by Loree Lough
Casually, Carter dropped both feet to the planked floor in a single clunk. Yonker was no less than three inches taller and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Still, the man took a step back when the sheriff stood. “You owe it to Horace’s widow and the good citizens of Lubbock to tell me where W.C. is…if you know…since it was you who lost the thievin’ murderer in the first place. Besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “if you don’t, I’ll arrest you.”
“Me?”
He gave it a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “That’s right. For aiding and abetting a fugitive, for starters. If you know where he is and don’t tell me, it’s the same as lettin’ him hole up in your house.”
Angry defiance thinning his lips, Yonker poked the sheriff’s badge. “I don’t owe you a blessed thing, way I see it,” he spat. “A snake spooked the horses, just like I tol’ you, and that’s why the wagon overturned. Weren’t nobody’s fault he escaped, least of all mine. But you went and fired me, all the same. Atwood’s the reason for it all, so the way I see it, the low-down killer deserves to swing. And I deserve some of the bounty money for helpin’ make that happen.”
From the other side of the room, a voice asked, “For what? He never kilt nobody.”
Though toe to toe, both men looked toward the man who’d interrupted their verbal sparring. The bedraggled fellow continued to push a broom across the jailhouse floor. After a long, silent moment, the sheriff cut him a scathing glare. “You’ve been singin’ that song for ten long years, Joe Purdy,” he growled. “Nobody believed you the night W.C. killed Horace Pickett, and nobody believes you now.”
Leaning on the broom handle, Purdy gave an exaggerated shrug. “No harm in me singin’ the song again, then. ‘If you hang him,’” came his slow, soft drawl, “’you’ll be killin’ an innocent man.’”
Carter pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and shook his head. A second ticked by before he sighed. “Like I’ve been tellin’ you for years, the evidence said otherwise, and the evidence is what got him convicted. It’s not my job to second-guess the jury. It’s my job to find him, see he pays the price.” Frowning, he added, “Now get back to your sweeping or there’ll be no whiskey money for you today.”
Reminded of his purpose, Purdy licked his lips. “Innocent, I tell you,” he repeated as the broom whisked past the sheriff’s boots. “Wouldn’t want his death on my conscience….”
Yonker had heard about all he cared to hear from the town drunk. “Ain’t nobody interested in what you got to say, you old fool.” Then, facing the sheriff once more, he bit out, “You want to get W.C., you get me.” Snickering, he punctuated his statement by adding a last poke to Carter’s shirt.
In the wink of an eye, the sheriff was behind Yonker, one big hand filled with shirt collar, the other firmly gripping his manhood. “The man ain’t been born who can wriggle out of this here Bouncer’s Grip,” Carter said calmly. “You poke that finger in my chest again, I’ll break it off and shove it down your throat. You got that?”
Squealing like a stuck pig, Yonker nodded. “Didn’t mean nuthin’ by it, Sheriff. I swear!”
“Smartest thing I ever did was to fire you. You were trouble ten years ago, and I can see time hasn’t changed a hair on your ugly head.” With the power of The Grip on his side, Yonker was little more than a willing puppet. He walked on tiptoes in his futile attempt to climb out of Carter’s painful hold on him. With a rough shove, Carter released him, and then turned him around. “If I get W.C.—and I think we both know that I will—it’ll be on my terms, not yours.”
“But…but you don’t know where he is,” Yonker whimpered.
Casually, Carter slipped another toothpick from the shot glass on the corner of his desk. “But I have a pretty good idea, thanks to you.” He paused, walked the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “And you don’t know his whereabouts, either. Dumb as you are, if you did, it would-a been the first thing out of your mouth.”
Yonker sneered and patted his hip pocket. “Got me fifty dollars here says otherwise.”
Shaking his head, Carter smirked. “Yeah. And Joe over there ain’t a drunk, neither. “If you were half as smart as you think you are, you might just be dangerous. Now get on outta here. I ain’t got time for your fairy tales.”
“Fairy tales!” Yonker’s fists doubled up as he blurted, “He’s in a town north of Baltimore, working as a foreman on a farm called Foggy Bottom.”
