by Sharon Ihle
Impulsively jumping out from his hiding spot, Crowfoot called, "Lady, lady!"
But Lacey, her eyes downcast, didn't even glance up to acknowledge him. Like before, it was as if she couldn't see, hear, or speak. Crowfoot knew then that she was having one of her quiet times like the day in the barn, and that neither he nor the sheriff of Laramie would get her to talk until she was darn good and ready. As the trio passed by the spot where he stood watching, the sheriff reached out and cuffed Crowfoot alongside the head.
"Get on out of here, boy," the sheriff snapped as he ushered Lacey down the boardwalk toward the courthouse.
Afraid of most white men, but especially of those in authority, Crowfoot immediately ducked back into the alley. He stood there trembling near the corner of the building where the crowd was still milling around, and listened in on their conversations again. They were openly discussing a topic which sent a bolt of panic to his extremities—the murder of William Braddock, and the fact that Lacey Winterhawke had fired the bullet which killed him.
His lady, a murderer? Crowfoot couldn't imagine why she could have done such a thing, much less how, so he stayed there huddled in the alley a good long time as he tried to figure out what to do next. He hated the idea of leaving Lacey, not to mention the reprimand it would bring from Hawke, but there was nothing he could do for her now. The sheriff would never let a crippled Indian boy inside the jail to see her, and even if he did, Crowfoot was fairly certain nothing he could do or say would bring her around. Only one person he could think of had that ability. And he'd gone back to Winterhawke.
In spite of the fact that Hawke had instructed him not to let Lacey out of his sight, Crowfoot knew he had to go to the ranch to let Hawke know what had happened to his woman. The decision made, Crowfoot skulked through the streets of Laramie in the wolf-like manner he'd been taught, and made his way to the Front Street Stable and Carriage House where Hawke had left the wagon and one of the two horses who'd pulled the rig to town. He begged and pleaded with the liveryman to let him take the horse left behind, but the man turned a deaf ear to him. John Winterhawke had left the animal in his care, and John Winterhawke would have to come get the horse himself. Period. Crowfoot easily read the silent part of the statement in the stableman's eyes—he sure as hell wouldn't be giving up any animal to a filthy little Indian kid, no matter how much he begged.
After yet more indecision, Crowfoot waited until the night had reached its darkest peak and most of the town, save for the gambling establishments, had gone to bed. Then, knowing full well the authorities would hang him should he get caught in the act, he snuck back to the stables and stole the horse Hawke had given to him as his very own.
Undetected, Crowfoot rode out of town and straight through to Centennial, pausing here and there to rest his mount several times along the way. At dawn he reached Three Elk Ranch where he dashed into the house long enough to inform Caleb and Kate about Lacey's troubles with the law. After asking if they knew where Hawke had gone, then discovering that the Weatherspoons weren't even aware he'd returned from Laramie, Crowfoot resumed his journey. Just before noon, he finally arrived at the log home nestled in a forest of lodgepole pines, relieved to find it was still standing.
With the exception of the cowboy hired to watch over the place, Winterhawke Ranch was deserted.
* * *
Dressed in his full mountain man attire of buckskins including his eagle feather hat, Hawke stared out at the wide expanse of snow-splotched meadows near the glistening peak of Medicine Bow Mountain, and watched as his dreams raced out of his life. Phantom galloped through a thin patch of snow, kicking up flakes of ice with his heels, then wheeled around as if checking to make sure he'd truly escaped the man. He reared as if in victory, his nostrils blowing billows of fog, and pawed the air with his hooves. Then he took off again, a silvery shadow amongst the pines, until he could be seen no more.
Hawke was a mass of conflicting emotions late that afternoon as he watched his stallion disappear, for he above all understood and appreciated the exhilarating sense of freedom driving Phantom onward. But the terrible sense of loss, of finality, was too painful to contemplate, an indicator by his way of thinking, of his failure as a horse rancher. And that in turn, pointed out his failure as a husband.
