Seasons of Glory

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  A flash of sanity asked her just what made her think she’d be the one to live in the coming showdown. After all, she was only one small woman who wasn’t used to handling a gun, much less her fists, if it came to that. And yet here she was setting herself up against a trained and experienced killer. Glory’s steps slowed momentarily with that thought. Forced into it, she admitted to herself that if she had a lick of sense, she wouldn’t be trying to get away alone, but would stay put, just like Riley had ordered her to do.

  Glory’s eyes narrowed as she tried to picture, in her mind, this lurking, hired killer she intended to catch. Suddenly, a leering, broad and pockmarked face lurched into her consciousness. Glory bit down on her tongue to keep from crying out. Carter Brown. That big, obnoxious drifter that Riley’d hired the same day he had Abel Justice. She hadn’t liked the man from the first moment he’d laid a meaty, unwelcome hand on her that windy day. And she’d liked him even less out in the bunkhouse office for trying to provoke a fuss between her and Riley over who gave the orders here.

  Glory fumed at herself for not having realized before now that Carter Brown had to be the man behind all the troubles here, including the attack on her. Why in the world Riley had hired him on after firing him here, she still couldn’t say. But her only regret was that her indecision back then had cost that nice Abel Justice his job, too. Well, when this was over, she’d find a way to make it up to the God-fearing man that Skeeter’d all but eaten that day at the graves. All he’d been doing was paying his Christian respects. Glory felt even worse for having treated him no better than the old hound had.

  Her thoughts finally carried her to the huge and closed barn doors. Heck hurried around her to open one of them. With only a wave of her hand, Glory indicated for him to leave it open, once they were inside. The mingled, familiar scents of hay and leather and horse assailed her nostrils as she strode purposefully down the central passage to Daisy’s stall. Once outside the chestnut’s stall, Glory stopped short and turned to her escort.

  The man drew back to keep from running into her.

  “I’ll be right here with Daisy, Heck.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her pistol, pointing it as non-threateningly as possible at his chest. “As you can see, I’m armed, too. So, I’ll be fine here by myself. Go tell Sourdough I said to keep supper warm until the men get back. And tell him I don’t want any of his bellyaching about having to wait on them. He’s not to close the kitchen down until after the men eat. Take however long you need to make sure he understands I mean it, too. You got all that?”

  What could the hired hand say? Glory’s lips twitched around a triumphant grin. But Heck’s mouth tilted down into a frown. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll go tell him. I only hope he doesn’t knock me in the head with his frying pan.” With that, he turned away, but then he stopped and turned right back around to face her. “Don’t you go nowhere, you hear?”

  “I hear,” came Glory’s reply to the man’s actual question. Yes, she did hear. She heard just fine, thank you, and had all her life. “Now, go on and talk to Sourdough.”

  Thus urged, and with essentially no choice, Heck nodded—his grimace reflecting this was definitely against his better judgment—and turned away, heading back in the direction of the opened barn door. Watching him, as did the few curious horses whose heads poked out of their stalls, Glory repocketed her gun and waited where she was until he turned a corner and disappeared from view. As if the animals knew the next move was hers, they swung their big heads back to her and waited.

  She didn’t make them wait long. Lifting the gate latch on her mare’s stall, she stepped through and closed it behind herself. After greeting Daisy with a pat and some soothing noises, Glory hurriedly set about the task of bridling and saddling the fine-boned horse. But guilt kept her looking over her shoulder, expecting as she did to see Heck’s scowling face appear outside the stall at any moment. But luck was with her. She finished her task without interruption.

  Sighing out her relief, Glory clutched Daisy’s reins. She was as ready as she’d ever be. Tugging her reluctant mount, who seemed only to want her warm stall and oats, out into the central passage, Glory all but tripped over one of the biggest surprises of her life.

  Skeeter sat on his haunches in the aisle, his big redboned head cocked in curiosity and no small amount of censure at her.

  Glory nearly cried out in shock and happiness. At the last second, she clamped a hand over her mouth and stared wide-eyed down at Old Pete’s hound. Not letting go of Daisy’s reins, Glory quickly knelt and hugged the dog, who fondly nosed her and came to his feet, his tail wagging.

