by Lydia Olson
“Hey! Jonas!” one of them called. He was a heavy-set man, with a face that was pink from drinking and walking around out in the sun. Jonas whirled to face him. “Who’s this, then?” The man gestured towards Mia curiously.
“This is my sister, Nash,” Jonas replied. “And she’s a good girl. Which means that she’s off-limits, for all of you thugs.” Mia heard the dangerous tone come into Jonas’s voice—the one that he used when he meant business. She wondered what kind of a look was on his face—he was clearly frightening Nash.
The man held up his hands. “I meant no offense,” he claimed.
“So you say,” Jonas replied coolly. He turned back to Mia, reaching out with his uninjured hand. “Let me take your bags. I’ll get you home so you can get settled in.”
“Thank you,” she said, handing him one of her bags. “I can manage the other.” Jonas tugged it away from her, nonetheless. She followed him out the door and back into the heat. He traveled along the roofed boardwalk, and down the street. Mia felt like she was spinning, but she walked quickly to match his pace. Already, Tombstone was proving to be a force of its own, one which had changed her brother—made him hard. She wondered if it would have the same effect on her.
“So, this here’s Tombstone,” Jonas said grandly. “City of kings. Speck of dust. Blink of an eye.” He was talking quickly, filling up the silence with a barrage of words. “How was your journey?”
“Not bad. Mama sends her love.”
“And the boys?” he asked, referring to their younger brothers—the twins, John and Elias, who were twelve.
“Rambunctious as ever.” They were walking past small houses, just off the main street. Jonas laughed as he turned into the yard of a neat white clapboard house with a tiny porch on the front. Jonas opened the door, calling out for his wife as he held it open for Mia.
Inside, the little house was darkened. The shades were all drawn, to keep out the heat of mid-May. Everything in there was really nice and new. The house was clean. Clearly, Jonas was doing pretty well for himself.
Lily came down the hallway, emerging from the darkness. She was a beautiful woman, with blonde hair and large blue eyes, dressed in a rich gown of dark blue shiny material. Mia immediately felt ordinary beside her.
Lily didn’t look like a woman who ran around at everyone’s beck and call. She folded her arms over her chest.
“Hello,” Lily said coolly. She didn’t smile. Mia was taken aback by Lily’s standoffishness.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Mia said kindly. When Lily said nothing, she asked, “How are you?”
“Well enough, I suppose,” she replied, her eyes going to Jonas’s cut, and his hand. Mia watched her face fall into a frown. “Again, Jonas?” she snapped, to Mia’s surprise.
“Lily, please,” Jonas replied tiredly—as if this was a discussion that they’d already had. He looked at Mia. “Lily will help you get settled. I am needed back at the hall.” He smiled at her, wrapping her into an embrace. Mia hugged her brother back. “It’s good to have you here. I’ve missed you, sister.”
Mia smiled up at her brother. “And I, you.” She’d missed him these past two years—more than she could admit. She was glad that they could get back to their close brother-sister relationship.
“I’ll be back later tonight.” Jonas then left the house without another word. When the door closed after him, Mia glanced over at Lily, who was staring at her. Mia wondered if she’d done something to offend Lily, but couldn’t think of a single thing, aside from the fact that she was quite rumpled and dusty after her journey.
Lily turned back toward the depths of the house, calling over her shoulder, “This way. And be quiet. I’ve finally gotten the baby to sleep.” Mia followed Lily, feeling distinctly as though she was a trespasser in her brother’s home.
To calm herself, she reminded herself that Lily didn’t know her. Once she did, then perhaps, she’d be a bit kinder. After all, Mia had never had any enemies before. She’ll warm up, she thought.
Chapter Two
Carson
After the coach driver had broken up his fight against Otis and Morgan Redford, Carson Powell made his way toward Big Nose Kate’s Saloon. When he got there, he unhitched his horse and slung a leg over the saddle.
He felt worked up, on the prowl for someone on whom to take out the rest of his ire. The last time that he was kicked out of Kate’s, she’d said that it’d be his last fight—or else it would be his last drink at her bar.
One thing Carson knew—any day that he had one fight, another was fixing to happen.
He wiped the blood off his chin as he rode his horse, Colt. He knew that what he needed more than a drink was to just go on home.
So, he rode onward out of the town, and down the road towards the Powell ranch. The sun beat down on him, burning his bare arms. The blood on his chin mixed with his sweat, making his lip burn. Blood and sweat soaked into his dusty shirt.
Everything he wore was always dusty: his cowboy hat, riding boots, leather chaps.
He gingerly felt his nose as he rode. It was crooked after all the fights he’d been in, but today had not added any fresh injuries to it.
Carson Powell had lived in Tombstone for all of his twenty-three years. He lived on his family’s ranch, just outside of town, with his father, his two brothers, and his three sisters.
