Summer Breeze

by Catherine Anderson

  In the beginning, Joseph hadn’t been sure if he could adjust to living alone. He’d spent nearly his whole life surrounded by family, a loving mother, an infuriating and spoiled little sister, and three brothers, one his elder, the other two younger than him by a couple of years. Before settling in here, he’d never come home of an evening to an empty house, let alone passed the night without hearing another human voice.

  It had been difficult at first, but with Buddy to keep him company, Joseph had grown used to the solitude after a time. When he hankered for conversation, he could always visit with his hired hands, Bart and Johnny, in the bunkhouse or ride over to his brother Ace’s ranch, only a short distance away. Joseph’s two younger brothers, David and Esa, still lived there with Ace and his wife, Caitlin, who always seemed pleased to see Joseph when he dropped in for a cup of coffee. Joseph tried to go as often as possible. His nephew, Little Ace, was fourteen months old now and growing like a weed. Since Joseph had no plans to marry and have a family of his own, he wanted to enjoy his brother’s children as much as possible.

  In his peripheral vision, Joseph caught movement and pushed wind-tossed strands of blond hair from his eyes to get a better look. A horse and rider were slowly approaching. Tossing down the cigarette and grinding it out under the heel of his boot, he pushed away from the fence post and unfastened the holster strap of his Colt .45. Not that he expected trouble. He’d just learned the hard way at a very young age that a smart man always made ready to defend himself when strangers approached.

  Sensing Joseph’s sudden wariness, Buddy bounded to his feet, sniffed the air, and let loose with a low growl.

  “A fine watchdog you are,” Joseph scolded.

  Concerned at the way the rider slumped forward in the saddle, Joseph struck off to meet the man halfway. When he’d walked about a hundred yards, he recognized him as being Darby McClintoch, the foreman at the Bar H. Joseph had first made the old fellow’s acquaintance when they worked together to mend a section of fence that ran between the two properties. Midway through that day, they had shared a patch of shade while they ate lunch. Since then, they’d run into each other only occasionally, a couple of times at the Golden Slipper on a Friday night, other times while out riding fence line or dogging a stray cow.

  Joseph had almost reached the oncoming horse when Darby suddenly pitched sideways and fell from the saddle, his right boot hooking dangerously in the stirrup as he hit the dirt. Fearful that the gelding might bolt if startled, Joseph motioned for Buddy to drop and stay. Then he cautiously continued forward, saying, “Whoa, boy, whoa.”

  The buckskin snorted and tossed his head but didn’t sidestep.

  “Good boy,” Joseph crooned as he covered the last few feet to grab the horse’s bridle. “Oh, yeah, you’re a steady old gent, aren’t you?”

  Giving the gelding a soothing pat, Joseph quickly wrapped the reins over the saddle horn with just enough tension to keep the horse from moving. Then he circled around to work Darby’s boot loose from the stirrup.

  “Darby?” Joseph’s first thought was of the old man’s heart. Darby was seventy if he was a day. “What’s wrong, old friend? You feelin’ poorly?” Dumb question. A wrangler by trade, Darby had spent most of his life on the back of a horse. For him to fall from the saddle, something had to be very wrong. “Can you talk to me?”

  “Back shot,” Darby gasped out as Joseph touched his shoulder. Dust had collected in the countless wrinkles of the old man’s face and dulled the nickel-plate shine of his thick silver hair. “Near about—my right kidney.”

  “Back shot?” The hair at the nape of Joseph’s neck tingled. He cast a quick look behind him to scan the horizon. When he was satisfied that no one had followed the old foreman, he rolled Darby partway over to have a look. “Oh, sweet Christ,” he whispered when he saw the foreman’s blood-soaked shirt. “Who did this to you, partner?”

  “Dunno,” Darby said weakly. “I was up—at the north end of the Bar H, lookin’ for a heifer—that’s due to calve.” His chest jerked, and a grimace drew the skin over his cheekbones taut. “Thought I heard her—bawlin’ up in the rocks. Rode that way—to have a look. Didn’t see no tracks. When I turned back toward—the crick—some bastard shot me.”