Carter stared for a moment, and then chuckled. “Hey, Purdy,” he said, “put that broom away and get a mop, so you can sop up this mess ole Forrest made when he spilled his guts.”
Grinning at the sarcastic joke, Purdy shook his head as Carter sauntered toward the door. “You a card playin’ man, Forrest?” he asked, opening the door wide.
His reckless confession had humbled him, and like a disobedient pup trying to earn back his master’s approval, Yonker followed. “What’s cards got to do with anyth—“
“Do yourself a favor,” he said, shoving the ex-deputy onto the boardwalk, “and stay away from the poker tables. You ain’t got the stomach for it!” With that, he slammed the door and sauntered back to his desk.
The old chair squealed in protest as the sheriff slid onto its burled wood seat and leaned back, resting his boot heels on the corner of the desk once more. Unsheathing the hunting knife that hung from his leather belt, Carter began to trim his fingernails. “Like I said the day you ran off, W.C., you can run,” he whispered, moving the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, “but you can’t hide.”
Old Joe continued to sweep as a worried frown etched his brow.
***
Forrest Yonker headed straight from the sheriff’s office to the general store, where he bought himself passage on the next stage leaving Lubbock. Once he got to Kansas City, he’d buy a one-way train ticket to Baltimore, find some farmer with a nag for sale, and the rest would be like taking candy from a baby.
He rubbed the half-inch still-pink scar above his left eyebrow, the unconscious reminder of the beating Atwood had given him on the Baltimore dock. Years ago, when he was younger—and dumber—he might just have bought himself a bottle of whiskey, chanced another pounding in the hope he’d win this round…and trade W.C’s body for bounty….
But he was older now. Older, and wiser, too.
Atwood hadn’t been much more than a boy the day the jailer’s wagon overturned. But time on the run had sharpened his wits, had toughened him up, and Yonker had the scars to prove it.
Alone with his own thoughts, he didn’t mind admitting that Atwood scared him worse than any imagined monster. He’d come at him like a madman, teeth bared like a wild animal, bloodlust in his eyes. According to the stories, Atwood was sly, had outslicked every lawman who’d come looking for him. Rumor had it he’d earned the nickname ‘Widowmaker’. Yonker didn’t have a wife, but he didn’t relish the idea of being planted six feet under beside married men who’d tried to make a name for themselves by bringing in the elusive W.C. Atwood….
Like the child whose fear of the dark abates with the morning light, the passing time has a way of easing a man’s fears, and he’d headed straight back to Lubbock after the altercation on the dock. Half the reward money was better than no money at all. Let the sheriff puzzle out a way to get Johnson back to Texas. Then it’ll be Carter’s bones they bury out behind Calvary Baptist, whilst I count the cash.
Bravado now fully intact, Yonker scowled as he tucked a brand new box of shotgun shells into his rucksack. When are you gonna learn to keep your big mouth shut? he asked himself, slamming a fist into his open palm and cursing his own stupidity for having tipped Carter off.
Yonker rubbed his jaw and remembered how, after Atwood’s powerful punch, it had ached for days. The wanted poster said “Dead or Alive.” He’d rather be dead than admit what the thought of another beating from Atwood. Why risk it when he could take the fugitive down with one well-placed bullet, fired from a saf
e distance? Wouldn’t make a whit of difference to Horace’s widow if Atwood died at the end of a rope or at the business end of a shotgun. Dead’s dead!
His strategy was simple: Find Foggy Bottom. Find Atwood…and kill him.
Yonker peered down the muzzle of his double-barreled shotgun. Could use oilin’, he thought. Then again, why bother, when it would only take one shot.
With a satisfied smirk, he snapped the breach shut. “You can run, W.C.,” he said, patting the shoulder pouch that held the shells, “but you can’t hide….”
***
The telegram arrived the evening after Bess found him in the hayloft. Chance knew instantly that the message was bad news. What else could it mean, since only one man knew what name he’d been using since coming to Baltimore?
His heart clenched with dread as he admitted that deputy-turned-merchant marine-turned-bounty hunter, Forrest Yonker knew….
Chance accepted the envelope from the boy on the pony and handed up one silver dime. “Gosh, thanks, Mister,” the boy said, grinning at the generous tip.
