Angel's Embrace

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “It’s partly my fault,” she replied tightly. “Coulda doused the fire inside with my dish water, but I was feelin’ mighty low about how things’ve—”

  She stared at him as they stooped to refill their buckets. “If it wasn’t you, then who?”

  “Looks like my twin brother, Wesley, has come to take his vengeance. I made the mistake of showin’ up at our old home place in Richmond, and then along came Eve with the baby—and then Mama—and we really set him off.”

  Billy hoisted his bucket, and then snatched the one Emma had filled, so they could run faster. “Seems I’m settin’ off a lot of folks lately, but dang! I never dreamed it’d come to this.”

  By the time they arrived with their buckets, Reuben and his wife, Sedalia, were hopping down from their wagon with Will Smedley, their hired hand, and Michael. The tall colored man grabbed a spade, as did Will, while Malloy and Sedalia trotted toward the river with more buckets.

  “Let’s form a relay and pass these along,” Mike suggested. “Emma, if you ladies will keep filling buckets, Billy and I can do the running.”

  It was the best plan, even though he secretly wondered if there was much left worth saving. A few grasshoppers had already shown up this week, probably hatched from eggs laid during last summer’s second plague of them, so if the crops burned, maybe those pests would have nothing to eat.

  But he shook those thoughts from his mind. Told himself not to count the hours and dollars he’d invested in labor and lumber here. Tried not to be angry with Emma for letting the fire spread for what seemed like a weak, selfish reason. He just hurried toward the flaming house with bucket after bucket of water from the river. Little was left except the main beams now, which resembled pillars of hellfire. Reuben and Will were gallantly digging a ditch around the place, their faces and arms glistening with sweat from the blaze’s intensity.

  “Shore wish it’d rain,” the big hand huffed. “If we ever needed us a miracle, it’d be now.”

  “Not a cloud in the sky, though,” Will returned. He stepped out of Billy’s path, swiping his damp hair from his eyes. He watched the water land and the steam that rose from it. “We’ve about got this licked, though. It won’t spread beyond this ditch.”

  It wasn’t a jubilant thought, but it turned Billy’s mind in a more positive direction. As he and Michael ran with more buckets, he had the sense that once this fire was put out, things between him and Emma would be finished once and for all. Though it hurt to lose his labor of love—all the time, money, and sweat Mike Malloy had invested, too—there would be no false hopes to mislead her now. No way but forward for both of them to go.

  About an hour later, the six of them sat on the moonlit riverbank to catch their breath. Will and Reuben each drank deeply from a bucket and then poured the rest over their heads. Michael and Billy shared a bucket, too, allowing the two collies to drink after they did.

  The poor dogs were winded and confused, still on edge as they looked at the wisps of smoke rising from the rubble and then trotted back to their mistress. As he cooled himself, Billy thought it was a shame how Emma stood apart from Sedalia. Scrawny but tough, like a prairie chicken, Reuben’s wife had survived her share of hardships and would have given the Clarks far more than her physical assistance on this awful night, if they’d accept it.

  But that had always been Emma’s way, hadn’t it? The Malloys’ cherished colored help had remained outside her sphere of acceptance—even though, over the years, they’d been nothing but nice to the blond tomboy he’d grown up with. He felt bad for her: what choice did Emma have left now, but to live in that smelly, dark house with a father who was as lost to her as her dead mother was?

  Wiping his face with his damp sleeve, Billy walked over. He put his arm loosely around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he whispered. “If you and your daddy need us to—”

  “Thanks for your help,” she interrupted coldly, “but what we need is none of your concern now. Please just go home. Leave us alone.”

  Malloy opened his mouth, and then shut it. With a heavy sigh, he turned to the others. “We couldn’t have stopped this fire without you, folks, and we thank you for all your help. Let’s go on back now. See if we can get some sleep.”

  Nodding, they moved tiredly toward the wagon. Billy kept step with Michael, lowering his voice. “I’m pretty sure Wesley set this fire,” he murmured. “And if he knew about this place being mine and Emma’s, he’ll be watchin’ the Triple M for the best time to strike there, too.”

