by Avery, Joan
She raised the heavy wood bar and dropped it into the iron brackets on each side of the door. He had left his watch on the small bureau. It was open. The picture caused her heart to jump. It was a picture of her, one she had sent to Lizzie. She had promised Lizzie she would come to visit in the spring. In the spring, it had been too late.
And now Stephen had replaced Lizzie’s picture with hers. How long ago? For how long had her image been nestled close to his heart? If she had only known...
Where was he now? Keep him safe, Lord. Bring him back safely to me.
…
Stephen rode toward Silverton. He had promised Kate he would only talk to Morse. It was a promise that he was not sure he could keep. He would be a fool to risk losing Kate and Andy, and yet his hatred had run so deep for so long that even now it churned and roiled in his innards like a poison slowly working its deadly charms. He would like nothing better than to put a bullet into Morse, consequences be damned.
But he had promised Kate. And the thought of a life with her and with Andy was too sweet a dream to abandon.
Silverton sat sleepily in the valley. Twisting wisps of smoke arose from the handful of buildings. If he knew Morse, he would already be in the saloon. Other men had offices, but Morse had the town as his. There was no one who would raise a hand in Stephen’s defense if Morse decided to kill him.
Stephen rode down the rutted main street. The earth was hard with frost. Winter was coming. He needed to finish this and get Kate back to Denver before the mountains became impassable. The saloon appeared quiet as Stephen dismounted and hitched his horse.
Taking no chances, Stephen adjusted his Colt and cocked the hammer before re-holstering the gun. His spurs hit the rough wood planking of the raised walkway. The sound announced his arrival to anyone who might be waiting inside. Slowly he opened the saloon door, his ears attuned to any sound that might clue him to the presence of anyone inside. The door creaked in the morning cold. There was no other sound. A smoky haze from the previous night’s festivities still filled the saloon, but the smell of fresh cigar smoke told him he had not been wrong about Morse.
“Heard you were back in town, Worth. Didn’t think you were that stupid.” The familiar voice wound itself through the smoke like a serpent through tall grass.
Stephen took three steps into the quiet room. Chairs had been piled on top of all but one of the tables. In the back, facing the door, Zechariah Morse sat eating a plate of bacon and eggs. He ate in the European manner with his fork poised in his left hand. It was only one of his affectations. It had fooled many a man into thinking he was a gentleman. He had a small mustache that he waxed until it stood at attention beneath his large nose. His clothes were English, cut from the finest worsted wool. His cravat was silk and tied with care. Only the scar that ran like a piece of red twine across his neck above the cravat suggested that he was something other than what he wished people to think.
It was said that Morse’s former partner had sliced his throat. Too bad he had done such a poor job. Not only did Morse fatally end the partnership, but he survived to destroy many more lives.
Morse lay down his knife and fork. His hands fell to his lap and Stephen’s hand went to the Colt.
“You don’t think I’m stupid enough to kill you?” Morse raised the white pressed linen napkin to his lips and dabbed at them. A curling smile was only half hidden by the cloth. “My earlier efforts, while not entirely successful, managed to see you out of my hair for a considerable amount of time. I don’t think the law would see your attempt on my life as a constructive mark on your already stained record. Should you try again, I might rid myself of you permanently. That would be a pleasure I would thoroughly enjoy.”
Morse made a small effete signal with his right hand and two men appeared from behind the heavy velvet drapes that covered the entry to the stairs behind him.
He recognized them from two years ago. Hired help. They managed to keep Morse’s hands clean even when the blood flowed freely. Morse pushed back his chair and rose from the table. His heavy brocade satin vest was a garish anomaly in the morning light. It was the only touch that suggested that Morse was not to the manor born.
“So why have you come, Worth?”
“I’ve come to warn you.”
“Warn me, how considerate. What is it that you’ve come to warn me about?”
“It’s not over.”
“I think it is over. Your reputation is tainted, your friends no doubt have abandoned you. Your wife”—Morse shook his head mournfully even as his eyes glinted with malevolence—“sadly is dead. I think it is time to return to England.” He paused only briefly. A sneer warped his thin lips into an ugly smile. “But I have forgotten. You are a Remittance Man. You are not wanted even in your beloved England. What got you sent here, Worth? An affair with a man’s wife, a bad gambling debt? Tsk, tsk. How unfortunate that once again your reputation is in shreds. I think it is time to move still farther west. I understand that they welcome men like you in Australia. It used to be a penal colony, I believe.”
“You’re not fit to be called a human being, Morse. I wouldn’t want to waste a bullet on you. It would be too kind. Know this. I’ll use every legal means I have to see you hang. It may not be today or tomorrow, but someday you’ll hang, and I’ll be there to pull the trap.”
Morse sobered slightly at Stephen’s words. Stephen fought for control. His hand still lay on his Colt. It would be so easy to end it here. So easy.
He forced his hand away from the gun. “It’s not over, Morse, and it won’t be over until you’re dead.”
He strode toward the door almost knocking over a lone customer in a plaid suit who was trying to enter.
Chapter Twenty-three
Metal hit rock with a force that sent shards flying. One caught Stephen as he scrambled off his horse to take refuge behind a boulder. It sent a sharp shooting pain through his shoulder.