  “What are you doing in here?” Glory whispered, looking up and down the still-empty aisle before focusing again on the heavy-jowled dog. His tongue lolling, his intelligent eyes staring, he seemed to be asking her the same thing.

  “Don’t you look at me like that,” she fussed. “And what about you? You pick now for announcing you’re over your mourning and have decided to live? Well, I’m happy for you, but I have to go. You stay here.”

  With that command, she stood up and pointed down at the hay-strewn, dirt-packed floor. “Stay.” Skeeter obediently sat down but again cocked his head questioningly at her. Glory raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t worry about where I’m going. You just stay here.”

  Not sparing him another precious moment, Glory mounted Daisy and urged her into a walk. Looking back over her horse’s rump, Glory saw Skeeter sitting where she’d left him, a knowing expression on his face. Again, she shook her head. And that was the last she thought of him as she gained the outside of the barn, turned Daisy sharply to the right and dug her booted heels into the mare’s sides.

  The chestnut responded with a burst of speed that saw them pounding over the hard-packed ground of the service court and then out under the arched gateway of the fenced yard. Horse and rider all but flew past the two startled and quick-stepping hired hands who jumped out of the way. Posted at the gate, they called out to her, but Glory pretended she couldn’t hear them.

  She knew they’d raise an alarm among the remaining men, but it couldn’t be helped. She had to do this herself. She had to find the tracker—and Biddy and Louise before Riley did. If anything happened to Riley because of her, she just couldn’t live. She figured he probably felt the same way about her, but except for his mother being held captive with Biddy, this wasn’t his fight. It was hers. And hers alone.

  Glory fought the stinging wind in her eyes and scanned the surrounding hills and tallgrass as best she could. Glad she’d tied her hair back to keep it out of her way, she was nevertheless aware of the heavy braid as it whipped across first one shoulder and then the other as she sought her adversary out on the unforgiving landscape. She knew he could position himself on the downslope of a near hill, take aim, and shoot her—all without her ever seeing him.

  But she didn’t really think he would. After all, if he simply wanted her dead, and he really was Carter Brown, then he’d already passed up a hundred or more chances at a clean shot at her—today and in the past weeks. No, make no mistake, Glory figured, this tracker wanted a showdown with her.

  Thinking that, she reined her mare and wheeled the horse in a circle atop a hill. In a gritting whisper, she challenged, “Here I am, Carter Brown. You want me? Then you come and get me. But this time, I’m armed and ready for you. This time you won’t sneak up on me in the dark. Come on. Where are you?”

  Suddenly hearing herself, Glory reined Daisy and clutched reflexively at the saddle horn. Where had all this courage come from? This challenging? This daring a shootist to face her? Why, if she didn’t know better, she’d think she was Jacey. Wasn’t she dressed just like her? And armed just like her? Wasn’t her hair braided back like Jacey’s? Then Glory realized it wasn’t only Jacey’s spirit gripping her. It was Hannah’s, too—Hannah’s oldest-sister protectiveness and deeply ingrained sense of honor and duty to protect those she felt responsible for.

  Only then did Glory re
alize that tears streamed down her cheeks. She’d just been born into the family. This is what it meant to be a Lawless. Standing up for yourself, facing down the enemy on your own. Protecting your own people. Bearing the terrible weight of their lives. Putting your own life on the line for theirs.

  As if the oath she’d shared with her sisters, as if the mingling of their blood with hers had truly made them one, Glory wanted to cry out in a war whoop, wanted to challenge the sky, defy the earth, wanted to shout to Mama and Papa in heaven, and to Laura and Seth Parker, to tell them to look at her. And see what she’d become. Like Skeeter, who’d decided to heal and to live, here she—Glory Beatrice Parker Lawless—was ready to own up to the truth about herself, ready to begin living her life as her true self.

  But first, she had to live through the next few hours. Quickly swiping away her tears and blinking back others that threatened, Glory forced herself to calm down and see her surroundings. Not only to look around but to see. Realizing she probably had only moments before the guards at the gate and Heck were saddled and on her trail, Glory again wheeled Daisy in a tight circle.

