by Pam Hillman
He struggled to keep his gun steady as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Twenty-five feet.
The riders turned and followed the fence as it marched over the next hill and veered away from the canyon. Red’s pounding heart slowed to a crawl as he watched them ride out of sight, saving their own lives and his sanity. He closed his eyes as relief washed over him.
Giff cursed.
Red glared at him. “Keep watch. I’m going to check on the cattle.”
He walked away on unsteady legs, horrified at what he’d almost done. God wouldn’t answer any prayer of his, but if He’d have mercy, Red prayed those brands had healed so they could get out of here before the choices in his past forced him to kill somebody.
“Miss Mariah!” Jim ran full tilt down the lane toward the porch, his legs and arms pumping as if a rabid coyote chased him. Mariah put her mending to the side and stood, moving to the edge of the porch.
“Who is it?” Her grandmother shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun.
“It’s Jim.” As he neared, his tear-streaked face came into view. A prickle of fear stabbed at her. “Oh, mercy, something’s happened.”
She picked up her skirts and ran to meet him. He fell into her arms, sobbing.
“Jim. Jimmy?” She held him at arm’s length, her gaze raking him from head to toe. No blood. Arms and legs intact. “What’s wrong?”
He took in great gulping breaths of air.
She knelt in the dirt and wiped his face with her apron. “What’s happened? Is it your ma? Becky? What is it, sweetheart?”
Fresh tears filled his red-rimmed eyes as he flung himself at her again and wrapped his thin arms around her neck. “It’s Becky! Pa ran over Becky with a wagon—”
Fear pierced her heart. “Oh, Lord, help us. Where are they, Jim?”
“At Doc Sorenson’s place, in town.” He clung to her, his hoarse words muffled against her. “I don’t want her to die, Miss Mariah. She can’t die.”
Mariah hugged him close. “Hush, Jim. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
She rocked him back and forth in the dirt, praying that it would be all right.
Slade saw Mariah and Jim huddled together the moment he and Buck topped the rise behind the barn. His heart slammed against his rib cage, and he kicked his mount into a hard gallop.
He slid off his horse before the animal came to a complete stop.
Jim flew at him, and Slade grabbed the boy. Jim cried so hard, Slade couldn’t make out the hiccuping words tumbling out of him. He glanced at Mariah. She stood and swiped at the tears on her cheeks.
“It’s Becky.” Her chin trembled. “Their pa ran over her with a wagon.”
Slade hugged Jim closer, searching Mariah’s face. “Is she—?”
“They don’t know yet. She’s with the doctor.”
Slade held Jim away from him, hunkering down to eye level. “I want you to stay here with Buck, okay? I’ll go into town and see how Becky is. Promise me you’ll stay here?”
“Don’t let her die, Mr. Slade. Please don’t let her die.” Tears cascaded down his cheeks.
Slade clutched the frantic child to his chest once more, fighting tears of his own. “I won’t, Jimmy. I won’t.”
He handed Jim over to Buck.
Mariah touched his arm. “I’m going with you.”
“All right.” He took in her determined, tearstained face. “Take Buck’s horse.”
They rode hard and fast and arrived at Doc Sorenson’s to find Elizabeth Denton hysterical and James Denton staring at the blood on his hands. Doc Sorenson immediately pulled Mariah into the back room and shut the door.
The moans finally subsided late into the night, but Slade didn’t know which was worse: hearing Becky alive and in pain or not hearing any sound from beyond the closed door of Doc Sorenson’s back room and fearing the worst. Mariah emerged several times to heat water or collect clean bandages, linens, whatever the doctor needed, before disappearing into the back room again. Her pale face and bloodless lips told him it was bad.
He forced himself to lean against the wall, out of the way but close by in case the doc needed him.
A lone lantern on the table cast an eerie glow around the kitchen. Elizabeth Denton slumped with her head pillowed in her arms on the hardwood table. She’d finally cried herself to sleep.
