The Heart's Charge

by Karen Witemeyer

  Lord, you are the Good Shepherd, the finder of lost sheep. Guide us today. Show us where—

  “Mr. Wallace!” A female voice jerked him out of his prayer and brought his head around. Althea Gordon rushed down the school steps, waving her arm. “Mr. Wallace, wait. Please. I have news.”

  Mark reined Cooper in and hid his annoyance behind a manufactured smile, determined not to let her delay them more than a moment or two. He reminded himself that she was an ally in this fight. One who might have information to aid their search. Yet as he watched her weave between a pair of parked wagons, all he wanted to do was kick his horse into a gallop and get on to Honey Creek.

  The teacher puffed slightly as she reached them. “I saw you from the window of my classroom and knew I had to catch you. I’ve been meaning to come by the foundling home, but I just couldn’t seem to find the time.”

  Which meant the news probably wasn’t too vital. Mark’s annoyance level rose another notch, though he took pains not to let it show.

  He tipped his hat. “Good morning, Miss Gordon. What news do you have?”

  She glanced around, then lowered her voice so it wouldn’t carry. “I’ve been watching for strange men, just as you instructed.” She moved closer to him, craning her neck in order to meet his eyes. “I spotted one a couple of days ago. Loitering outside the schoolhouse, watching the children leave.”

  A gentleman would dismount and not force a crick into her neck, but Mark couldn’t spare the time for gentlemanly manners this morning.

  “What did he look like?”

  Her face scrunched slightly, and her gaze moved upward as if she was searching her memory for details. “He wore a red shirt and tan trousers. Brown boots. A gun belt. He was chewing on a piece of straw.”

  Great details, but none of them helpful. If she’d just seen the man an hour ago, his clothing might be important. But two to three days after the fact? Pointless.

  “Tall or short? Black, white, Mexican? What kind of hat did he wear?” A man might change his clothes, but most only wore one hat.

  Her eyes widened. “I-I’m not sure. Nothing really struck me as unusual about him, so he must’ve been about average height. White, I think, though his skin was darker. Maybe tanned from the sun, or he might have been a vaquero. I’m not certain. His hat was brown, I think. Or maybe black. Definitely a dark color.”

  A dark-colored hat and a nonspecific skin tone. She could be describing eighty percent of the men in Llano County. “I don’t suppose you recognized him or caught a name?” Mark asked, a dash of exasperation creeping into his tone.

  Miss Gordon’s face crumpled as she shook her head. “No. I thought it best not to approach him in case he was dangerous, so I pretended as if I hadn’t noticed him. Should I have spoken to him?”

  “No. You did the right thing.”

  A touch of a smile returned to her face. “Oh, good. I so want to help. I can’t stand the thought of children being taken. Unless your investigation has determined that this was, in fact, a misunderstanding?”

  She looked so hopeful that he hated to disappoint her, but with children in her care, she needed to be on alert.

  “Unfortunately, it’s the exact opposite. We have confirmed at least one abduction and suspect several others. We’ve got a lead on a fellow from the Honey Creek area who might be involved.”

  “Honey Creek? Maybe Peggy knows something about him. Do you have a name? She’s supposed to be in later today. I can ask her about him.”

  “Miguel Ortega.”

  She drew back and blinked, a bit nonplussed. “Ortega, you say? That name sounds vaguely familiar. I’ll ask Peggy about him after school lets out. Will you be at the foundling home this afternoon? I assume that is where you’re headed now.”

  Mark shook his head. “No. We’re on to Honey Creek.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better for me to talk to Peggy first? It could narrow your search. Save you some time.” Miss Gordon nibbled on her lower lip.

  “If we don’t run him to ground today, I’ll call on you tomorrow,” Mark promised. “But we need to chase down this lead while it’s hot. Those boys have been gone long enough.”

  Miss Gordon nodded. “You’re right, of course. I’ve prayed this was all some kind of horrible misunderstanding. I didn’t want to think it possible for someone to be stealing Kingsland children. The very idea makes me ill. If you have proof of this villainy, you must certainly search them out. At once.” She backed away from him. “I’ll hold you up no longer, Mr. Wallace. Godspeed.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” And with a tip of his hat, Mark nudged Cooper into a trot, more than ready to put the town behind him.