Their mother had died giving birth to Cass, his youngest sister. Carson had been twelve at the time. After his wife’s death, John Powell had never remarried—he’d always told his children that Elaine had been the love of his life. Indeed, no one had ever suggested that he remarry.
Carson and his two brothers had worked beside their father, taking over the ranch when he’d gotten to the point where he couldn’t work any longer. The three Powell brothers had recently been able to expand the ranch, growing quite successful by breeding Criollo cattle.
By the time he’d untacked his horse, rubbed him down and turned him loose, Carson felt spent. He’d been up before the sun, getting work done. He trudged to the house, looking forward to a nice sit down in the cool quiet of the kitchen. He’d have some water, and then maybe a little whiskey. That should do him just fine.
When he opened the door, though, his three sisters were all sitting in the front parlor. He knew—he looked like he’d just been in a fight, and he was about to get it.
“Carson!” Rebecca said, standing up. Mary and Cass followed. “Have you been fighting again?” She tried to grab his chin, but he squirmed out of the way, stepping aside. He knew that he was disappointing her—he’d never been like this in his younger years.
“You have!” Cass declared. All three of them had their hands on their hips. He glanced behind them for his father. He didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean that his father was out of earshot.
“Why can’t you just walk away?” Mary asked. All of his sisters had the Powell strawberry blonde hair and green eyes.
“It wasn’t that simple,” Carson said—it never was. But it also wasn’t his fault. He needed to fight back. He couldn’t afford to look weak.
“It’s men,” Mary told the other two. “They just can’t leave it be.” They all nodded as one, as if this was the answer for everything. Their combined, withering looks of disapproval set Carson’s blood boiling.
“Can’t a man get a moment’s peace?” Carson grumbled angrily, finding himself at the center of a female mob of crinoline and disappointment. He wondered what it would be like had their mother lived—a larger mob, likely.
“You said you were going to stop,” Rebecca said.
“You said that the last time,” Mary added.
“And the time before that,” Cass had to include, rolling her eyes.
Carson huffed, and folded his arms over his chest. They were like a bunch of hens, always pecking at him, always chiding him for his behavior. He knew—no matter what he said, they weren’t going to listen. They were already talking, all at once.
“What
are we going to do with you?” Rebecca asked as she grabbed his chin. She was trying to get a good look at the cut on his lip. She made a tutting noise as she shook her head.
“Did he knock any teeth loose?” Mary asked.
“Doesn’t look it,” Rebecca murmured. Carson squirmed out of her iron grip. He tried to do the breathing and the counting—One, two, three, he thought. The worst part about this was that he was disappointed in himself—the one person he couldn’t get away from.
“ALL RIGHT,” he yelled, still worked up from the fight and the long, hot ride home. “I’M GOING OUT.” He stormed through the house, and out the back door, letting it slam shut behind him. Before he knew it, he’d made it out to the barn. It was cool and dark in there, and the cow and calf he was keeping an eye on were quiet. For a few moments, he stood, listening to their snuffling, shuffling noises. There was nowhere more calming than the barn.
He exhaled then grabbed a shovel. He began to muck out brood mare stalls. He fell to his work, letting the rhythm and effort take over.
He’d been fighting pretty often of late—in the past three years, he’d broken his nose, survived a grazing shot to the arm, and dislocated his shoulder. He knew that his sisters were tired of patching him up. He knew that every time the doctor’s errand boy came to the door with news, they expected him to deliver word of Carson’s demise.
Carson and his brothers had started the Powell gang three years before and, ever since, their days were filled with running the ranch and gang activities. It was necessary, he knew.
If they didn’t stick up for themselves, then no one would—after all, that no-good, lazy sheriff wouldn’t ever lift a finger to do a thing. Dandridge was good friends with whoever lined his pockets—that included the Redfords, and probably the Dooleys, as well.
Carson finished cleaning out the stalls, and laid down some fresh straw, before bringing in two mares close to foaling. Once he was done, he washed up in the basin out behind the house. Blood and dirt stained the water rust-colored.
Hair wet and dripping down his back, he snuck inside the house, making his way upstairs to his room, where he pulled on fresh clothing. Afterwards, he found the rest of the Powell gang in the kitchen. His two brothers, Chase and Connell, sat at the table with the three locals who made up the rest of the gang: Jack Young, Will Godfrey, and Harlan Stockton.
They were all drinking whiskey and playing cards, as they were wont to do.
“Hey,” Chase said, looking up from his hand with a wicked grin. “Heard from the girls that you got in another fight.” Chase had the same red hair as the other Powells.
“Yeah. I ran into Otis and Morgan Redford out in town,” Carson explained, pouring himself a shot of whiskey.
“Did you given ‘em a run for their money?” Connell asked, raising an eyebrow. He was the only one of the Powell clan with their mother’s dark hair and gray eyes.
