by Derek Catron
“I don’t think I want to understand.”
This amused Richard. “That’s probably for the best. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, right? Except you didn’t know what a bad boy Caleb had been, and I’m afraid that’s going to hurt you.”
“Let her go, Captain. She had nothing to do—” The rest of whatever Caleb intended to say was cut off when Richard put his boot to his throat. The sound of the man’s choking put a taste of bile in Annabelle’s throat.
“It’s too late to play hero, Caleb.” With a final kick, Richard stepped back and allowed the man to breathe. “Caleb wasn’t exactly a reluctant participant in this scheme, were you, Caleb?”
His breath coming in choking gasps, Caleb couldn’t speak.
“I won’t say it was Caleb’s idea. Caleb has never been what you would call a man of ideas. But he was plenty ready to quit the army and ride off a rich man.”
Watching Richard was like seeing another man dressed in her husband’s clothes. He spoke with her husband’s voice, resembled him in feature and manner, but it was a different man. He can’t be the man I married. Annabelle wanted to believe that, but as she studied him, she recalled the times his mask slipped. A sharp edge of temper. A cruel glint in his eye. A cutting remark with no remorse. All of them dismissed as aberrations, waved away to the stress of life. In truth, they had been glimpses into a black soul she refused to concede belonged to the man she’d wed.
“I don’t understand, Richard.”
He turned from Caleb to look on Annabelle. “He really hasn’t told you about the gold? I guess that’s one time he wasn’t lying.” Richard kicked Caleb again for emphasis. “He was supposed to bring the gold, but Caleb tried to be clever.” Another kick. Caleb had stopped reacting, and Annabelle wondered if he were unconscious or dead. “How do you forget to bring that much gold?”
The newspapers had been filled with stories of lost Confederate gold, as if some mishap of accounting had been responsible for Southern defeat. Annabelle had never believed any of the tales—until now. “You took gold from the army?”
His voice turned vicious. “The gold was for guns. The army was already beaten.”
The extent of her husband’s betrayal was horrible to contemplate, and Annabelle let her bitterness show. “You don’t know that.”
“I was there!” he screamed. She braced for a strike, but it never came. He leaned down, their faces only inches apart, a white-hot fury in his eyes. “The guns wouldn’t have made a difference. We lost the war when England decided to remain neutral. Oh, but there were plenty of Englishmen who were willing to sell guns to us, if you sneaked enough gold into Mexico to buy them. What good would that have done? Another year of killing? We had seen enough of that.”
Caleb roused himself. “I just did what you wanted.”
“Yes, and after we had it, you were awfully quick to agree to steal it from the others, and even quicker to betray me.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“I would have been, if I hadn’t convinced them I was trying to stop you.” Richard looked to Annabelle. “I’ve always had a gift for convincing people of what I want them to believe, wouldn’t you say, Annie?” Annabelle looked away.
“I can get you the gold,” Caleb said. “Just let her go.”
Richard kicked him again. “I was supposed to already have it.”
Caleb’s breath came in uneasy gasps. “I told you. They will trade the gold. For us.”
Another kick. Annabelle winced at the sound. “You think anyone would hand over even a pinch of dust for you?” Richard kneeled beside Annabelle. With the back of his hand, he stroked her cheek as a lover might. She shuddered, but her reaction only seemed to excite him. “My dear Annie is now the key. I had planned on you being my insurance that no one would follow us. Your parents will give up the gold for your pretty little ass, I should think.” He reached down and pinched her hard.
Annabelle hid her pain. “And then you’ll let us go?”
Richard’s smile was cold. “Yes, then I will let you go,” he said in a voice one would use with a small child. He’d always been able to make her feel stupid in a way no one else could. She had given up trying to understand why. Yet even after seeing his savagery unmasked, a part of her hoped to appeal to him.
“Don’t do this, Richard. You loved me once.”