  Jonah kept pace with him. “You think this other teacher might know something?”

  Mark shrugged. “She’s lives in the area, so it’s possible, but I doubt Ortega is the type to get chummy with the neighbors.”

  Jonah retreated into thoughtful silence until they reached the edge of town. “Hold up,” he said just as Mark was fixing to nudge Cooper into a canter.

  Jonah steered Augustus to their right, toward the back corner of the mill, the building on Cedar Creek that marked the western border of Kingsland proper. “Come on out, Rawley,” he called.

  Mark hadn’t seen any sign of the boy, but Jonah could spot a flea in a gravel pit, so Mark reined in and waited for the boy to appear.

  Sure enough, Rawley stepped out from behind the mill, his face set in its usual defiant lines. “Ridin’ off without updatin’ me and the boys?” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared up at the two of them.

  Jonah didn’t miss a beat. “Trailin’ us from the shadows instead of checkin’ in at the house?”

  Rawley shrugged. “Didn’t have nuthin’ to report.” He jerked his chin in Mark’s direction and smirked. “Heard you almost got flattened by the 6:50 yesterday, though.”

  “Yeah, well, dangling from a bridge pier without a speeding train on the tracks wasn’t enough of a challenge for me.” As much as Mark loved bantering with the hardheaded kid, this was not the time. “We got a lead on a man who might be involved in the kidnappings,” he said. “Ever heard of a Miguel Ortega?”

  All amusement dropped from Rawley’s face. “That the fella who took Wart?”

  Mark nodded. “We think so. We’re heading out to Honey Creek now to see if we can run him to ground.”

  “I’ll send the boys out to ask around town, see if anyone knows who he hangs around with. Try to find you another name.”

  “Good plan. Just be careful.” The closer they came to figuring out who the players were in these abductions, the less predictable those players would become. And unpredictable meant dangerous.

  “You too,” Rawley said with a small jerk of his chin. “And don’t worry about Harmony House. I’ll pop over from time to time to keep an eye on things while you’re away.”

  Mark dipped his chin. “I appreciate that.” Not that he thought it was necessary. But if Rawley tethered himself—even loosely—to the foundling home, it would limit the amount of trouble he could get himself into. “Miss Katherine and Miss Eliza will be glad to see you.”

  “Oh, they won’t see me,” the rapscallion said, right before he waved and disappeared behind the mill.

  Mark chuckled and shook his head. “That kid’s either going to be a master criminal or the best lawman this state has ever seen.”

  Jonah cracked a smile. “My money’s on bounty hunter.”

  “Yep. I could picture that.” Mark shifted in the saddle and touched his heels to Cooper’s flanks. “Or maybe a Pinkerton.”

  Cooper responded and charged forward, leaving the conversation in the dust, as Mark and Jonah finally got out of Kingsland.

  When they reached the first turn off the main road, something must have caught Jonah’s attention, for he reined Augustus to a trot. Mark followed his lead, raising a brow in silent question.

  “Rider comin’. Fast.”

  Mark glanced behind the
m. Listened. Pounding hoofbeats rumbled low, the sound growing louder, more distinct. His hand moved to his revolver as a precaution, but when the approaching rider appeared, he relaxed his stance. He recognized that pale gray hat.

  “Looks like someone finally decided to leave the office.” Mark drew Cooper to a walk, turning him around to face their company. “Deputy Bronson,” he called, lifting his hand in a wave. “You looking for us?”

  The man and his horse both looked winded as the deputy reined in his mount. “Wallace.” He nodded toward Jonah but didn’t actually greet him, a fact that grated on Mark’s nerves. “Miss Gordon came to see me. Said something about you questioning folks out here about Miguel Ortega. She, ah, encouraged me to join you.”

  Shamed him into it, more likely.

  “She was concerned that the folks around here might not be willing to answer the questions of a pair of outsiders. Thought a lawman might yield better results.”

  Mark shared a look with Jonah. His partner’s stoic expression gave little away, but the slight tightening around his mouth made it clear that he was unenthused by the prospect of company. Mark concurred. However, he couldn’t argue with the fact that locals were more likely to open up to a man with a badge.