  And this time was rewarded with the startling, gut-wrenching sight of a lone man standing atop a distant hill, facing her, and silhouetted against the blue expanse of the sky. Her heart tripping over itself, Glory hauled back on Daisy’s reins, bringing the obedient mare to a stiff-legged stand. With all her being centered on the man, Glory watched dry-eyed as he raised his arms heavenward, as if challenging: Here I am, come and get me.

  So her life had come down to this moment. She swallowed the sudden fear that clogged her throat. Focusing on her enemy, fighting the bitter sting of the wind, Glory frowned with the realization that the man was still too far away for her to identify him. All she knew was he hadn’t been there a moment ago. Had he then sprung up from the earth itself? As she watched, the man lowered his arms to his sides, stilled into a gunfighter’s stance. And waited.

  Able only to suck in a shallow breath through her pinched nostrils, so tight was her chest with anticipation, Glory pressed her lips together. Almost immediately, as if at some predetermined signal, she dug her heels into Daisy’s sides, leaning over her mare’s neck and urging her into an all-out gallop over the undulating hills, racing ever closer to the man. Ever closer to the fight of her life.

  Glory didn’t know what she expected the man to do as her mare’s pounding hooves covered the ground between them. Would he run? Would he go for his gun? Would he disappear over the side of the hill and lie in wait for her? Whatever he did, she’d have to be ready. But the nearer she rode, the more her sense of surprise, of wariness, grew. The man didn’t move at all. He stood his ground and waited, never even looking away from her. Strange.

  When she was almost upon him, but still too far away to see his shaded face clearly under his wide-brimmed hat, Glory was finally gripped by caution. Keeping her gaze riveted on the strange-acting man, she began reining Daisy to a walk. But never looking away from him, she kept on coming.

  Suddenly, the man pivoted to peer down the far slope of his hill, as if something out of Glory’s sight held his interest. Her breath caught. Please, God, don’t let it be Biddy or Mrs. Thorne. She’d no more than prayed it before the man twisted back to face her. Almost certain now that this was a trap, Glory felt in her pocket for her pistol. Facing an enemy was one thing. Being stupid about it was another.

  In the shallow dip between the hill she’d only just ridden over and the upward sweep of the next one the man stood on, Glory reined Daisy and dismounted. The man watched her as closely as she watched him. Then, he nodded at her and turned to make his way down the other side of his hill. Glory had a decision to make—to follow him, or not to follow him.

  Weighing each option and its consequences, and finally deciding—she’d come this far, hadn’t she?—Glory pulled her pistol out of her pocket. Feeling instantly comforted by its cold weight in her palm, she wrapped her finger around the trigger, dropped Daisy’s reins, and followed him on foot.

  Topping the hill, barely aware of the cold wind that blew, of the clouds that gathered, of the hushed silence of the prairie, Glory saw the man. And frowned, her mouth going dry. Up close, he wasn’t big at all, not like Carter Brown. Then who was this? Keeping his back to her, he squatted down on his haunches at the hill’s base. From what she could see, he appeared to be running his fingers through the loose soil at his feet.

  Cautious curiosity had Glory raking her gaze over this stranger. Slightly built for a man. Not too tall. Dressed soberly. And too quiet to be Carter Brown. Then who? She decided to put the question to the mysterious stranger. “Who are you?” she called out, shattering the day’s silence and startling two quail out of a nearby scrubby bush and up into the air. Their flapping wings emphasized her next words. “What do you want?”

  Putting his hands to his knees and levering himself up, the man stood and turned around. His greeting carried to her on the wind. “Afternoon, Miz Glory. Fancy meeting you out here. And all alone, too.”

  Glory gasped and stumbled back a step, nearly falling over loose gravel under her heels. “Abel Justice! You?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes narrowed to slits. The conniving grin on his thin lips gave him the appearance of a crow. He pointed a bony finger at her gun. “What you figuring on doing with that shooting iron? You afraid of me?”

  Glory’s grip tightened reflexively around the weapon, but she ignored his questions, preferring to ask one of her own. “What are you doing out here?”

  Under his sweat-brimmed felt hat, Abel Justice’s skinny cheeks lined with his leering grin. “Waitin’ for you. I knew you’d come.”