  Michael’s eyes shone urgently in the moonlight. “You don’t think he’d go after Eve and the baby—”

  “From what I’ve seen, I can’t put anything past him.” Billy’s heart ached as these words lingered between them. “Folks in town would’ve filled him in on Eve’s whereabouts—maybe even seen Mama and Carlton come in on the train. He could’ve found out how much livestock and property you have, too. Those stables fulla horses will be a real temptation—a whole lotta ways to show me how much trouble he can scare up.”

  “And if he started on this end of the property, waiting for us men to rush over and douse this house—”

  “No tellin’ what he’s got in mind for the Triple M while we’re gone.”

  They both looked east, scanning the horizon for signs of fire.

  “Let’s go!” Malloy grunted, loping toward the wagon. “Billy, I know you’d rather ride hellbent for the ranch, but I’d feel a whole lot better if you stuck close to us. No sense giving your brother any more advantage than he already has.”

  Everything within Billy longed to gallop ahead, to spare his loved ones, who’d be sleeping by now, unaware there was a dangerous man lurking in the darkness. As he mounted, however, Billy sensed the wisdom of Malloy’s wishes: Wesley wanted him to suffer. So it made sense that his twin would await his return.

  As he steered Pete toward the rumbling wagon, he turned for a last look at Emma. Common sense—just good manners—told him he should at least offer her a ride back to the house.

  But she and the dogs were already gone. Only smoke and the dull glow of a few remaining embers marked the catastrophe he’d witnessed here tonight.

  Malloy hopped off the wagon at the old Monroe place and saddled up quickly. Will, Reuben and Sedalia waved them off, their movements slow with fatigue and the midsummer heat.

  “You’re sure Emma didn’t set that fire?” he asked as he and Billy loped toward the road.

  Billy cleared his throat, hoarse from all the smoke and shouting. “She admitted she coulda put it out sooner,” he rasped, “but she was accusin’ me of tossin’ a torch inside. That’s how I know Wesley’s behind it.”

  Malloy sighed with disgust. How was it Billy Bristol was drawing fire from nearly everyone he knew this summer? Hard enough to end an engagement gone wrong, but to have his own brother gunning for him. . . .

  Michael scanned the sky as they rode carefully along the dark road home.

  Lord, I thank you that I see no flames, he prayed, and I ask Your help and guidance fighting fires only our hearts can feel. Keep us safe, Lord. Protect the women and children who depend on us. Help us all to do the right thing at the right time.

  And hold Billy and his brother, Wes, in Your healing hand, he added sadly. Help us forgive him, Lord, for he knows not. . . .

  Michael inhaled the night air, careful not to assume too much by praying for the wrong thing. By all accounts, Wes Bristol knew exactly what he was doing—and how to fight with more than physical fire.

  Help us forgive him tonight, Lord, he added, because I’m betting things will be drastically different by tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Shortly after midnight, just as his wife and household finally got settled back in their beds, Malloy saw the first flames licking at the stable farthest away.

  “There he is,” he muttered, elbowing Billy, who dozed in the chair beside his on the back porch. “Must’ve hidden himself by the river after he came from Emma’s. Be
en there long enough that the livestock’s used to his scent and the dogs don’t suspect his presence.”

  With a whimper, as though they knew they’d missed something important, Snowy and Spot sat upright. They sniffed the air and then loped across the yard, their bushy tails held high. Carlton Harte rose like a wary wolf who’d stalked this prey before. On the other side of him, Asa shook himself awake.

  “Remember what’s most important, men,” Michael remarked as he gripped his Winchester. “We can build more barns and we can raise more horses—”

  “But we cain’t replace them folks a-sleepin’ upstairs,” Asa finished. “Lord a-mighty, I’s sorry it’s come to this. You’s already tuckered out from fightin’ that fire, and he durn well knows—”

  “‘The Lord is my strength and my shield,’” Malloy replied, gazing at each of them as they stepped from the porch into the moonlight. “‘A present help in time of trouble.’”

  “‘And yea, though I walks through the valley of the shadow of death,” the cook replied, “I will fear no evil. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comforts me.’”