He did not have to ask who was shooting at him. Morse had wasted no time. Another shot whizzed past him to bury itself into an aspen. The shooter’s aim was high. He cursed himself for being so stupid. His mind had been on Kate.
He rolled across an open stretch of ground to a larger boulder. His move only drew fire from the one source of gunshots. There had been two men in the saloon with Morse. Where was the second man?
He rose from his crouch and fired in the direction of the first assailant. A shot followed his, but again it came from the same location. If there had been two men, one would have circled behind him, but there was no one behind him. Where had the second man gone? Kate. God no. Not Kate.
…
Kate’s horse whinnied. She stopped her packing. The Winchester was against the wall, next to the bureau. She picked it up and cocked the mechanism. Then she listened. All was quiet. She moved cautiously to the window and peered out. The horse had quieted. There was no one in sight.
She was being foolish. She released the hammer and replaced the rifle. Curiously, she pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. Lizzie’s things still lay there. She fingered the fabric of a petticoat. Her sister was with her in the room. She could feel her. Every pore, every hair on her body told Kate that Lizzie was here.
The horse whinnied again, this time sounding more disturbed than last. Kate reached for the rifle.
She returned to the window. Standing far enough back so that she remained in the shadows, she peered out. The horse worked nervously at its bridle, trying to free itself from its tether line strung between two aspens. She searched the surroundings. There was no movement. No sign of anyone approaching.
The horse grew more nervous and with him Kate. Perhaps it was a mountain lion again. Or another animal—a bear. But deep inside of her, Lizzie’s voice was whispering a warning. The animal outside was human.
At first there was only the sun glinting off his rifle. Then she saw the man. He had a brazenness about him that told her he knew she was alone. Lizzie... Lizzie... Lizzie... Her unvoiced litany was ha
lf invocation, half prayer.
…
Stephen calculated the odds of his making it to his horse alive. His shoulder was bleeding badly. A terrifying sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him.
He should never have brought Kate. What had he been thinking?
It was all his fault. He had been too late to save Lizzie. Was he doomed to repeat the same fate with Kate?
He wouldn’t let it happen again. He worked his way along an outcropping of rock until he could gain higher ground. His attacker still had the advantage, but whoever pursued him was cautious. The man had moved slightly lower but there had been no more shots.
Stephen could no longer afford to be cautious. He listened, his ears attuned to the slightest shift of gravel, the softest footfall. There was nothing. He climbed higher.
The man would not have given up the chase. He would have to face Morse if he failed. That would drive any man to risk death.
A shot grazed by his ear so close that it seared his flesh and left a bloody mark on his fingertips when he touched the wound. Still he could not see his pursuer. Too many rocks, too many trees. They offered a hundred places to hide.
He had to get higher still.
He clawed at the handholds the rocks offered, moving up the steep hillside. With any luck, the man was still above him and without a good angle to shoot; if not he was now an easy target.
His left arm was growing weaker. The blood had soaked his shirt, leaving it clinging to his sweat-covered body. Sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes. Only a few more feet and he would crest the top. He was weak with the exertion and loss of blood. He lunged over the top panting for breath only to find himself staring into the barrel of a rifle and the leering face of one of Morse’s henchmen.
“Come on up. Weather’s mighty nice up here. Wouldn’t want you to miss such a beautiful day, considerin’ it’ll be your last.”
Stephen pulled himself up and struggled to a standing position.
“Don’t try nothin’ fancy. I’d just as soon shoot you. But Morse said it was to look like an accident and I ain’t about to ruffle Morse’s feathers on this one. Seems like you did a good enough job of that.” The man spit a wad of tobacco on the pine needles at his feet. “He’s certainly a mean bastard. All dressed up like a gentleman while he’s ornery as sin inside. Makes you wonder about human nature now, doesn’t it?”
Stephen tried to stall as he searched for an escape. “I’m constantly astounded by human nature.”
“You too, huh?”
Stephen needed to somehow distract the man. “For example, why you would face the risk of hanging while Morse sits comfortably in Silverton?”
“Well, it’s an odd thing. But mainly it’s the booze and women. Morse got the best of them and that’s about all that interests me.”
The man stepped forward, the rifle never wavering from his chest. “Now if you’d kindly take a step back.”
“There’s no room to move back.”
“I think you’re catching on real good now. It would be a real tragedy if you fell and broke your neck, now wouldn’t it? I’ll bet that pretty lady of yours would be mighty sorry for your loss if she weren’t about to be joinin’ you real soon.”
Stephen’s hand moved reflexively toward the Colt.
“Wouldn’t want you to mess up Morse’s little scheme by getting a bullet in you, but it could happen. If I was you, I’d take my chances with the fall.”
He realized his options had dwindled to almost none. “But I’m not you, am I?”
He reached for his Colt. He was not fast enough. Before he could clear the revolver from his holster, a rifle shot broke the silence.
His assailant looked almost as surprised as he was. But the look of surprise in his pursuer’s eyes soon became glazed with the unction of death as the man crumpled to the ground.
