The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  Breckinridge knew. All too well, in fact.

  “Reckon he probably treats her a mite more gentle now that she’s expectin’,” the garrulous blacksmith went on. “But that don’t mean he’s nice to her. Always talks to her real cold-like, he does, like he can’t stand bein’ around her. Can’t see why any man’d feel like that. She’s just as sweet and pretty as can be.”

  That was true, Breckinridge thought. Maureen was sweet and pretty . . . too sweet for her own good. Too sweet—and too scared—to stand up to Aylesworth.

  But what he had heard here today had helped him make up his mind. He wanted to leave Tennessee and head back to the frontier, but he couldn’t do that while Maureen was trapped in such a bad situation. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t go back to her house, but he knew now he was going to have to break that vow. He had to offer her his help. If she wanted to get away from Aylesworth, he would help her do just that.

  No matter how much trouble it caused.

  * * *

  He knew he might need to bide his time, but he didn’t want to wait too long. Phineas Cobb seemed to think that Aylesworth wouldn’t hurt Maureen because she was carrying his child, but Breckinridge didn’t want to count on that. He had seen the way Aylesworth could fly into a rage and do crazy things. He wouldn’t put anything past the man.

  The next day, Breckinridge saddled one of the horses. His brother Henry saw him and wanted to know where he was going, but Breck dodged the question.

  “Just goin’ for a ride,” he replied as casually as he could. “You know how restless I’ve always been.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Henry said. “How about if I come with you?” He looked around the barn to make sure their father wasn’t within earshot, lowered his voice, and went on, “I could use a break from all these chores around here.”

  Breckinridge didn’t want to hurt his brother’s feelings, but he didn’t need any company on this trip, either. He said, “I sort of got used to bein’ alone while I was out yonder on the frontier, Henry. Maybe another time.”

  “All right,” Henry said stiffly. “Sure, if that’s the way you feel.”

  He walked off, and Breckinridge wanted to call him back and explain. But he knew he couldn’t, not really. Nobody in his family would understand why he had to do this thing. They never had grasped exactly how he felt about Maureen.

  Before Henry had a chance to tell anybody else that Breckinridge was going anywhere, Breck swung up into the saddle and galloped away from the farm. He thought he heard a couple of shouts behind him, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from his purpose. He didn’t want anything to weaken his resolve.

  When he reached Knoxville, the first thing he did was to ride past the huge Aylesworth general store. It was busy, with several wagons pulled up at the store’s front porch, which also served as its loading dock. Aproned clerks, along with customers, loaded supplies into the backs of those wagons. Breckinridge didn’t see Richard Aylesworth, but since Aylesworth ran the store these days it was more likely he was inside.

  Breckinridge rode on to Maureen’s house. The same maid answered his knock. Her eyes widened, and for a second he thought she was going to close the door in his face. But then she gave him a sullen look and said, “I don’t reckon Miz Maureen wants to see you, mister.”

  “Why don’t you ask her that?” Breckinridge said.

  “She don’ need no big ol’ fella like you comin’ ’round here and makin’ trouble. She a married woman. She don’ need to be havin’ no truck with some fella who ain’t her husban’.”

  For all her fiery nature, the maid was a little bit of a thing, and Breckinridge was about to warn her that he would pick her up and set her aside if he had to, when Maureen’s familiar voice asked from behind her, “Who is that at the door, Ophelia?”

  The maid scowled at Breckinridge, then turned her head to say, “It ain’t nobody, Miz Maureen, jus’ some tramp—”

  Maureen moved up alongside the woman, and her face lit up with a smile as she said, “Breckinridge, it’s you again.” He could tell that reaction was her natural one, but it was quickly replaced as her smile vanished and she said, “I’m not sure you should be here . . .”

  “That’s what I been tellin’ him, Miz Maureen,” the maid insisted. “Or tryin’ to, anyway.”

  “You never were very good at listening when you didn’t want to hear, were you, Breckinridge?” Maureen said to him.

  “I just want to talk to you for a minute,” he said. “Once I’ve spoken my piece, if you want me to leave, I’ll go without makin’ any fuss about it, Maureen. You got my word on that.”