  Billy let out a tired sigh, his hand on the pistol that stuck out of his waistband. It was the Colt revolver Malloy had given him several years ago, when he became the Triple M’s trainer. He’d practiced shooting tin cans with it behind the barn, in case he needed to defend himself while out among the horses, but so far he’d only had to use it on a few snakes.

  “‘If God be for us, who can be against us?’” he whispered, but his voice wavered. He knew too well who rose up against him in this darkest hour of the night.

  The fact that Mama was upstairs in Christine’s old room didn’t help matters one bit.

  Terrified whinnies rose from the stable now, along with the confused stomping of hooves. Spot and Snowy were barking insistently, circling the building. The door flew open and dozens of Morgans fled toward the river, sending the corral railings flying like toothpicks ahead of them. The dogs were on their heels, instinctively herding them away from danger.

  “At least those horses are out of harm’s way,” Harte remarked. He cocked his Sharps with an ominous finality before he swung onto the ladder they’d placed against the roof of the porch. “Remember what we talked about, far as who’s to cover what. And considering how many lives are at stake here, take careful aim—and shoot to kill. Miss him, and Wesley won’t give you a second chance.”

  Billy blinked away a wetness he could have blamed on the smoke he’d inhaled earlier. But he had to face the truth. He had to assume this cruel craziness wouldn’t end until either he or Wes was dead. How the squabble between them had escalated to this was beyond his—

  You turn it over to God and hope for the best, son.

  It was Judd Monroe’s steadfast voice in his head, and Michael Malloy’s hand squeezing his shoulder—and Mercy’s face in the window when something told him to look back at the house. With all these strong, God-fearing people on his side, how could he fail?

  You’ve got no options: it’s win or die.

  He couldn’t second-guess. And he couldn’t miss, if it came to that.

  “He’s comin’ around the barns,” Billy whispered, following the startled squeals from the hog pen. “Whippin’ the sows into a ruckus to cover himself. I’m bettin’ he’ll hide inside.”

  “We’ll split up now,” Malloy replied, nodding to his left. “And when the smoke’s cleared, I fully intend to see both of you on the other side.”

  Billy didn’t ask for Michael’s interpretation of that phrase. He didn’t much like it that Asa felt compelled to be in the thick of the fighting, either: if forced to choose between saving Asa and going after Wes, he’d make the wrong tactical choice—even if it was for the right reason.

  He swallowed hard, prepared himself to draw his brother from the shadows.

  “You might as well come on outta there, Wesley,” he called in the strongest voice he could muster. “We’ve got that barn and stable surrounded, so give it up! No need for any bloodshed between us, brother.”

  Manic laughter rang eerily in the rafters, drifting out through the loft vent. “If I fell for stupid lines like that, why I’d’ve been dead long ago, Beaner. Good thing you ain’t a gunfighter!”

  Billy watched Malloy slip behind the barn, a slender shadow skittering across its white, moonlit paint. Up ahead on his right, Asa crouched behind the watering trough in the corral, which was now empty and turned on its side as a shield. Through the stable’s open door, he saw flames devouring the hay and was grateful those Morgans had broken down the door.

  “This fight’s between you and me—though I don’t know what for,” he continued, praying the right words would come and praying Malloy would get behind Wes to flush him out, without getting shot himself. “So far, you’ve scared the livin’ daylights out of a defenseless woman—”

  “Defenseless, hell! She shot at me!”

  Billy fought a grin; that sounded like the tomboy Emma he’d known as a kid, except she’d thought she was firing at him. “She’s a female all the same, Wes. Why not pick on somebody your own size?”

  “’Cause she was your woman!” came the retort, followed by another laugh that sounded off-key. “But I hear tell you left her at the altar, Beaner! Now whose manners need some brushin’ up? Coward! Mama taught you better than that!”

  Billy inhaled deeply. He’d known his brother would bait him. His job now was to stay calm; to lure Wesley into plain view, and maybe get him to drop his gun. He suspected, by the sound of Wesley’s disjointed laughter, that he’d been drinking—and he didn’t know if the liquor was to his twin’s advantage or his own.