  “I’m glad you’re finally showing some interest in this case,” Mark said wryly.

  The deputy’s gaze narrowed. “You sayin’ I’ve been derelict in my duty? I poked around in Honey Creek last week, just like Sheriff Porter asked. Found no evidence of increased outlaw activity. No reports of missing kids. What else did you expect me to do?”

  Mark expected him to show a little more initiative. Ask more questions. Dig deeper. Though, to be fair, if Jonah hadn’t been on hand when the snatchers attempted to take Rawley, the Horsemen probably wouldn’t have much to go on at this point either. They’d been in the right place at the right time to gain valuable insight as well as a group of insider allies. Bronson hadn’t had that advantage.

  “You’re right,” Mark said. “You’ve done what was expected. I shouldn’t have insinuated otherwise.” Bronson looked slightly mollified at the apology. “And we appreciate your escort this morning. It will save us time to have someone along who knows the area.”

  Bronson wasted no time moving his mount to the front of the group. “Best if you let me do the talkin’.”

  “We’ll let you take the lead,” Mark hedged. He had little confidence in the deputy’s interviewing skill. If he and Jonah had questions to ask, they’d ask them.

  For the next four hours, Deputy Bronson led them up and down Honey Creek, knocking on every homesteader’s door they came to. Unfortunately, they turned up nothing that pointed them toward Miguel Ortega.

  When they stopped to water their horses, Jonah drew Mark aside, out of the deputy’s earshot.

  “We need to go farther west,” Jonah said in a low voice as he lifted his canteen to his mouth and took a drink. He tossed a quick glance Bronson’s way, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Closer to Fern’s cabin.”

  Mark patted Cooper’s neck. Dust billowed out from the horse’s light gray coat. “I agree. The settlers around here are too civilized. We need to find the rougher crowd. Men more of Ortega’s ilk.”

  “Trouble is, men of that sort ain’t too keen on bein’ found.”

  Mark grinned. “So we find us some high ground and let you scout them out.”

  “I don’t think the deputy there will be too keen on that plan,” Jonah said as he turned in a slow circle, eyeing the landscape for possibilities. “Fella seems determined to avoid outlaw types. We’ve seen nothin’ but respectable folks all mornin’.” Something to the south caught his eye. “Highest ground is there.” He nodded toward Packsaddle Mountain.

  It was more of a large hill than a mountain, but it was the nearest elevation available. The dip in the middle mimicked the dip in a saddle, giving the local landmark its name. Traveling there would take them away from Honey Creek and in the opposite direction of Fern’s cabin, which lay northwest toward Llano, but it offered the best visibility. The day was already more than half gone. If they were going to change tactics, they needed to do it now.

  “Bronson.” Mark waved the deputy over. “Jonah and I are going to head south, search out a rougher crowd.”

  “Ain’t nothing south o’ here except open country. You won’t find anything that way. Best if we keep on to the north. There’s a family a couple miles down the road. They got kids. They might know something.”

  “Good thought. Why don’t we split up to cover more ground?” Mark suggested. “You check in with any other families you can think of in the area, and we’ll hunt down whatever outlaws we can find.”

  Bronson shook his head. “Bad idea. Even if you did manage to find an outlaw den, I can’t have you go stirrin’ things up. I’m responsible for the safety of the folks back in Kingsland. The outlaws don’t cause us no trouble so long as we leave them alone. That might change if you two start pokin’ around.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Mark assured him even as he stuck his foot in the stirrup and mounted Cooper. They weren’t asking for permission. Or company. A fact that seemed to register on the deputy’s face when his scowl darkened.

  Jonah mounted Augustus, and he and Mark set off to the south, leaving Deputy Bronson stewing at the creek.

  After a quarter hour, they left the main road and followed a thin trail Jonah had spotted that led up one of the steeper sections of Packsaddle Mountain. The incline forced them to a slow pace, but the horses proved hardy and marched on without growing winded. After about twenty minutes, they came to a fork in the trail and reined in their mounts.

  “Which way, do you think?” Mark asked.