James Denton sat on a straight-back chair in the corner, his head cradled in his hands. His own moans of despair had echoed around the room every time the sound of Becky’s pain drifted through the door.
Slade couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for Jim’s pa. Instead, he wanted to give the man a good beating. They’d finally pieced together why Denton had been driving a wagon in the first place. He’d scraped together a few dollars doing odd jobs around town and had spent it all at the local saloon. The saloonkeeper had kicked him out as soon as he ran out of money, and he’d taken off in the first wagon he found tied up at the mercantile.
The low murmur of Doc Sorenson’s voice reached them from beyond the closed door. A whimper of pain followed. Becky’s whimpers brought back painful memories of his own childhood, of his sisters’ cries after their pa had taken his anger out on all of them. Unable to stand it anymore, he bolted for the front porch.
Outside, he took huge gulps of the fresh night air, trying to understand why God allowed this to happen. That little girl shouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of her father’s actions. Three or four years old at the most, she’d never done anything wrong.
He gripped the porch railing.
The door opened, and James Denton lurched outside and down the porch steps. But this time grief, not whiskey, made his steps haphazard. Too weary to move, Slade stayed slumped against the porch.
Denton moved out into the yard and raked both hands through his hair. He stood for a moment with his head bowed before raising his face to the darkened sky. A shaft of moonlight played across his bearded jaw, and the wetness of tears glittered on his cheeks.
“Oh, God,” he rasped, “I’m sorry. Lord, You tried to tell me. You warned me over and over to stop drinkin’. Lord, I’m tired of runnin’. Tired of drinkin’. Tired of seeing Elizabeth working so hard to make ends meet.”
His hoarse voice thickened with emotion until Slade could barely make out his words.
“Please, Lord. Just make Becky well. I’ll do whatever You want. I’ll quit drinkin’, Lord. I’ll go to church. I’ll do anything if You’ll heal my baby. I’m so sorry, Lord. Please forgive me.”
Sobbing, Denton slumped to his knees and bowed his forehead to the ground, begging God to spare his daughter’s life—the life he’d almost snuffed out in his drunken stupor.
Slade turned away and ran a weary hand over his own face. He stared out into the night, a curtain of dread sweeping over him.
What would James Denton do with his promises if Becky died?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE PINK HUE of the rising sun peeked over the horizon as Slade made his way back into the doctor’s kitchen. Mariah turned from the stove, coffeepot in hand. Dark circles under her eyes made them look bigger and more vulnerable than ever.
“Coffee?” she asked, her voice not much more than a raspy whisper.
He accepted the cup she offered. “How’s she doing?” he asked, sitting down and sipping the bitter brew.
She sank into one of the chairs beside him, shoulders slumped, exhaustion in every line of her body. None of them had slept. Who could sleep when a child’s life hung in the balance?
“Doc let James and Elizabeth in to see her a few moments ago. She doesn’t even know they’re there, but at least they can touch her, know she’s alive.” Her tear-filled gaze met his. “She’s so tiny. I don’t think she’ll make it. The wagon wheel went across her chest, over one shoulder, and grazed the side of her head. Doc thinks she might have some broken ribs, maybe even a broken collarbone—”
Tears overflowed, running down her cheeks, and she reached
up to wipe them away with her apron. A vise squeezed his chest at the anguish on her face. Great, gulping sobs spilled out of her as she released the tension and fear she’d bottled up through the long, dark night.
Slade stood, pulled her from the chair and into his arms, his hands splayed across her back, willing his own strength to shore her up. A tight desire to take away her pain gripped his chest. But there wasn’t anything more they could do. Only time would tell if Becky would live. He closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet aroma of Mariah’s rose-scented hair, and let her cry enough tears for both of them.
Slowly her sobs subsided. A weary sigh escaped her, and she whispered against his shirt, “I’ve prayed and prayed for the Lord to spare her. I don’t have any strength left to pray.”