  His words hit her with the force of a blow. Her mind screamed for her to run away from this enemy, this tracker from Mexico that Jacey’d warned her about in her letter. She’d been wrong about Carter Brown. All this time it’d been Abel Justice. Scared beyond measure, almost beyond control, Glory blurted, “Where are Biddy and Mrs. Thorne?”

  The man’s grin broke into a smile that looked like pure evil to Glory. “They’re hid away for the time bein’. But whether or not they live … well, that’s up to you, Miz Glory.”

  Glory shifted her stance, willed her throat not to close with the spasm of fear that shot through her. Keep him talking, her mind screamed at her. “Who sent you?”

  “Señor Calderon, down in Mexico. I work for him.”

  Glory recognized the name from Jacey’s letter. Wishing she could dry her sweating palms on her skirt, but not daring to show this hired killer any sign of a fearful reaction on her part, Glory tightened her grip on her pistol and asked, “Did he send you to kill me?”

  Justice shook his head. “No, I’m just to deliver you to my boss. Now, what his intentions are … well, I cain’t rightly say. But you’d already know, if I hadn’t been shot that day we ambushed yer pa. And time’s been a-wastin’ while I holed up and healed. But now I’m more’n ready to get on the trail. See, I got me a pile of money riding on yer head. And I aim to collect it.” With that, Abel Justice advanced a step on her.

  “Not so fast,” Glory blurted. She raised her gun, pointing it at the man’s narrow chest. He stopped where he was. “Don’t move.” A bone-deep cancer of hatred narrowed Glory’s eyes. She wanted with all her being to empty her gun into this man’s skinny gut, to uphold her blood oath with her sisters. He’d just admitted his guilt in Mama’s and Papa’s deaths. With her heart thudding, her palms sweating, Glory all but snarled, “If it weren’t for you holding Biddy and Mrs. Thorne, you’d already be vulture bait, you … you bastard.”

  The tracker eyed her and then her gun. He spread his hands wide, purposely leaving himself open, and said, “If you shoot me, you’ll never find them two old ladies. Leastwise, not until after they’re froze to death. Or starved. Now, put that gun down. You and me’s got to get on the trail back to Mexico.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. Now take me to Biddy and Mrs. Thorne. Or prepare to die. Right no
w. Right here.”

  Abel Justice looked her up and down, as if assessing her seriousness. Then he shrugged. “All right, I’ll take you to ’em. Let’s go.”

  His cooperation was unexpected. And most likely a trap. Glory cut her gaze around their barren surroundings. “Where’s your horse?”

  He stabbed a thumb back over his shoulder. “Beyond that next rise there.” He then eyed her weapon. “Why don’t you put that away”—his eyes hardened—“before I’m forced to take it away from you?”

  Glory swallowed hard and blinked. “I wouldn’t try that, if I were you. You’d be dead before you took another step.”

  Unbelievably, Abel Justice took another step toward her. And chuckled. “See? I ain’t dead. We both know you ain’t goin’ to shoot me. Now why don’t you just lower that there gun and put it away? I said I’d take you to the womenfolk, and I will. But not with a gun at my back.”

  With her arm aching and her breath coming in shallow gulps, Glory challenged, “And then what—after you take me to them?”

  His answering leer stood the hairs up on Glory’s arms. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” he crooned in a threat-lowered voice.

  Glory gulped back her fear and frustration. She had no choice but to cooperate—not with Biddy’s and Mrs. Thorne’s lives hanging in the balance. So, trapped but not defeated, she lowered her gun and sought her pocket. “All right. We’ll do it your way.”

  When she glanced back up, it was to see Abel Justice, his hands clawed and reaching for her, almost upon her. A startled cry tore out of Glory. She had time only to open her mouth in shock as she stumbled backward and fumbled in her pocket for her gun. But too soon, too late, he clutched at her arms, his momentum taking them both to the unforgiving ground. As Glory fell to the hard-packed earth, she cried out again as she saw the man’s raised fist—in a time-slowed, molasses-thick moment—come arcing down toward her jaw.

  Abel Justice’s animal snarl, the feel of his surprisingly solid weight atop her, pressing her into the rocky ground, and his white-knuckled fist arcing down in a path aimed at her jaw were the last things Glory saw and felt before her world exploded into a burst of painful darkness.