He laughed. “Don’t be such a child, Annie.” He grabbed her jaw roughly in his hands. “And don’t look so hurt. Most men don’t love their wives. Everything had to be so perfect in your world, didn’t it? You had to be so perfect. Well, you aren’t perfect, are you?”
He placed his hand heavily against her abdomen, and Annabelle struggled to keep tears from flowing. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. She didn’t know what to say. After the miscarriage, she had blamed herself for his inattention. Now it was clear to her: Her husband had probably put no more thought into their nuptials than he would in bargaining for a horse.
She had been too young to see it at the time. In her naiveté she thought he must love her if he married her. Later, a part of her had come to believe all the books and poetry and women’s gossip about love were lies told to little girls so they would grow up obedient to their fathers and husbands, hoping vainly that they would be rewarded with the myth of love. Even with the lesson learned, she’d been quick to forget it with Josey. He could be so cold, no more capable of love than a wolf or other wild beast. And yet, when she was alone with Josey, there were moments of sweetness and gentleness that she had never seen with Richard.
Richard watched her. “I suppose you believe the soldier boy loves you.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come now.” He prodded her with a finger, nearly pushing her onto her back. “I saw you riding together. A husband can tell when another man has eyes for his wife. Has he had you yet?” His hand fell to her leg, his forefinger tracing the curve of her thigh. The fabric of Annabelle’s riding pants suddenly felt too thin. “Do you believe his love will last once his passion has been satisfied?”
Annabelle grew dizzy. Richard smiled at her, and she was more frightened than before. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out. But now that you know I am alive, I wonder: Would you be a bigamist? Would you bring God’s scorn upon the man you love?”
Still fighting off tears, Annabelle stoked her anger, hoping it would ward off despair. “Why do you care?”
“It amuses me to think of it. And amusements are so hard to come by here.” He smiled at the boy, still standing impassively at the tent flap. The boy didn’t look anything like Richard, even accounting for the difference in skin color, yet Annabelle wondered if he was the son she’d been unable to give Richard.
“I suppose the point will soon be moot. Harrison’s had his eye on you since Omaha. The man’s besotted. I suppose he’s weary of squaws and whores, though I tried to explain that one hole’s as good as another. He’ll understand once he’s had you, I suppose.”
Annabelle cringed at the thought.
“Now, now, dear. I’m not going to just give you to him. He’s going to have to earn that sweet meat.” He squeezed her thigh. “I told him he could have you only after he killed soldier boy. He’s been aching to do that almost as much as—” Richard’s hand moved roughly over her body, forcing her legs apart even as she squirmed from him “—well, you can imagine. If he’s smart, soldier boy will never see him coming. So you see, my sweet, you’ve got no cause to worry about bigamy, unless you decide to marry Harrison.”
He looked away, as if in deep thought. “Something tells me that after Harrison’s through with you, that won’t be an option.”
Richard rose and turned. Caleb was on his feet, too, having somehow managed to work free from his ropes while Richard talked. With hands clenched together like a club, he struck Richard across the back of the neck, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Caleb stepped forward, his boot drawn back to kick Richard when the boy sprang out
from his post by the tent flaps. Annabelle saw a flash of silver in the lamplight. Caleb, off-balance, tumbled back against the tent post with the boy on him. He landed hard with a grunt as a whoosh of air escaped his lungs. The boy stood, and Richard rose to join him, petting him on the head. Annabelle had to crane her neck to see Caleb, the wide handle of a Bowie knife lodged in his gut.
Richard leaned over Caleb, his voice almost tender as he reached for the knife. “You won’t be needing this,” he said. With a sharp twist of his wrist he pulled the knife free.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Annabelle knew she would soon be alone. She sat with Caleb’s head in her lap, stroking his hair, more for her own comfort than his at this point. She had not moved as she counted down the hours until morning, and her backside and legs had grown numb from the weight of his head and shoulders. Having Caleb there had provided some warmth as the ground grew cold beneath her, but the warmth had drained away from him along with everything else.