Slade stared at a spot on the wall, his hand stilled against her back, trying to make sense of the thoughts swirling in his head. James had prayed for his daughter. Mariah was praying. Half the town, those who’d heard, would be praying.
But he hadn’t uttered one single, solitary prayer.
“If God cares about Becky, why’d He let Denton run over her in the first place?”
She pulled away and wiped at her cheeks. A sad little smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “God doesn’t keep us from trouble; He keeps us through it.”
“Not always.”
“No, not always. I don’t know if He’ll heal Becky or take her on to be with Him. All I can do is pray He spares her. But if He does take her, I’ll keep praying. Only then I’ll be praying for Elizabeth and James and Jim.”
Slade shook his head, trying to make sense of her logic. He latched on to the one thing that didn’t make any sense at all. “James? How can you pray for him? All this is his fault.”
“Can’t you see how he’s hurting? He’d do anything to undo what he’s done.”
“Right now he feels that way. But when she’s better, he’ll go right back to his drinking.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. If we help him, pray for him, and come alongside him in his time of trouble, who knows what good can come of this?”
Slade wanted to argue with her. He wanted to tell her she prayed for something that could never be. But he didn’t. He saw the exhaustion in her face, and why argue when Becky lay in the next room, fighting for her life? He clenched his jaw and kept his thoughts to himself.
When Doc Sorenson walked out of the sickroom, they both looked up. The doctor took off his horn-rimmed glasses and ran a hand over his face before pinning his gaze on Mariah. “Is that coffee I smell?”
Mariah started toward the stove, but Slade pushed her into a chair. “Sit. I’ll get it.”
“How’s Becky?” Slade poured the doctor a cup of coffee and handed it over.
“She made it through the night. As always, that’s a good sign. If there isn’t any internal damage, she might make it now.”
“Praise the Lord,” Mariah said.
The doctor glanced at Slade. “Mr. Donovan, could you head over to the parsonage and let Reverend Winston know what happened? I imagine he’ll want to pray for the girl and her parents.”
“Be glad to.” Slade reached for his hat.
“I’m going to try to get some sleep. Can you stay awhile longer, Mariah? I don’t want to leave the Dentons alone with Becky.”
“Of course.”
“Wake me if there’s any change.” He took another sip of his coffee and shuffled toward the stairs leading to his bedroom.
“Mr. Donovan! This is a surprise. Come in.” Reverend Winston held the door wide.
Slade nodded. “Reverend.”
“What can I do for you this early?”
“Doc Sorenson sent me over. James Denton ran over his little girl with a wagon yesterday, and Doc thought you might want to know.”
“I heard. I was on my way over there.” The reverend grabbed his hat and stepped outside. “You headed back to Doc’s?”
Slade nodded.
“I’ll walk with you.”
Some of the residents of the small town began to stir as Slade and the preacher headed toward the doctor’s. Several men loitered outside the sawmill, Slaughter among them. Slade nodded at the sawmill owner.
“Howdy, Reverend,” one of the men called out.
“Morning, Sam.” Reverend Winston shook the man’s hand and dipped his head in greeting at the others.
“Reverend, you hear about that poor little girl over at Doc’s?” Sam scratched his leathery cheek and squinted at the pastor. “The one whose pa ran over her with a wagon?”
Reverend Winston nodded. “I’m on my way over there now to see if there’s anything I can do. But I’m afraid all any of us can do is pray. The rest is up to the Lord and Doc Sorenson’s skilled hand.”
“But, Reverend, a man like that oughta be run out of this town. Wasn’t he drunk at the time?”
“Stays drunk all the time,” someone else volunteered.
“He ain’t fit to raise young’uns.” Sam spit a stream of tobacco juice, an angry glint in his eye. “And I heard he’s been beating on his wife and the young’uns too.”
A murmur of assent ground out among the men present.
Slade sized up Sam. Clearly he cared more about creating trouble than finding a solution to the problem. “And what’s going to happen to Mrs. Denton and the children if you run James Denton off?”