  For a long moment, Maureen hesitated. Her teeth caught her bottom lip between them for a second as she thought. Then she said, “All right, but I’m going to hold you to that, Breckinridge. Let him in, Ophelia.”

  The maid ha-rumphed to make it clear how she felt about Maureen’s decision. But she stepped aside and let Breckinridge walk into the foyer.

  “We’ll be in the parlor, as before,” Maureen went on.

  “You want tea again?” Ophelia asked.

  Maureen shook her head and said, “No, not this time. Mr. Wallace won’t be here that long.”

  Breckinridge wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. But at least Maureen was willing to listen to him. She was going to give him a chance to win her over, to convince her that if she was truly afraid of Richard Aylesworth, she would be better off leaving him. Sure, there would be a terrible scandal, but that was better than staying with a scoundrel like Aylesworth.

  Maureen led him into the parlor. She motioned for Breckinridge to sit down on the divan, but she stayed on her feet this time instead of taking a seat next to him.

  “What is it you want from me, Breckinridge?” she asked. “You know that there is really . . . nothing . . . I can give you.”

  “I don’t want anything except to help you,” he said.

  “And how do you propose to do that? I have everything I could possibly need.”

  “How about a husband who loves you and treats you decent?”

  She paled as she stared at him. Even with him sitting and her standing, their heads were almost on the same level.

  “I told you not to believe any ridiculous gossip you might hear about me,” she said. “Richard is madly in love with me and treats me like a princess.”

  “That’s what you want everybody to believe.”

  “It’s the truth!”

  Breckinridge shook his head and said, “Everybody in Knoxville knows what sort of man Richard Aylesworth really is. He lied about what happened during that fight. He was a lot more responsible for Jasper Carlson dyin’ than I was. I was just defendin’ myself, but Jasper wouldn’t have even been there if it wasn’t for Richard. He lied to the law, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  Maureen’s chin quivered a little as she said, “You’re wrong. The whole thing was a tragic misunderstanding. An accident—”

  “Richard and his friends figured on beatin’ me within an inch of my life. Actually, I reckon Richard planned on killin’ me—all because I’d had the audacity to come callin’ on you. He had his sights set on you, and nobody was supposed to interfere with that.” Breckinridge sighed. “Well, it looks like he got you. But that don’t mean he gets to keep you, not if you don’t want to be here.”

  “But don’t you see, I do. I do want to be here. Richard isn’t . . . perfect. No man is. But I chose to marry him, and I’ll not go back on my word.”

  “Your pride’s more important to you than your life?” Breckinridge nodded toward her belly. “More important than your baby’s life?”

  “How dare you!” Maureen was trembling all over now. “Breck, you have no right . . . you can’t just come charging in here like a bull and turn my life upside down . . . I have to honor my vows . . . I have to—”

  She stopped short, moved closer to him, and without any more warning than that she threw her arms
around his neck. Instinctively, Breckinridge came to his feet and bent his head to hers. His mouth found her lips and he drew her against him, cradling her gently against his massive bulk.

  Breckinridge was so lost in the sensations washing through him that he barely heard the rapid footsteps in the foyer and the low-pitched cry of warning from Ophelia, the maid.

  “Miz Maureen! Miz Maureen! It’s Mist’ Aylesworth, Miz Maureen! He—”

  Breckinridge lifted his head and turned toward the door. He still had his hands on Maureen’s shoulders as Richard Aylesworth charged through the foyer and into the parlor with a pistol clutched in his hand. He screamed filthy obscenities at Breck as he thrust the gun out. Breck pushed Maureen behind him, shielding her with his own body as smoke and flame gushed from the weapon’s barrel.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Breckinridge felt the impact of the pistol ball as it scraped along his side. The burning pain twisted him around. He caught his balance and charged toward Aylesworth, not giving him time to reload. Aylesworth slashed at Breck’s head with the empty weapon, but Breck blocked the blow with a sweep of his left forearm that sent the pistol flying.