Stunned, Stephen stared at the man on the ground and the pool of red that formed underneath him, pine needles floating in its crimson tide.
“Sorry about that. Would have been here sooner and saved you grief, but my horse got a stone in his shoe and I had to finish the last of it on foot.” The stranger panted with the exertion of talking. He removed his derby hat and pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his plaid suit to wipe his sweaty brow.
Stephen was still in shock. “Thank you—?”
“Patrick Gilhooley’s the name. Pinkerton man. Been following you for days now. Lucky for me I happened to walk into that saloon this morning.” Stephen shook the man’s hand.
“I don’t understand.” He removed his own handkerchief and used it to staunch the blood flow from his shoulder. Thankfully, the shard had left muscle and bone intact.
“Been following you since St. Louis. Work for Mr. Barker. George Barker. His niece tried to fire me, but the old man said to keep on your tail and so I did. Lucky for you, I was in the saloon when Morse ordered his men after you. I thought I’d just follow in case you could use some help.”
Stephen barely heard the man. “Thank you, Mr. Gilhooly, but I’ve got to go. Morse has another man. I think he intends to kill Katherine Barker.”
Gilhooly nodded. “Take this scoundrel’s horse. He tethered him down about a hundred feet. I’ll walk down to yours.”
Stephen half ran, half stumbled down the rocky incline. Using his good hand, he freed the horse and threw himself on. He spurred the horse into a gallop and the wind caught his whispered prayer, sending the entreaty heavenward.
…
Kate backed more deeply into the shadows. The man had not seen her in the window. He must have left his horse at the base of the hill because he walked up the small embankment spotted with pines in front of the cabin. He made no effort to hide behind the trees. He might have been on a hunting trip, but for the way his eyes always found their way to the cabin. If he was hunting, she was his prey.
Mixed with a fear for her own life that left her mouth dry as parchment, there was another growing fear—that Stephen was already dead. Had Morse succeeded this time?
She cocked the Winchester and raised it to her shoulder. She would have to wait until the man was closer. She was not sure of her aim, and once she fired, he would know she was armed and prepared to defend herself.
He picked his way up among the pines and rocks. Here and there he offered her a clear shot. Still he was too far away.
She peered through the sight, her finger tight to the trigger. He was there and then gone. She lowered the gun. He had disappeared into a wash. She waited but he did not reappear.
She listened. The horse had stopped its whinnying but pawed the ground anxiously. He was close. Very close.
A thud on the roof distracted her. The sound was too slight to be a man. She looked out the window. There was no sign of anyone.
Then she smelled it.
Smoke.
It oozed through the cracks in the roof boards, spiraling down as if seeking her out.
“Where’s Worth?” The demand was bellowed from somewhere very near. “I got business to settle with him.”
Perhaps Stephen wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least. Kate tried to keep her wits about her. All was not lost. There was still hope.
“Don’t mean you any harm, lady. Just come on out and tell me where Worth is and I’ll be on my way.”
“I won’t come out until I can see you.”
A laugh was his response. “I ain’t stupid. All I have to do is wait here a spell and you’ll be happy to come on out, I expect.”
She coughed as smoke filled the upper third of the small cabin. It seeped in through every crevice in the roof. She crouched lower, gasping for fresh air. She couldn’t go out. The first traces of heat against her cheek alarmed her. Above her, the fire had broken through the roof. It was only a matter of time.
If she could hold off long enough, he might get bolder. Might come closer to the door. If he did...
She coughed again. The smoke stung her eyes and seared her lungs. She had to hold on longer. She defied a f
ate that would see her repeat the tragedy of Lizzie’s death.
“Well, I guess if you ain’t comin’ out, I’ll just have to come in.”
The man was close, so close that Kate could no longer see him in front of the cabin. Time was running out.
She heard the report of a rifle. The bullet didn’t penetrate the door.
She raised her own rifle. Ready for the final attack. The impact of the door as it was kicked in forced her to take a step back. Her finger on the metal trigger was wet with sweat.
She could not breathe.
Stephen burst into the smoke-filled room. The gun fell out of her hands and she collapsed to the floor in relief.
“Kate! Oh God, Kate!” Stephen rushed to her.
Scooping her up, he carried her out of the burning cabin, stepping over the lifeless body of the man he must have shot.
He set her down on a bed of pine needles. “My love, are you all right?” He pushed her hair away from her face. “Kate, Kate... Please, answer me.”
It was a command that demanded an answer. He was alive. Thank God. He was alive.
“Stephen.” The word was half spoken, half coughed.
“Kate.” He pulled her to him and rocked, repeating her name over and over.
Epilogue
“Mama. Mama.”
“Lordy, lordy. It’s them. Dusty, come quickly. They’re back. They’re back.”
Kate didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as Andy toddled across the polished floor of the foyer. She ran forward and scooped the boy into her arms.
“Have you been a good boy while I was away?”
“Sure, he’s been as fine a boy as you could ever want. Haven’t you, Andy?” Peg was in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands covered, as usual, in flour. She was wiping them furiously on her big apron.
“Well, I’ll be darned. If it ain’t them after all.” Dusty had come in through the kitchen and was now behind Peg in the doorway.