She had been so furious at Caleb’s betrayal, the idea she wished now for his survival seemed absurd. Yet she prayed, realizing her fear of being alone outweighed her anger at Caleb.
Any woman would have pitied him. Left alone together, she did what she could for him. Tearing away strips from the bottom of her shirt to use as bandages, she had tried to stop the bleeding. Wild-eyed, Caleb had thrashed so much at first he bled even worse.
“Stay calm, Caleb. We’ll get you a doctor soon.” She spoke in smooth, measured tones, as one might talk to a nervous horse.
Caleb saw through her empty promise. “It won’t matter. I’ve been gutted.”
A note of plaintive surprise in his voice broke Annabelle’s heart. She had him hold the bandages to the wound to staunch the blood and guided his head onto a small pillow she’d found. She sat down and slid her body under him, smoothed his hair with her fingers, like stroking a cat. The motion calmed him.
“I saw a man gut shot once. It took him hours to die. He begged us to kill him, but nobody would. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
He went on like that for what seemed hours. Annabelle tried to quiet him. Told him to save his strength, but speaking seemed to keep him from thinking of what happened. He told her about the gold, told her how he believed Richard was dead but couldn’t tell her what had happened. He even confessed how he plotted against her, hoping to pit Josey against Richard.
Even as Caleb confessed, it was Annabelle who was overcome with guilt—first, for wishing him dead because of what he had done. Later, for praying he would live, knowing his suffering would continue, just so she wouldn’t be alone. When he begged her forgiveness, she gave it without hesitation. When he asked her to kill him, she demurred.
“You can’t ask that of me. I’ve never killed anyone, and I surely wouldn’t know how.”
“You don’t have a knife?”
She told him no.
“What about a rock? Is there a rock here?” She hoped his delirium portended a quick end. Instead, he lapsed into an uneasy sleep. He had been that way for hours.
Annabelle resisted the urge to move, even as she started to lose feeling in her legs, afraid she might wake him and renew the conversation over his murder. As she stroked his hair, she noticed the small pillow beneath his head. Her hand stopped.
The pillow, so threadbare and dirty it had nearly turned gray, lay flat against her legs, with barely enough down to make a difference in his comfort. It might serve another purpose. She pushed the thought from her mind, resumed stroking his hair, thinking they might both be blessed if his sleep turned eternal . . .
Annabelle might have dozed herself. She woke to the warbling, flute-like call of a meadowlark. No light leaked into the tent. She sensed more than saw the gray cast of pre-dawn through the canvas. She no longer felt anything below her waist. She shifted beneath Caleb’s weight but stopped when he stirred. He woke with a smile. “I was dreaming of Laurie.”
“That’s good.” His smile confused her. She wanted to think it signaled a recovery but feared it was more like the gray light of a false dawn. He turned his head, exposing more of the pillow beneath him. “You should go back to her. I’ll wake you when Josey comes.”
“Do we have any water?”
A canteen lay by the front flap of the tent. “I’ll get you some.” Grateful for an excuse to move, she lifted his head just enough to slide out from under him. The pillow stuck to her legs, leaving his head to rest on the ground. She moved to replace it but changed her mind.
Annabelle nearly collapsed as she rose, her legs giving way beneath her. She crawled to the canteen. Sharp pricks attacked her thighs, like the bites of an army of ants. She shook the canteen, relieved at the sloshing sound inside.
She brought it to Caleb, raising his head so he could take a mouthful. Most of the water spilled over his chin, but he smiled and thanked her.
He was still in a mood for confessions.
“I wanted you. You had to know that. I thought you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen, and I thought I deserved you, now that I was going to be a rich man.” Annabelle took his hand and shushed him, afraid of what he might ask of her. “I never loved you, though, not the way I loved Laurie.”
Annabelle hadn’t known Laurie well but believed she would have liked her from the way Caleb spoke. Ridiculously, Annabelle felt a pang of jealousy, not for Caleb, but for the devotion he still held for his wife. She’d never known that kind of love.
“Laurie must have been very special.”