  “What’sa matter, Billy boy?” Wes taunted. “Mama ain’t here now, and Eve’s asleep, so you’ve got nobody’s skirts to hide behind?”

  “You’re the one who’s hidin’, Wesley! You’ve got a useless arm and a bum leg, compliments of your friends. So what’s your point?” he shot back.

  “I can still ruin you, Beaner! And I can make these do-gooder Malloys sorry they ever saw your weasely face!” he hollered, his voice more belligerent now. “I seen a couple purty little girls in the window, puttin’ on their nightgowns. Figure they might think it’s excitin’, to get kidnapped by a notorious outlaw!”

  Before Billy could snap, the whine of a gunshot made Wesley curse. But he sounded surprised rather than hurt, which meant Malloy had made his displeasure and presence known. The dogs began to bark as though they were cornering a skunk, but smart enough to stay away from it.

  Another shot was fired, probably by Carlton, as it loosened shingles on the barn’s roof.

  Then came a loud “HyAAAAAH!” and two more shots rang out. The cows, already bellowing, burst through the barn door then, stampeding across the barnyard in all directions, scared and bawling. The border collies rushed out behind them, still barking frantically.

  Billy ducked behind a tree to stay out of their way. This stampede was his twin’s idea: somehow, Wesley was mounted on his horse and had a sawed-off shotgun in his other hand. He stayed on the big buckskin horse as it came charging from the barn behind the frightened cattle. He looked like Satan himself, his smile a wicked grimace in the light of the full moon, which glinted off his gun barrel.

  He yanked his horse to a dramatic halt, letting the bawling cattle flee across the yard. Behind him, flames engulfed the straw in some of the mangers.

  “So you thought I’d never ride again, did ya?” Wes taunted. He gazed around the yard with exaggerated head movements, until he focused on Billy. “So there you are, you lily-livered kid! Hidin’ behind that tree—with a girl coverin’ ya, no less!”

  The bottom dropped out of Billy’s stomach. Was this a trick, or had one of the girls actually come outside? He couldn’t take any chances, so he pivoted.

  Solace was advancing across the yard, dressed in pants, with her hair tied back. She had a pistol aimed at Wes—had to hold it in both her hands to steady it, but Billy suddenly knew why those tin cans he
used for target practice sported more holes than he’d ever shot through them.

  “Solace! You get back out of—”

  “Solace, is it?” Wes fired back. “If you think for one minute you’re scarin’ me, little darlin’—”

  “I think you’re the picture of meanness, to be botherin’ Billy this way!” she blurted. “You’ve got no call to destroy our property! Nor to scare our animals, neither! And since you set my horse loose along with the others, you’d better know I’m not gonna stand for it!”

  Wes sat atop his buckskin, which stomped and skittered in agitation—perhaps because his rider kept him under a tight rein, and perhaps because the two dogs had come back to defend Solace. They dodged and nipped, crouching and snarling. The outlaw smirked down at the dark-haired tomboy, still gripping his shotgun.

  Billy held his breath: the weapon’s shorter barrel meant it could do more damage at short range. It would be just like Wes to scare the bejesus out of the girl standing before him or shoot the dogs for spite. And if he was drunk on top of being mean—

  “Well, if he’s any kind of a horse, he’ll come back to ya,” his twin taunted. “And seein’s how you’re a whole lot braver than my pip-squeak brother, why—I’ve half a mind to take ya with me! Even though you’re just pretendin’ you can shoot that pistol, you’d make me a—”

  “Don’t you even think about it!” Billy sprang from behind the tree, drawing his own gun. “Like I said, Wes, this fight’s between you and me.”

  “So let’s get to it, Billy boy! Nothin’ like a good fight to clear the air!” Wes spurred his horse forward, his maniacal laugh ringing around the yard along with the dogs’ protests. He covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye, while out of sheer instinct Billy dodged as he fired. He saw Solace squeeze her trigger, too. He lunged, hoping to roll her out of harm’s way.

  Wes’s horse reared up, its eyes flashing wide and white with pain as it screamed. Time seemed to stop, and Billy experienced every event as though it were in slow motion, even though things were happening way too fast.