He'd been so caught up in his own rage and pain, he hadn't even thought to ask Lacey what she wanted to do now that it looked like Winterhawke Ranch would stay in Braddock's hands. Worse, he hadn't even considered asking about her visit with the doctor. Were they going to have a baby? He didn't know because he'd gone off like a madman, not giving a moment's notice to anything or anyone but himself. Here he was with almost a full year of marriage under his belt, and he still behaved as if he were his own entity, a man who answered to no one.
He loved Lacey, there was no doubt in his mind about that, but he hadn't realized how selfish a thing love could be. He loved his wife on his terms and for the way she made him feel inside, but why hadn't he loved her enough to put his own needs aside and have a look at hers? Maybe it wasn't so much a question of love as anger, he thought, taking himself apart piece by piece. It didn't take an extraordinarily wise man to know that some of the anger he'd felt as he roared out of town had been directed at Lacey.
Right or wrong, it still rankled Hawke to think that his own wife didn't want to bear his children—assuming of course that it was because she did not want to raise a passel of half-breeds. But what if her fears had nothing to do with the color of his skin at all? He'd never thought of looking for another answer, but now that he had, Hawke recalled the trouble he had bedding Lacey that first time, and how terribly afraid she'd been of the whole process. What if she were even more afraid of childbirth? It made a good measure of sense, now that he finally considered it.
Angry all over again, this time with himself, Hawke leaned back against his saddle, his pillow for the night, and went on with his self-examination. Funny, he thought, how insignificant a piece of land could be when placed in the proper perspective. He could easily replace Winterhawke Ranch and his yard full of fine horseflesh, but none of it meant a damn thing without Lacey—and he knew without a doubt that he could never replace the little Irish miss with the golden blue eyes. Not if he lived to be one hundred. Why hadn't he been smart enough to realize that before now? He hadn't even thought to tell her how much she meant to him.
The rest of the night, all Hawke could think about was getting back to town and letting Lacey know how much he loved and needed her. Then together, they would work out a plan. If she wanted to fight for Winterhawke—and he assumed she did since she'd even gone to the trouble of learning how to sew well enough to fashion curtains for their bedroom window—they would find a way to save the ranch together. As for Braddock—hell, maybe gaining revenge against him wasn't worth the trouble.
Hawke stayed the night on the spot where he'd turned the stud loose, then returned to Winterhawke the next morning armed with a new plan. If Lacey agreed, he would take the cash from this year's crop of three-year-olds, and if need be, use it all to have her hire a good attorney. Maybe in that way, they could force his uncle to set a firm price for Winterhawke, a fair-market figure which couldn't be changed according to the banker's whims or gut-deep hatred of his only living blood relation.
Finding some hope in this decision, after tending to his mount, a tired but less despondent Hawke started for the house to change back into his clothes for going to town. Then he heard someone scrambling down the ladder leading to the loft.
"Is that you, Hazelbaker?" he called. Turning around, he was shocked to see a small figure approaching him. "Crowfoot? What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay with Lacey? I told you not to let her—"
"Lady has troubles," he said, interrupting, but staying out of Hawke's reach. "I could not think of what to do but come after you."
"Troubles?" The hair along Hawke's spine stood up like a row of spikes. His first thoughts were of Lacey's pregnancy, and the possibility tha
t something had gone wrong. Advancing on the boy, he caught him by the shoulders. "What's wrong with her? Is it something to do with the baby?"
Crowfoot paused, confused over the reference to a baby, but went on with his tale. "After you left town, lady tried to help you at the bank. She went to talk to Braddock, but—"
Struck by both horror and sudden rage, Hawke shook the boy. "She what?"
His survival instincts kicking in, Crowfoot snarled at Hawke, then wriggled free of his grasp and backed away. "I tell lady, don't go there, but she does not listen to me. I keep her in my eyes," he pointed at them, "but she will not stay there. She will not listen!"
The boy looked as if he were about to bolt and run, and if he did that. Hawke was afraid he'd never know what had happened to his wife. Calming himself, he spoke tightly, but in a non-threatening tone as he asked, "So Lacey went to talk with Braddock. What did she say to him, and how... how did he treat her?"
Crowfoot shook his head. "I do not know any of these things. She kept me outside. I did not see what happened, but listened to people talking after the sheriff took her away."