  An instant later, his right fist crashed into Aylesworth’s face and drove the other man backward into the foyer. Aylesworth couldn’t keep his feet. He fell against a delicately made table on the other side of the entrance. It splintered under him, and he landed on the floor amidst the debris.

  Breckinridge bellowed in rage as he charged into the foyer. He bent over, grabbed the lapels of Aylesworth’s coat, and jerked him to his feet again. Breck pulled his fist back. Aylesworth had been begging for a good whipping for a long time, and Breck was just the fella to give it to him.

  That blow never landed. Breckinridge froze at the sound of a scream.

  He jerked his head around and saw the maid standing in the arched entrance of the parlor. The woman had her hands clapped to her cheeks as she stared in horror at Maureen, who lay crumpled on the floor. Breckinridge’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest when he saw the blood on her dress.

  Instantly, he knew what had happened. The shot Aylesworth had fired had passed between Breck’s arm and side, grazing him in the process but not stopping until it struck Maureen behind him.

  He let go of Aylesworth, who was still stunned and dropped limply to the floor when Breckinridge released him. Wheeling around, Breck lunged past the maid into the parlor. He dropped to a knee beside Maureen and grasped her shoulders as gently as he could.

  Her eyes were open. The lids fluttered wildly as she stared up at him. She said raggedly, “B-Breck . . . what . . . what happened?”

  “You’ve been shot,” he told her. “Just be still and I’ll see how bad it is.”

  “My . . . my baby!”

  “Shhh.”

  He had seen how Harry had dealt with gunshot wounds back on the Sophie. He opened Maureen’s dress and moved aside her undergarments to reveal the puckered hole high in her midsection. There was a lot of blood, but he tried not to think about that right now. It was impossible to tell how deeply the ball had penetrated without feeling for it, so he gathered up his courage and stuck a finger into the wound.

  Maureen cried out in pain and arched her back.

  “What are you doin’ to her?” the maid screeched.

  Breckinridge didn’t look around or explain. All of his attention was focused on Maureen, and he kept it that way. He probed deeper and felt a surge of relief as his fingertip touched the lead ball. It hadn’t gone very deep, only a couple of inches. Maureen whimpered in agony as he tried to work his finger around under the ball. He kept his other hand clamped on her shoulder to hold her still as he murmured, “I’ve got it, darlin’, I’ve got it. Just a minute or two more . . .”

  The ball moved. Carefully, Breckinridge worked it up toward the surface. A moment later, the bloody bit of lead popped free of the wound.

  “There you go,” Breckinridge said with a grin. “It’s out now—”

  Something crashed against his back with enough force to knock him forward. He barely got a hand on the floor in time to catch himself and keep his weight from coming down on Maureen.

  “You son of a bitch!” Richard Aylesworth howled like a rabid wolf.

  Breckinridge levered himself up, twisting to his feet as Aylesworth swung a leg of the chair he had just broken over Breck’s back. Breck couldn’t get completely out of the way. He took the blow on his left shoulder and felt pain shoot all the way down that arm.

  His right hand flashed out and clamped around Aylesworth’s throat. He swung Aylesworth toward the divan and let go of him. Out of control, Aylesworth landed on the piece of furniture and drove it against the wall. The impact made a picture hanging there leap off its nail and clatter to the floor.

  “Get a cloth against that wound and stop the bleedin’,” Breckinridge snapped at the maid. She seemed too horrified at first to comprehend what he was saying, but when he added, “Now!” she leaped to follow the order.

  Aylesworth struggled up and charged Breckinridge again. Either he didn’t know that his wife was hurt, or he just didn’t care and was more interested in indulging his own fury. He threw a flurry of punches so swiftly that Breck couldn’t block all of them. A couple of the blows landed, one on his jaw and one on his chest, but neither of them really rocked him. Aylesworth was too caught up in his crazy rage to put much power behind the punches.

  Breckinridge weaved aside from a wild, looping right and landed a left jab of his own on the man’s nose. Blood spurted hotly across Breck’s knuckles as Aylesworth’s nose flattened under the blow. Aylesworth reeled back, and Breck lifted a powerful right uppercut to his jaw.

