Jodi Thomas

by When a Texan Gambles

  THREE

  SARAH FOUGHT DOWN PANIC AS SHE FOLLOWED DENVER into the saloon across the street from the hotel. The place looked far worse than Sarah imagined such places would look. The odor of rotten whiskey and stale cigar smoke hung in the air like thin, colorless moss. Her eyes watered while she battled to keep from breathing deeply.

  The floor was filthy with the worst spot being a three-foot area around the bar’s only spittoon.

  When she first peered around Denver, the stained floor was all Sarah saw. Slowly she became aware of people moving through the thick air like shadows on a wall. There were men dressed in the color of dirt and women whose faces seemed painted on. But, mostly, they were shapes without solid form. She heard the clank of glasses, the shuffle of feet, the murmur of questions no one bothered to answer. They skirted her, staying well away, as though they thought she might turn and strike like a rattler.

  The door creaked just behind her. The volume of the crowd lowered slightly as the mob turned to register the new arrival.

  “Move out of the way, lady.” A boy bumped against her as he elbowed his way inside. “I don’t want to miss seeing someone gun down Sam Gatlin.”

  Denver backhanded the boy with one mighty blow, sending him flying. “Have a little respect for Gatlin’s widow.” She smiled down at Sarah and nodded, indicating she’d straightened the youngster out, right and proper.

  Without reacting to being called widow, Sarah glanced at the kid to make sure he was all right.

  The boy didn’t look hurt, but he appeared terrified as he backed away from a lone man sitting at a nearby table.

  “Gatlin!” the boy whispered and joined the other silhouettes lining the room.

  Sarah followed his stare. The man who’d married her last night sat so still she wasn’t sure he was real. His dark eyes, full of anger and pain, met hers.

  She’d never wanted to run so badly in her life. She didn’t care where. Any place was bound to be better than here.

  But she didn’t run. She couldn’t. She was the devil’s wife. No matter what he’d done, or was, she owed him. He saved her from a life in prison and she hadn’t even bothered to thank him. It wasn’t his fault the dress reminded her of Harriet Rainy. He had tried and all she’d repaid him in was trouble.

  No one else in the room moved as Sarah walked toward Sam Gatlin. “Good morning,” she said calmly as though she’d said the words to him a hundred times over breakfast.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink, though sweat dripped from his forehead.

  She knew he’d been stabbed. Denver told her. But he didn’t look a fraction less powerful or deadly than when she first saw him.

  “Sarah.” He said her name low, as though he didn’t want the others in the room to hear. “Would you pull the knife out of my back?”

  She slowly circled behind him. The wide handle of a hunting knife stuck out from just below his left shoulder blade. It had sliced through the leather of his vest. Thick drops of blood dripped from the bottom of the steel to his waist.

  “I hate blood,” she mumbled, thinking of all the times she’d cleaned after Granny Vee had patched up someone, or delivered a baby. Even though Sarah scrubbed, the one-room cabin smelled of blood for days.

  Glancing up at the twenty people watching from the other side of the room, she asked Sam, “Why hasn’t someone pulled it out before now?” How could people simply move away from a man with a knife in him?

  Sam didn’t turn to look at her, but remained perfectly still. “They think ...” He took a moment before he continued with slow, measured words. “They think I’d kill the man who pulled it out, if he makes it hurt more than it already does.”

  Leaning around him, she tried to read his face. “And would you?”

  “I might,” he answered between clenched teeth.

  “What about me? Will you kill me if I make it hurt more?”

  “That’s not possible,” he answered.

  “But will you kill me?”

  A hint of a smile pulled up the corner of his mouth. “I might.”

  She straightened and moved directly behind him, not knowing him well enough to guess whether or not he was kidding. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know him any better. From the looks on the faces of the twenty or so bystanders, everyone in the room believed him capable of such an act.

  “Well.” Sarah gripped the handle of the huge blade with both hands. “I never wanted to live long enough to worry about growing old.”

  The knife didn’t budge.

  Sarah took a deep breath and widened her stance. “If I get this out, you owe me one, Sam Gatlin.”

  With a mighty tug, she yanked the knife from him, tumbling backward with the effort. Thick, dark blood bubbled from the opening on Sam’s back.

  Sarah stared at the knife and fought to keep from fainting. How could a man not be dead with such a wound?

  “Is it out?” Sam’s voice sounded tired.

  “It’s out,” she answered, surprised he couldn’t tell. She hoped he didn’t ask how the wound looked as she wiped the blade on a dirty rag.

  “Sarah”—his voice came low, mixed with his shallow breath—“come closer.”

  Moving cautiously, she marveled he still had the strength to kill her. The blade sliding out of his flesh must have been painful. He was a big man. Killing her would probably take little more effort than snapping a match between his fingers.

  She thought of using the knife to protect herself. But threatening a man with the weapon that had just been embedded in his back seemed overly cruel, even for a murderer like herself.

  “Yes?” she whispered close to his ear.

  He still didn’t move, and she wondered if he guessed that any action on his part might be his last.