"The sheriff? What..." Hawke couldn't fathom a scenario which would bring the law down on his wife, so he wisely shut his mouth and urged the boy to go on. "What happened, Crowfoot? Just say it plain and simple."
"The people say that the banker, Braddock, is dead." He averted his gaze, unable to look Hawke in the eye as he told him the rest. "They say that lady shot him."
Once he got past the mind-freezing shock of those words, other than disbelief, Hawke's first thoughts were of his own culpability—and not just over the fact that he'd run out on Lacey threatening to burn down not just his ranch, but her home. What had he gotten her into in his quest to hide the shame of a family who treated him as an inferior, a shame he now knew that he didn't even deserve? Hawke couldn't bear to think about what Lacey might have suffered at Braddock's hands, of what the vile animal must have done to drive her to shoot him. If he did, he knew he'd go crazy, and then he wouldn't be of any help to her at all.
His throat so tight he could barely speak, he asked, "You're sure that Braddock is dead?"
Lowering his gaze and his head, the boy nodded.
"Bloody hell." He drew in a painful breath, thinking not of his uncle, but of his wife. "How is Lacey doing? Did she ask for me?"
A tear rolled down Crowfoot's cheek, the first Hawke had ever seen on his sienna-colored skin. Then he raised his sad-eyed gaze and, voice cracking, said, "Lady not ask for Hawke. She not ask for anything." Then, as if he couldn't go on speaking, the boy placed his hands over his ears, then his mouth, and finally over his eyes.
His heart in the pit of his stomach, for he knew exactly the condition the boy was miming, Hawke found himself hoping that Crowfoot was right about the state of his uncle's health. If the son of a bitch wasn't already dead, he had an idea the man would be—and soon.
* * *
Caleb and Kate hadn't even bothered to change into fresh clothing the morning Crowfoot stopped by with his terrible news. They just bundled themselves and the baby into the wagon and took off for town, leaving the ranch foreman to oversee Three Elk and its cattle herd. When the boy informed Caleb that Hawke had vowed to turn his horses loose and then destroy the ranch, he knew that his friend would probably spend a day or two up in the Snowy Range before coming to his senses and returning to Laramie. No point in going after him either, for like himself, Hawke was a hard man to find when he wanted to be lost. The best plan, Caleb decided, would be to go to town and try to help Lacey in any way he could.
So after a long, uncomfortable journey, the Weatherspoons arrived in Laramie just as the sun was sliding over the very mountains where Lacey's husband was either losing or finding himself. They immediately went to the courthouse to make certain the tale Crowfoot had told them was true, and after finding that it was, Kate arranged for a private visit with Lacey in the room the sheriff had specified as a "female jail cell."
Caleb, who still felt awkward and uncomfortable holding his fragile daughter, waited with her in his arms at the sheriff's office along with the deputy on duty. Looking down at her pretty little face, again he marveled at the miracle of birth. Kathleen was so tiny and delicate, he simply couldn't imagine her growing into a woman some day.
She stirred in her sleep then, stretching her little arms until her tiny fingers popped through the fold in the blanket. "Lord almighty," Caleb cooed to his daughter. "I don't see how in hell something so delicate-like and cute as you could share the blood of an old hog's butt like me. Remind me to skin your ma good when I see her—she musta had another rake besides me gathering up her hay crop."
"Your first?" asked the deputy from across the room.
His face red, Caleb glanced over to the man. "Uh, yep, she shore is. How can you tell?"
"I've had four myself." He laughed. "The first one always seems like it's gonna break or something if you even look at it cross-eyed."
"I know what you mean there, pardner. I feel like a regular board-hands with this little gal—scared half to death of her, in fact."
"You'll get over that with the next one. By the third, you'll be bouncing the kid off the floor."
Just thinking about that made Caleb hold the baby even closer to his chest, but before he could make a comment on the deputy's reckless suggestion, Kate burst into the room, her handkerchief to her nose.