  When the older man met Joseph’s gaze, his green eyes glittered with pain. He made a loose fist on the front of Joseph’s shirt. “You gotta go to the Bar H,” he pushed out. “Miss Rachel—she’s there all alone.”

  For the moment, Joseph had far more pressing concerns. Darby had lost a lot of blood. If he didn’t get attention straightaway, he’d most likely die.

  “First things first,” Joseph replied. “You need patching up.”

  Darby shook his head. “No, you—don’t under—stand. I think it was the same fella that murdered—Miss Rachel’s folks. Now he’s back to—finish the job.”

  Everyone in the valley had heard stories about the Hollister massacre. It had happened almost five years ago, a few months before Joseph and his brothers had settled in the area. The Hollister family had gone for a picnic one sunny June day at the north end of their property and been slaughtered like toms at a turkey shoot. Only Rachel, the eldest child, had survived.

  “Ah, now,” Joseph soothed. “You probably just caught a stray bullet, Darby. Someone out hunting, maybe.”

  “No, you gotta—listen,” Darby insisted feebly. “Happened—in damned near the same spot. Too much to be—coincidence. He’ll go after Miss—Rachel next.”

  A chill danced up Joseph’s spine. Reason chased it away. The Hollister massacre had taken place way back in ’84. So far as Joseph knew, not a lick of trouble had occurred since. It made no sense that a killer would lie low for so long, then suddenly start shooting at people again.

  “No need for you to worry about Miss Rachel,” Joseph said as he stripped off his shirt. “I’ll ride over and make sure she’s safe.”

  Darby shook his grizzled head. “Someone’s got to—look after her ’round the clock. She’s—in danger. I feel it—in my bones.”

  Joseph’s bones were telling him that Darby’s situation was by far the more urgent. “I’ll look after her, Darby. No worries.”

  Darby’s face had gone grayish white, and his green eyes had taken on a vacant expression. “Do I got your—word on it?”

  “Of course you have my word on it.” Joseph folded his shirt, worked it under Darby’s back, and then used the sleeves to tie the makeshift bandage around the man’s chest. “That’s what neighbors are for, to help out in times of trouble.”

  Darby nodded and closed his eyes, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Taking care to jostle the foreman as little as possible, Joseph helped him back into the saddle. A travois would have provided a smoother ride up to the house, but Joseph didn’t have one and couldn’t spare the time it would take to make one.

  “You steady on?” he asked the older man. “Grab onto the horn if you can.”

  Darby curled palsied hands over the base of the saddletree. When Joseph was satisfied that the old man could hold his seat, he loosened the reins and led the gelding forward. The house looked to be a mile away, and Darby moaned every time the horse took a step. Finally, the old foreman muttered a curse and lost consciousness, slumping forward with his head lolling against the horse’s neck. Joseph made a fist over Darby’s belt to keep him from falling and kept walking.

  Once at the house, he made fast work of carrying the old man inside. After depositing his burden on the dark leather sofa, he hurried to the linen closet for rags to use as bandages. Until he could fetch the doctor, he needed to get the bleeding stopped, and the only way he knew to do that was to wrap the wound as tightly as possible.

  Darby, still gray faced and unconscious, didn’t stir as Joseph tended to him. When at last the bleeding had been staunched, Joseph quickly donned a fresh shirt, saddled Obie, his black stallion, and rode, hell-bent for leather, to fetch Doc Halloway.

  Twenty minutes later, Joseph brought Obie careening aroun
d the last curve of Wolverine Road into No Name’s town proper. Main Street, the community’s only thoroughfare, swarmed with people. Lying forward along his mount’s sweat-flecked neck, Joseph sped past the barber shop, nearly ran over a woman exiting the china shop, and brought Obie to a rearing halt in front of Doc’s place. Buddy, who’d run neck to neck with the horse the entire way, barked shrilly and danced circles around Joseph as he alighted.

  “Quiet!” Joseph scolded.