  That punch knocked Aylesworth off his feet again. He landed on his back, arms and legs outflung, and didn’t move. He’d been knocked cold.

  Breckinridge swung around to check on Maureen. Driven by fear for her, his pulse thundered inside his head. He saw Ophelia on her knees beside Maureen, holding a thick pad of cloth to the wounded girl’s body.

  “I don’ think it’s bleedin’ as bad now, Mist’ Wallace,” the maid said, “but Miz Maureen, she gon’ need a doctor mighty quick-like!”

  “I’ll go fetch one—” Breckinridge started to say as he took a step toward the door, but he stopped as a man hurried into the foyer, followed by several others.

  Breckinridge recognized Parley Johnson, the sheriff. The men with him were some of his deputies. Johnson was a stocky man with a thick gray mustache. His eyes, set deep in pits of gristle, took in the scene quickly. Breck didn’t know what conclusions the sheriff drew, but they couldn’t be good ones.

  Johnson took a pistol from behind his belt, cocked it as he pointed it at Breckinridge, and barked, “Don’t move, Wallace! When I got word of a shot being fired here, I should have known it was you. By God, what deviltry have you gotten up to now?” He answered his own question by exclaiming, “You’ve killed the Aylesworths!”

  “Richard ain’t dead,” Breckinridge snapped. “I just had to knock him out because he was tryin’ to kill me!” He waved a hand at Maureen and went on, “One of you men better fetch the doctor mighty quick. Maureen’s been shot!”

  “And I’ll bet you’re the one who shot her!” Johnson said. “You’ve always been a troublemaker, Wallace. You’re under arrest until I find out what happened here.”

  “Damn it!” Breckinridge exploded. “I don’t care what you do to me, just get some help for Maureen!”

  The sheriff ignored that, turned to his deputies, and ordered, “You men take Wallace into custody.”

  The deputies looked pretty reluctant to follow that order, but they shuffled forward. In exasperation, Breckinridge said, “I surrender! You don’t have to arrest me, Sheriff. I’ll come along peacefully—as soon as you get the doctor for Miz Aylesworth!”

  Johnson glared at him but said to one of the deputies, “Tim, go get the sawbones. Be quick about it, too!”

  As the man rushed out
of the house, Aylesworth groaned and started struggling to sit up. He had regained consciousness but clearly didn’t have his wits about him yet.

  Johnson pointed a finger at Breckinridge and said, “Don’t you move.” Then he went over to help Aylesworth stand up.

  Aylesworth clutched at the sheriff’s arms as he climbed to his feet. He shook his head groggily, but then his entire body stiffened as he focused his gaze on Breckinridge.

  “There he is, Sheriff!” Aylesworth gasped. “For God’s sake, don’t let him get away. He shot my wife!”

  “I knew it,” Johnson growled. “You deputies block the door!”

  Breckinridge stood there, flat-footed and flabbergasted. He couldn’t believe Aylesworth had just accused him of shooting Maureen.

  And yet, that was exactly what he should have expected to happen, a little voice in the back of his head told him. Richard Aylesworth hated him beyond any reason. Maureen might be dying at this very moment, but Aylesworth was more concerned with seizing another opportunity to lie about Breckinridge.

  A little moan from Maureen jerked Breckinridge’s attention away from his own plight. Her eyes moved, looking around the room as if she were just realizing that it was full of people. She whispered, “R-Richard . . .”

  The fact that she had called for Aylesworth was like a dagger in Breckinridge’s heart, but again, he should have expected that, he told himself. Aylesworth was her husband, after all. The father of her child. A bitter, sour taste filled Breck’s mouth. It was the taste of defeat. He had never stood a chance to convincing Maureen to leave Aylesworth. He knew that now.

  But at least she could tell the sheriff that it had been Aylesworth who fired the shot, not him. He felt bad for thinking about his own plight at this moment, when she lay there injured, in danger of losing her child or even dying.

  “Miz Maureen, you jus’ lay still,” Ophelia said. “You done lost a heap o’ blood. You got to rest—”