to backbreaking labor—but seeing how badly she was scarred from the whole experience, and how deep her wounds were, left him feeling angry and helpless. He just wanted to fix things for her.

  A sharp gasp caught his attention. His gaze flew to Meg’s. The pure terror on her face took him aback. What had happened? Why was she so afraid? Seeing no cause for her alarm, he shot his mother a questioning glance and saw reproach in her eyes.

  Understanding slammed into him. His loathing for the way Elton Thomerson had treated his family, especially his wife, had somehow slipped past his usual outward show of stoicism. Seeing his feelings stamped on his face had terrified her.

  It was time to go, time to get away from this woman who had somehow gotten beneath his skin the first time he’d seen her sunny smile and worked her way into his heart. For all the good it would do him. Whether or not Elton was corrupt and no good, Meg had no doubt loved the man she’d married. Ace would do well to remember that.