  Tongue lolling, eyes bright with excitement, Buddy stood up on his hind legs and pawed the air. Brushing past the dog, Joseph looped the reins over the hitching post and cleared the boardwalk in one leap.

  “Doc!” The door slapped the interior wall as Joseph spilled into the waiting room. “Doc? You here?”

  Joseph had seen the waiting area only once, when Patrick O’Shannessy had been under the physician’s care. A hanging shelf to the right held a clutter of thick, dusty medical books. Beneath it, four metal chairs with worn leather seats stood arm to arm along the chipped mopboard. Joseph veered toward the battered oak door that led to the examining rooms.

  “Doc!” he yelled, rapping with his fist. “You in there?”

  Joseph was about to burst through when the door swung open. Stooped with age, Doc Halloway peered up at Joseph through thick, askew lenses rimmed with gold. The strong smell of disinfectant surrounded him.

  “Why in tarnation are you hollering so loud? I’m not deaf, you know.”

  “Sorry, Doc. I’ve got an emergency.”

  “Hmph.” Doc pulled a white handkerchief from his pant pocket, gave it a shake, and wiped his mouth. His thinning, grizzled hair was all astir, giving Joseph cause to wonder if he’d caught the doctor napping.

  “What kind of emergency?” Doc cast a disapproving look at Buddy, who’d dropped to his haunches at Joseph’s heels. “I’m not a veterinarian.”

  As quickly as possible, Joseph related the details of Darby’s injury. “I wrapped the wound as tightly as I could to slow the bleeding, but he’s in a bad way.”

  Doc’s kindly blue eyes darkened with concern. “Darby McClintoch, you say?” He shook his head and scratched beside his bulbous nose. “Nice fellow, Darby, minds his own business and as loyal as they come. Who on earth would have reason to shoot him?”

  “That’s for the marshal to figure out.”

  “True enough, I guess.” Doc jerked up one red suspender strap as he shuffled around a padded examining table. He advanced on a set of drawers along the far wall, which were capped by a crowded countertop that looked remarkably dust free compared to the surfaces in the waiting room. “Did the slug go clear through?”

  “No, sir. Went in at an angle on his right flank. I’m hopeful that it missed his kidney and lung.”

  “Any pink foam on his lips?”

  “No, none that I saw.”

  “Coughing?”

  “No, sir. But he was in a lot of pain before he passed out.”

  “Could be the bullet busted a rib. Damn it.” Doc opened a black bag and began collecting items from the shelving over the counter, vials, bandages, and wicked-looking steel instruments. “Means I’ll have to dig for the slug. Makes my work a lot easier when the lead goes all the way through.” He tugged up the other suspender strap. “Ah, well, I was thinking just this morning that nothing exciting has happened around here for nigh onto a week. Man should be careful what he wishes for. This is the kind of excitement none of us needs.”

  Impatient to be going, Joseph shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “Is there anything I can do to help you get ready, Doc?”

  “You can hook my horse up to the buggy. He’s around back.”

  “It’ll be quicker if you ride double with me.”

  “Never ride astride. Bad case of lumbago.”

  “But Darby’s in a real bad way. Every minute counts.”

  “If you got the bleeding stopped and the slug hit nothing vital, he’ll hang on until we reach him. If not—” Doc sighed and rummaged through another collection of vials until he located one that held something blackish-red. “Well, suffice it to say I’m no miracle worker. Last time I walked on water was when I got drunk in Dodge City and pissed my pants.”

  Joseph was in no mood for jokes. “I was hoping—” He broke off, not entirely sure now what he’d been hoping. He only knew that arguing about Doc’s choice of transportation would waste precious time. “I’ll go hook up your buggy and bring it around front, then.”

  “Fine,” Doc muttered as he pawed through his bag. “Just fine. I’ll meet you on the boardwalk.”

  Confident that he could overtake Doc’s buggy in no time, Joseph loped up the street to the marshal’s office before leaving town. He found his brother, David, kicked back in his chair, his dusty calfskin boots crossed at the ankle and propped on the edge of his desk, his brown Stetson tipped forward over his eyes.