But Chance didn’t hear him, for he’d already headed for the porch. Slumped in one of the twin rockers that flanked the wide, oak doors, he read the name on the envelope. WALKER, it said, and nothing more. Heart hammering with fear and dread, he tore it open and read:
CARTER AND YONKER HEADED EAST—STOP—PURDY.
For as long as Chance could recall, Joe Purdy had been Lubbock’s resident vagrant. Most of the time, the man had been too drunk to do much of anything useful, but he’d managed to sober up just often enough to push his big boar-bristled broom around town and earn some cash to buy his next bottle.
Once, the old sot saved Chance from his uncle’s wrath by putting himself between the man and the boy. Why Joe had deliberately accepted the lash of Josh’s meaty leather belt in his stead, Chance had never quite figured out, but the action earned Joe a place in his heart.
Between the ages of twelve and fifteen, he shared school lunches with the man. From the time Chance finished school ‘til the day he left Lubbock for good, as Joe slept off his latest binge, Chance replaced soured shirts and socks with the ones he’d secreted away the week before and washed down at the creek. It had given him a certain satisfaction, believing Joe didn’t have a clue who was responsible for the acts of charity. But on the night of Horace Pickett’s murder, he learned differently:
“I know you, boy,” Joe whispered through the barred jailhouse window. “Anybody who treats a good-for-nothin’ drunk the way you’ve treated me all these years ain’t no killer!”
Later, when he arrived safely in Acapulco, Chance had sent a telegram to the only person who seemed to give a damn about him: SAFE, SOUTH OF THE BORDER—STOP—HOPE YOU’RE CHANGING YOUR SOCKS.
Every town after that, he’d sent a similar bulletin. Joe had never taken very good care of himself. For all Chance knew, he’d been communicating with a dead man all these years. Still, in every new town, he’d plunk down his hard-earned coins to get a message to old Joe Purdy, because it felt good, believing that someone, somewhere, knew where he was….
Now, Chance said a quick prayer of thanks. Not only did this prove his old friend was indeed alive, he’d probably spent the cost of a bottle of cheap rye to send the telegram.
Sheriff Chuck Carter had never been one of Chance’s favorite people, but he was an honest man who took his job seriously. He hadn’t shackled Chance to the jailhouse wall ten years earlier because of a personal vendetta. Rather, he’d done it because according to the letter of the law, it had been the right thing to do. Chance would much rather have Carter on his trail than Yonker. At least with the sheriff, he’d get a fair shake.
Chance folded Joe’s message in half, in half again, and slid it into his shirt pocket. Then, to ensure it couldn’t slip out and fall into the wrong hands, he buttoned the pocket’s flap.
With grim determination, he set his jaw.
He’d known since walking away from that overturned wagon in the Texas desert that the day of reckoning would eventually dawn. Chance took a deep breath and surveyed the horizon, possibly his last chance to enjoy the beauty and tranquility that was Foggy Bottom.
He rose on shaky legs and headed for the bunkhouse, where he’d pack his meager possessions. Then he’d saddle Mamie—a Christmas gift from Micah—and head north, into Canada.
But first, he had a message of his own to write….
***
She’d dreamed of rose bouquets and long flowing veils and ruffled white dresses. He hadn’t come to dinner after their moments in the loft, but then, Bess hadn’t been surprised. Chance had always been a bit remote and distant, particularly when folks got too close.
For the second day in a row, she made all his favorite things for breakfast: eggs and thick-sliced ham, jam and bread, fried potatoes, and honey biscuits. She’d brewed the coffee extra strong, just the way he liked it, and added a dash of pepper to the biscuit batter, because she’d so often seen him spice them up at the table.
Bess had never minded the womanly chores that involved caring for the men of Foggy Bottom, but she’d never enjoyed it quite so much as when she prepared the food that would sustain Chance throughout his long, hard day. The Widow Rennick had certainly been on-target when she’d said “When the right man comes along, you’ll know!”