Sam puffed out his chest. “And who might you be?”
Reverend Winston stepped in. “Excuse me, Sam. I didn’t know you two hadn’t met. This is Slade Donovan, the new owner out at the Lazy M. Mr. Donovan, this is Sam Butterton.”
“I heard Mariah sold out. Probably the best thing that could happen. Ain’t no woman can run a ranch properly.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Butterton scowled. “About the woman and her kids?”
Slade gave a short nod.
“How should I know?” The man’s face grew flustered. “I’ve got my own family. I can’t be running off seeing about somebody else’s.”
“You’d all do well to remember that, if you decide to run somebody out of town.” Slade let his gaze roam around the body of men before he stalked away. Reverend Winston fell into step beside him.
“Well done, Donovan. Sometimes people get carried away trying to do what they think is right, and they don’t even realize what they’re saying. Not that I agree with Denton’s drinking and all. But I’d like to help the man, not try to railroad him out of town.”
“People like Butterton aren’t interested in helping people. They’d rather shift ’em off on down the line and let somebody else deal with them. Once they’re out of sight, they’re out of mind, and good citizens don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
Reverend Winston glanced at him. “You sound as if you’ve had some experience with that type before.”
“You might say that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Is Wisdom wrapped up with folks like that?”
It would be too much to hope he’d left that kind back in Galveston.
“We have our share. But mostly they’re good Christian folks. Folks who want to do right by their neighbors. Even if you hadn’t spoken up, cooler heads would have convinced Butterton that running Denton out of town wasn’t the way to solve the problem. He goes off half-cocked sometimes, but once he’s on your side, you’ve got a friend for life.” The preacher slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be glad you put down roots here, I promise.”
The brisk walk to the doctor’s house cooled Slade’s anger. He didn’t regret speaking his mind and giving Butterton something to chew on, and he’d never been known to skirt around an issue. Maybe the reverend was right and folks here did know how to show compassion and give someone a hand up when they needed it.
Mariah and Mrs. Malone hadn’t turned their backs on the Dentons. They’d done all they could to help. He’d thought it was just because of Jim and Becky. Most people would go out of their way to help a child. But Mariah had said she was praying
for James Denton, too, the very man who’d caused all the trouble to start with. But James had asked forgiveness for what he’d done, so could there be hope for him after all?
“Reverend? There’s something you should know.” Slade frowned, thinking about Denton’s prayer during the middle of the night. “Last night, Denton promised God he’d stop drinking if God would save his daughter’s life.”
A smile creased Reverend Winston’s face. “That’s a start. But it might not be enough.”
“Why?” Slade stopped, his attention focused on the preacher. Was the man thinking what he’d been thinking?
“Will Denton keep his promise if Becky dies, or will he be worse than before? I’ve seen folks grow bitter when God doesn’t answer their prayers just the way they see fit. If she dies, he might even blame God instead of himself, when the whole thing was his fault. Making promises like that isn’t a good idea for a saint or a sinner. Because when they backfire, even a saint can feel like God has let them down.”
The preacher’s words landed like well-placed blows to Slade’s midsection.
He’d done that. He’d blamed God and Mariah’s father for every ill that had ever befallen his family. Each catastrophe had been one more nail in the coffin that buried his faith and trust in God. He’d hardened his heart against God as his father’s drinking grew worse. He’d determined to stand up for himself and not depend on anyone when he couldn’t protect his mother from his father’s fists. He’d turned his back on his mother’s teaching when he found his father dead in an alley in Galveston.
God didn’t care about them, wasn’t going to take care of them, and they’d had way too few of the good folks of Galveston to lend a helping hand. No, if anybody was going to see that they survived and prospered, it would be Slade himself. So he’d blamed God at every turn.
Buck didn’t die.
Slade’s steps faltered, and he hung back, letting Reverend Winston go inside.