  The trail to the left looked overgrown, while the trail to the right sported flattened grass and well-worn dirt.

  Jonah twisted in his saddle to scout the Honey Creek area below them, then glanced back at the mountain, examining each path. “Left,” he finally decided. “Trail ain’t as pretty, but it’ll offer the better view.”

  Mark nodded and turned Cooper to the left. The two horses continued picking their way up the side of the mountain. The terrain grew steeper, with more rocks and less grass the higher they climbed. Mark shifted his weight forward in the saddle. Up ahead, the path widened enough for two horses to stand side by side. Mark signaled Jonah to come abreast of him, then moved to the inside of the path.

  “This a good enough lookout point?”

  Jonah scanned the valley below. “Should be. Aren’t too many trees in this area to block rooflines or cook-fire smoke.” He pointed to the landscape. “We already covered that eastern section, so I can ignore that. I see a few dots to the west that could be buildings.” His hand shifted that direction, but Mark failed to see anything distinctive.

  “I’ll get the field glasses.” As Mark turned and reached for his right saddlebag, a tiny shower of gravel rolled down the side of the mountain next to his leg.

  He jerked his gaze upward, the brim of his hat tipping back just enough for him to catch a glimpse of a black horse with white, spotted hindquarters uphill from where a black-clad arm extended a rifle barrel over the top of a large rock thirty yards above them.

  “Gun!”

  His warning came too late. The first shot struck Jonah in the back and sent him plummeting from the saddle and over the side of the mountain.

  “No!” Mark drew his pistol and fired overhead as he leapt off Cooper and plastered himself between his horse and the side of the mountain. His military training demanded he find cover. His heart demanded he find Jonah.

  But he couldn’t go after his friend until he dealt with the threat from above.

  Flopping over to press his belly against the side of the mountain, he fired in the direction of the rock he’d seen the shooter sheltering behind. After exchanging a few shots each, the return fire seemed to switch direction, coming more from the right than the left.

  A second shooter.

  He was pinned
down. Outgunned. No cover, and nowhere to run. His only chance was to surprise his attackers with the unexpected. To follow Jonah over the side of the mountain. Probable death was better than a sure thing. And if he survived, he’d be out of the gunmen’s range and back with his partner.

  The gunshots echoed closer. One grazed Cooper. The horse reared.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Mark lunged in front of the horses. He shot left, then right, his last two bullets buying him precious seconds as he dove toward the ledge.

  A gun cracked. His hat flew from his head. Pain ripped through his skull. He crashed to the ground inches from the ledge. His vision went black, and as consciousness departed, his last thought was of Kate.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  Unable to stop his momentum, Jonah toppled end over end down the steep slope of Packsaddle Mountain. His head slammed the ground repeatedly as he rolled. Ribs cracked against rocks. Legs tangled in thick vegetation, tearing at his joints but not slowing his descent. Desperate to halt the fall, Jonah fought against the self-preservation instinct to curl in on himself and forced his knees away from his belly.

  The more he unfolded, the more the mountain tore at his limbs. Gritting against the pain, he twisted with a jerk and sprawled onto his belly. Dirt filled his mouth. Prickly brush scraped his torso, pulling his shirt up to his armpits and exposing the tender skin beneath. Broken twigs jabbed at his chest and his belly, but instead of paying attention to the torture they wrought, he used it as a warning mechanism to alert him of brush that might be large enough to grasp. Thankful he’d worn his riding gloves, he grabbed wildly at anything within reach. Gradually, he slowed. And when his midsection bumped over a juniper bush big enough to punch a fist-sized jab into his stomach, he jerked his head up, laced his fingers, and lassoed the shrub with his arms.

  He jerked to a stop. Finally.

  He lay still for several minutes. Panting. Getting his bearings and thanking God he was alive. Though the first time he tried to move, that blessing seemed more like a curse. Everything throbbed. Except for the places that shot stabbing pain into him. Like his right shoulder. And left hip. And his head whenever he moved it. So he stopped trying. Just closed his eyes, lay still, and took inventory. A challenge when it felt like someone had tied him up, hung him from a meat hook, and turned a pair of bare-knuckle brawlers loose to tenderize him from both sides.