Bess whistled as she set the dining room table, hummed as she lined it with big steaming bowls of food. By the time she stepped onto the porch to ring the bell, Bess felt like singing. She knew the male mind well enough to understand that terms of endearment—and commitment—were difficult to speak. But it didn’t matter, because Chance had shown her how he felt. Someday, he’d say those three, wonderful words again, and next time, it wouldn’t be an accident that she heard them. For now, patience was the operative word….
She rang the breakfast bell, and one by one, the men filed into the dining room. Plates began to fill as serving platters were passed up and down the long, narrow table. How could Chance miss yet another meal, she wondered, and continue the hard pace he demanded of himself?
Once the hired hands had everything they needed, Bess strode determinedly into the kitchen, flung her apron onto the table and slipped quietly out the back door, carrying the plate she’d fixed him. She aimed to deliver it to the bunkhouse, and didn’t intend to leave until she’d watched him eat every last bite. When Bess knocked on the door, she heard the sounds of chair legs scraping across the wood floor.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“I’ve brought you breakfast.”
Silence.
Then, “I’m not hungry.”
But how could that be? He hadn’t eaten a real meal since breakfast, two days earlier. “Chance Walker,” she scolded, “I’m going to count to five, and then I’m coming in. So you’d better make yourself presentable.”
She tapped her foot on the flagstone walkway outside the bunkhouse. “One, two, three,” she said, her free hand on the tarnished brass doorknob, “four, five!”
Ordinarily, she did not enter the men’s quarters except to change their bed linens and mop the floor, and only then, while they were at work in the fields. She believed they deserved as much privacy as this crowded, eight-bed space would allow. It felt odd to be inside while the men were still within shouting distance. Felt odder still to be there with one of them present.
“I told you,” he growled, standing when she entered the room, “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, you don’t have to get all uppity about it. I thought you might enjoy a nice hot meal, since you haven’t eaten in so long.”
Chance couldn’t take another minute of watching her lovely face, pinched by the hurt his harsh tone had caused. Couldn’t take another minute of listening as she struggled not to cry. He crossed the room in three long strides, but stopped short of where she stood. He pocketed both hands and stared at the toes of his boots. “Didn’t mean to bark at you,” he said softly.
When she’d knocked, h
e’d been sitting at the rickety old desk, trying to explain why he had to leave her. Six sheets of paper, wadded up and tossed into the corner, proved how inadequate words could be at a time like this.
A time like this….
As he’d sat there, trying to pen his goodbye, he found himself knuckling his eyes. What would Matt and Mark have thought if they’d seen him, snuffling like an old crone as he tried to write the note that would allow him to sneak away without having to face her, directly?
She continued to stand there, napkin-covered plate balanced on one hand, the other fisted on her shapely hip, blinking back tears of her own. He could tell by the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her jaw that she sensed he’d started construction on a wall that would separate them. The quivering of her full lips told him she had no idea why.
If only he could tell her everything! If he could set the record straight, maybe she’d understand why he couldn’t stay. Maybe then she’d realize that if he didn’t go, she and Micah and the twins and everybody associated with the farm would face the same danger he’d been running from all these years. If only he could explain that his love for her was why he had to go.
He closed his eyes to the ‘if onlys’ and steeled himself to do what he must. For r Bess, the truth would set her every way but free.
Chance took the plate from her, placed it on the corner of the desk, then took the hand that had held it. Her fingers were still warm from the heat of the food, and he stroked her palm, knowing it would probably be the last time he’d touch her. He closed his eyes and sighed. Dear God, but life can be hard.
“Chance…what’s wrong?”
If he looked into her face, into that trusting, open face, he’d lose the last vestiges of self-control.
She pressed both hands to his cheeks. “I dreamt of you last night,” she said, her voice whisper-soft and sweet as fresh-pulled taffy.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t admit that he’d dreamed of her, too.
Bess tilted her head, tucked in one corner of her mouth. “You aren’t ill, are you? Not that I’d be surprised, the way you’ve been skipping meals….” She pressed her palm to his brow, then frowned. After a moment, she took a step closer and linked her fingers behind his neck, drew him near and kissed his forehead. “Mama used to say that’s a foolproof way to tell if someone has a fever. The lips are far more sensitive than the hands, you see….”