  Joseph slammed the door closed with a sharp report that shook the wall. With lazy nonchalance, David nudged up the brim of his hat to pin Joseph with an alert, sky blue gaze.

  “What are you doin’ here?” he asked. “I thought you’d given up Friday night gaming until calving seasons ends.”

  “You see any cards in my hand?” Joseph crossed the bare plank floor. A wanted poster lay faceup on the desk blotter, sporting the sketch of a bearded, craggy-faced stagecoach robber. “I’ve got a situation out at my place. Darby McClintoch has been shot in the back.”

  David sighed. “Well, that puts an end to my nap, I reckon.”

  He flexed his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck as he dropped his feet to the floor and sat forward on the chair. His starched blue shirt fit snugly over his well-muscled shoulders, crisp creases marking the fold of each sleeve clear to the cuff. The shine of his freshly shaven jaw rivaled that of the badge pinned to his left breast pocket.

  “How bad is the old fellow hurt?”

  “It’s bad,” Joseph replied. “Doc’s on his way out there now. I thought you might like to be there, just in case Darby comes around again. Maybe he can shed more light on what happened. Might be that he took a stray bullet. Some folks are running low on meat at this time of year, and a few men may be out hunting.”

  David slipped into his lined sheepskin jacket and then stepped over to lift his Henry from the rifle rack. “Did Darby tell you anything?”

  Joseph quickly related what the old foreman had said. “It doesn’t seem likely to me that the Hollister killer would wait five years before trying to finish what he started, but Darby seems convinced of it.”

  A thoughtful frown pleated David’s forehead. “Give me five minutes to saddle my horse. We can ride out there together.”

  “Make it three minutes,” Joseph countered. “I want to beat Doc there. He’ll be needing boiled water and an extra pair of hands during surgery.”

  Joseph just hoped old Darby wasn’t dead when they got there.

  Chapter Two

  Icy gusts of wind buffeted the two-story house. With every creak and groan of the weather-beaten structure, Rachel Hollister’s nerves leaped just a little. If she allowed her imagination to get the better of her, it was easy to believe that she’d heard a stealthy footstep or a floorboard giving under someone’s weight. To distract herself and hold the collywobbles at bay, she hummed “Oh! Susannah,” reminding herself between refrains that no one could enter her living area without first tearing away the barricade over the archway that had once opened into the dining room.

  Long, golden hair still slightly damp from her bath and curling in wild abandon around her face, she sat in her mother’s reed rocker near the stone fireplace, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders, the toes of her embroidered carpet slippers propped on the edge of the hearth. The hem of her muslin Mother Hubbard nightdress rode high on her shins, allowing the heat of the flames to warm her bare legs.

  Hissing softly on a marble-topped table beside her, an ornate metal parlor lamp with a hand-painted glass dome provided light for her to
crochet, one of her favorite pastimes when she didn’t have her nose in a book. She was presently working on an Irish lace collar, a delicate creation she planned to give away. Though she could no longer attend Sunday worship services, her elderly ranch foreman, Darby, sometimes did. According to him, Hannibal St. John, the new pastor at No Name’s only church, always welcomed donations for the poor. Since Rachel had little else to do, it made her feel useful to address that need in whatever way she could. Keeping her hands busy also saved her sanity.

  Over the winter, she had made countless pieces, little pretties to adorn tabletops and garments, along with several pairs of wool stockings for women and children. Indeed, her output had been so considerable that Darby had been teasing her of late about opening a shop and selling her work for a profit.

  Rachel frowned slightly, wishing that were possible. She routinely made butter and cheese, which Darby had no trouble selling at Gilpatrick’s general store, and the chickens brought in a little egg money as well, but those small infusions of cash weren’t nearly enough to offset the lost income of the Bar H. With her father and all the wranglers five years gone, Darby was hard-pressed to handle all the ranch work by himself. Out of necessity, he had cut back the cattle herd to only a few head, and the beef profits had diminished accordingly.