“I did my best,” Carson said. The Redfords were the only other local gang. Hypothetically, they were all against the Dooleys, who came into town every few months, stealing cattle and horses. However, the Powells and the Redfords bickered often, fighting over who reigned supreme in Tombstone.
Jack Young gathered up the cards as they finished their game. He began to shuffle them. The cards were worn, overused. It was almost a miracle that the men could even see what was on them.
“Why don’t we go out?” Carson suggested, thinking of the crisp, new cards that Carter’s Gambling Hall always had. “Go back to the gambling hall.” He was also thinking of the nice, top shelf whiskey.
“All right,” Will said, popping up and out of his seat. “I’m in.” The others all got up, not saying anything, their actions speaking for them. They put their guns into their holsters, finished up their drinks.
The sun was finally beginning to dip behind the mountains as the Powell gang rode into town. Carson felt rejuvenated, wide awake—and fixing for a fight.
“I heard that Penny Lane is going to be on at the Bird Cage tonight,” Will announced as he adjusted his shirt collar. Will loved the ladies more than they loved him. He had a baby face, and could only speak to them when he had liquid courage flowing through his veins.
“Penny Lane, Penny Lane,” Carson sung. “My heart is all for Penny Lane.” He was teasing his friend, but he wouldn’t have minded having a girl of his own. He figured that he just hadn’t met her yet.
“Penny wants your money, young Will,” Jack said sagely. “She doesn’t want anything to do with your heart.” Jack was the one that the ladies loved. He had deep blue eyes, thick black hair, and a devil-may-care smile.
“A man can dream, can’t he?” Will muttered stubbornly. “There’s no woman more beautiful in all of Tombstone.”
“What about Miss Sadie?” Jack asked, his eyes wide and innocent, despite the fact that he knew the dangers of courting Mrs. Sadie Redford.
“Oh, no. She’s in love with Mr. Redford,” Carson said. “I wouldn’t mess with him unless I wanted to get myself a one-way trip to Boothill in the Black Maria.”
They rode along, joking, until they entered the streets of Tombstone. Now that the sun was lowering, the streets were crowded with people. Carson kept his eyes peeled, looking for any one of the Powell gang’s many enemies.
He saw no one, only Sherriff Dandridge, who was giving them all a dirty look. The Powells never gave him any money. They’d all agreed—the sheriff was already taking a paycheck from the town.
The gang hitched their horses in front of Carter’s Gambling Hall. The moment they set foot inside, the room went quiet. Jonas Carter, the proprietor, walked over to them.
“You’re holding your hand funny, Jonas,” Carson pointed out, noting that the hand in question was being held close to Jonas’s chest. He was cradling it—and it looked swollen, and purple-tinged.
“I thought we talked about this,” Jonas replied sternly. “You cheat and cause fights.”
“We’ll be good, we promise,” Jack said.
“Please Jonas,” Harlan begged with mock seriousness. “I promised my mother I wouldn’t go to the Bird Cage no more.” They all laughed. Harlan’s mother was one of the most fearsome women in all of Tombstone. She’d run her own farm, all by herself, after Harlan’s father had been killed in a fight twenty years before.
“We’ll behave ourselves,” Carson promised, looking Jonas in the eye. “Our money’s as good as that Nash’s over yonder.” He cut his eyes over in Nash’s direction. He was the town drunk, parked at the bar, as he always was. Jonas exhaled loudly. Carson knew one thing about Jonas—he couldn’t afford to turn people away. He’d married Lily Longmire about a year and some change before. Everyone knew that she was a woman of expensive tastes. He’d seen their house in town—it was really nice, all fitted up with fancy curtains and a nice white paint job.
Jonas glared at them fiercely, as if attempting to place the fear of God in them. “You can stay,” he said at last, pointing at them with his good hand. “But keep to yourselves, and play fair.”
“We promise,” Carson said, holding his hands up. Jonas nodded, but his face was dark. It was a bad day when you crossed Jonas Carter. After all, there was a reason Lily agreed to marry him, and it wasn’t only because of the money. Jonas was a scary man when angry. They’d never been in a fight before, but Carson felt like they were about equals.
“You’re a good man, Jonas!” Carson clapped him on the back as he passed. He heard Jonas mutter something. Carson let it drop—now that he was out, he felt good. The night could go anywhere from here. The Powell gang occupied its own table that was located toward the back of the hall, and started up a game of poker. Carson shuffled, enjoying the feel of the brand-new cards in his hands, which were rough from work.
Sully, Jonas’s bartender, brought them a round of drinks. Carson threw back his whiskey, pointing at his glass to order another. They all sat quietly, playing cards, ignoring everyone else. For a while, they played intently, ordering round after round of whi
skey. Carson lost track of how many he’d had, and time began to blur deliciously. He drummed his fingers on the table, without thinking.