"Oh, Caleb," she cried. "'Tis even worse than I thought with the lass." She hurried to his side, peeked at her sleeping daughter, then sat down. "They put her in a poorly made shack with cracks in the walls and a dirt floor. But even in such dreadful surroundings, I couldna get the lass to so much as blink at me. I'm thinking this could be the worst spell she's e'er had."
"Worst spell? What in tarnation does that mean?"
Taking her time to dab her tears and blow her nose, Kate finally said, "'Twere a term used for any kind of shock in the mad room at the hospital where I worked. With Lacey, 'tis, I suppose, like a nonphysical coma, you know? Where the mind is completely asleep but the body has suffered no trauma."
Trying to absorb all that, Caleb furrowed his brow. "How long will she be like that do you think?"
Fresh tears rolled down Kate's cheeks. "I dona know. I... I've seen spells that lasted for years on end."
Looking for a way to comfort his wife, Caleb carefully slipped his hand from beneath his daughter's body and patted Kate's back. "Don't you worry none, angel pie. That ain't gonna happen to Lacey, you'll see."
But she just cried harder.
Glancing at the deputy, who was taking in the whole scene, Caleb whispered, "Now don't carry on so, Katy. You'll upset little Kathleen, here."
She hiccupped. "I canna help it. If Lacey doesna speak soon, I am afraid that she, that..."
"The girl means an awful lot to you, doesn't she, darling?"
Her pale blue eyes awash in tears, Kate turned to him and murmured through a sob, "More than ye'll e'er know."
Slipping his arm around Kate's trembling shoulders, Caleb kept his silence as she cried herself dry. When he could be heard over her sobs, he turned toward the deputy and asked, "Isn't there some way for us to get that poor gal out of jail? I expect she could use a little of my wife's nursing about now."
"Sorry, pardner, but no chance in hell. She ain't got long to wait, anyways, what with her trial starting up tomorrow morning."
Kate abruptly stood up. "So soon?"
The deputy shrugged. "No point in waiting on this one. Got witnesses you know. She done it, and there ain't no way she can talk her way out of it."
"But the lass is sick. Can ye na see that?"
He jabbed a toothpick into his mouth and began cleaning his teeth. "Didn't look sick to me or the sheriff."
"She canna talk. 'Tis a sickness of it's own. Can ye na wait a wee bit for her to snap out of it?"
The deputy laughed. "There ain't nothing sick or strange about keeping the mouth shut when it comes to murder. Either th
ey talk all the time insisting they're innocent, or they clam up like your friend in there. She'll snap out of it fast enough when Judge MacIver sentences her to hang tomorrow."
* * *
The citizens of Laramie were proud of their new courthouse, a structure they also used as a general gathering place and party hall. Charity dances were a favorite there, and once on a very unusual Fourth of July, the hall was even used to shelter unprepared citizens who were caught by a surprise blizzard. No such luck today as a hot spell had descended on the valley, bringing uncomfortable temperatures outside and stifling conditions inside.
Today as the members of the jury filed back into the hall after breaking for a noonday meal, the building was serving its original purpose as a courtroom with Kate, Caleb, and their newborn daughter among the crowded gallery of spectators. The prosecution had presented their case in short order during the morning session, and now as Pauline Little was marched back up to the stand, Lacey's lawyer, Malcolm Webber, was about to begin the process of cross-examining the secretary.
Kate, who was still astounded to find women serving on the jury—four women to eight men in this case—turned to her husband and whispered, "Are ye thinking maybe the women will be sympathetic to Lacey, or will they toss in with this fast woman and all her lies?"
Caleb shook his head, not sure what to say to her. Now that the case had been presented in no uncertain terms, it didn't look good for Lacey. The secretary had sworn that she'd dashed into her employer's office a second after the gunshot rang out to find the defendant standing over the dead man, gun in hand. Worse yet, it had come out that John Winterhawke, Jr. was William Braddock's only living heir since the banker had no will—and stood to inherit everything, including the ranch he so coveted. Thus far, Lacey hadn't so much as reared her head in her own defense, much less spoken out. And that gave Caleb second thoughts about his decision not to go after Hawke in the mountains. Maybe if he had managed to find the man, things here would be different.