Caleb nodded. “Laurie made me want to be more than I was, and I don’t mean rich. That never mattered to her. I lost my way without her.”
He closed his eyes. His face had lost most of its color. His thick features had softened into serene repose. “Laurie made me a better man, and I loved her for it.”
Touched by his words, Annabelle stroked his hand, hoping he might imagine it was Laurie who stroked him, that he might rejoin his wife in sleep. His eyes opened. “That’s how Josey loves you.”
Annabelle stopped, wondering if she’d imagined him saying that. Tears that had clouded her vision as Caleb spoke of his wife rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away, recalling how cold Josey could be. “He doesn’t love me, not really.”
“He’s afraid to love you, is all.”
She dismissed Caleb’s words, wanting to shield herself from the hole growing inside her, like the wound slowly eating Caleb from within. Men liked to talk about the effects of a woman’s love while they pursued it. With Laurie only a memory, Caleb talked about his love more eloquently than she’d ever heard him speak of anything. In having a woman’s love, men treated the daily obligations and inconveniences that came with it like forgotten chores around the house.
“I suppose he’s afraid to be a better man,” she said.
She expected Caleb to contradict her, to take Josey’s side as a final act of contrition to the man he’d hated and betrayed. Instead, Caleb nodded slowly and closed his eyes. His hands fell away from where he’d been holding the cloth to his wound. He whispered something. Annabelle leaned in to hear him repeat it.
“A better man won’t survive what’s to come.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Long before anyone else awoke, Josey forced himself to eat a cold biscuit. His stomach roiled and burned with uncontained anger. Caleb will be dead before this sun sets.
Josey hadn’t slept much in days and not at all the previous night. No one had realized Annabelle and Caleb were gone until all the wagons crossed the river. He had been preoccupied. The chance that at any moment one might topple off the ferry left him frazzled and so short-tempered he had gotten into a shouting match with John Bozeman over how long it took. Dusk had settled in by the time Mr. Rutledge alerted him to the pair’s disappearance, too late to initiate an effective search.
Josey found it hard to believe Caleb would take Annabelle, but he thought of no other explanation for their disappearance. They had left Annabelle’s horse, and they hadn’t
taken much in the way of supplies, so they couldn’t be far. Josey’s best hope was to pick up their trail in the light of day. He’d spent the night tending a burning rage, the kind he thought he’d learned to keep tamped down. Even Lord Byron knew to keep his distance with Josey in such a mood.
Once the pale dawn grew bright enough to see, Josey kicked out the fire. He’d forced himself to be patient but couldn’t wait any longer. He rolled up the blankets that had gone largely unused and kneeled down to tie them into a roll. His rifle and pistols were on the ground beside his leather bandolier when he heard a stirring behind him.
“You’re up awful early. Any special plans for your last day?”
Recognizing the voice, Josey bit back a response. He turned only his head, slowly. Harrison stood watching him. The dandy gunman wore a fresh shirt for the occasion. His choice of words wasn’t lost on Josey.
“Just about to clean and load my guns. Want to help?”
Harrison was quick. He had his revolver drawn and pointed by the time Josey had his hand on the rifle. Josey gripped the rifle by the barrel and raised his other hand, palm open.
“Why so edgy, Harrison?” Slowly Josey moved his free hand to twist open the rifle’s magazine sleeve. “It’s not even loaded.”
“Let’s see it stays that way,” Harrison said, pointing his gun to Josey’s head. He moved close enough to kick away the bandolier with Josey’s spare cartridges.
Josey turned the magazine sleeve back in place. “Have it your way.”
“Yes, that’s what we’re going to do.” Harrison took another step and backhanded Josey with the barrel of his pistol.
The blow knocked Josey to his side and drew blood. He stayed down until his vision cleared, using the pain to focus his mind. At least this helps explain Annabelle’s disappearance. Josey wiped away the blood with the back of his hand.
“I guess I was wrong to blame Caleb. Where’s Annabelle?”