  “I’d owe you another favor if you can get me out of here before I hit the floor.”

  His words were so low, she wasn’t sure if she heard them, or just thought them.

  Determination flickered in his eyes and Sarah understood. The pain didn’t matter, or the fact that he was losing blood with each beat of his heart. His life, and probably hers, depended on him being strong enough to walk out of this place.

  Carefully she lifted his right arm and placed it over her shoulders. He braced himself against the table and stood, leaning heavily against her.

  She didn’t bother to ask if he could make it. She knew he would. He had to. “Well, Sam,” she said for all to hear. “We’d better be going. You said you’d like to get an early start.”

  Slipping her hand around the back of his waist, she felt the warm blood against the leather of his vest. It trickled through her fingers and puddled on the floor behind them.

  The men staring at them didn’t offer to help. They watched like vultures waiting for an animal to fall. She didn’t know Sam Gatlin. Didn’t understand what he was about or why he was so feared. But as they moved across the room, she made up her mind that if Sam fell, she’d somehow pull his Colts from his gun belt and kill any man who stepped toward them.

  Denver held the door. “The wagon’s loaded and ready. I even tossed your old dress in there in case you need something to change into on laundry day.”

  The huge woman made her voice sound higher, brighter than her face told Sarah she felt. She was a lady used to putting on a show.

  “Sam ordered the wagon supplied before he got stabbed. Phil’s pulling it up now.” Her hand patted Sarah’s arm as her voice lowered. “Everything’s packed, including a loaded rifle under the seat, hon. The hard part’s over now. He made it out of the saloon. Won’t many men be brave enough to follow.”

  “How much do we owe you?” Sarah wondered how she could repay the woman.

  “Nothing,” Denver answered, backing into the street ahead of them. “Sam’s account is still black with me and with the store owner. He’s traded with us many a time over the years.”

  As the two women lifted him into the back of a wagon, the bartender hurried out with several bottle
s of whiskey. He helped lay Sam facedown on a bed of blankets and straw, then placed the Colts he wore on either side of the blanket close to Sam’s hands.

  “Just in case you need them,” the bartender whispered as he moved away.

  There looked to be enough supplies for a month, maybe longer. The bartender turned to Sarah and added, “I’ll see the rented buggy gets back to Cedar Point with the first folks I know heading that direction.”

  Sarah had no time to worry about the buggy but nodded her thank-you anyway.

  Denver Delany opened one bottle of the whiskey and dribbled it across Sam’s wound. He didn’t make a sound. Sarah guessed him beyond feeling the pain, for his eyes were closed. It had taken the last of his reserves to walk out of the bar.

  She watched as Denver covered the wound with several towels and wrapped him with a dusty buffalo robe. The scraggly hide looked so nasty Sarah doubted the original owner would wear it.

  The bartender handed Sarah two more bottles of whiskey. “He’ll be needing this when he wakes up, ma‘am. If he wakes up.”

  Sarah nodded. She placed the knife on the bench before she climbed into the wagon. If trouble followed she knew little about using a rifle, but the knife might prove useful. She didn’t bother to question whether or not she would be able to defend herself. She had once before. She would again if need be.

  Denver’s bloody hand patted Sarah’s fingers. “Go north to the breaks, hon.” She pointed with her finger. “Then turn west on the first trail you come to. When any sign of a road runs out, you know you’re close to Satan’s Canyon.” She leaned against the seat of the wagon and lowered her voice. “You’ll come to a shallow river. Turn your horses upstream, staying well in the water so as not to leave any tracks. When there is a fork in the river, always stay to the left. Before dark the canyon walls will rise up around you. You’ll think it’s a dead end, but keep going until you spot a clearing. That’s where I’ve left supplies a few times, so Sam’s cabin must be close. He never told me where it was; he wouldn’t.”

  Denver winked. “When you get there I reckon you’re in the mouth of Satan’s Canyon, so don’t let your guard down.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah wasn’t sure she should have thanked the woman at all. “I’ll be careful,” she answered as she told herself the place could not be as bad as Denver pictured it.

  “Don’t mention it.” Denver stepped away and added, “To anyone. If he’s alive when you get there, he’s got a chance. If he’s dead, bury him and don’t tell a soul, not even me.”

  “But why?”

  Denver smiled. “ ‘Cause legends aren’t suppose to die.”

  The saloon owner pulled her huge shawl from her shoulders and circled it around Sarah. “Don’t trust anyone, hon. Far as I know, Sam Gatlin doesn’t have a friend in this world.”

  “He has one,” Sarah said. “You.”

  The large woman shook her head. “Today maybe, while he’s flush on my accounts, but don’t put no stock in me. I’ve made a habit of letting folks down all my life.”

  “But not today.” Sarah took the reins and gripped them tight so her hands wouldn’t shake.

  She smiled at the owner of the bar. “No matter what happens in the future, I’ll remember what you did today, Denver Delany.”

  Denver returned the smile, then headed back inside mumbling, “You’ve been warned, hon. You’ve been warned.”

  FOUR

  SARAH FOLLOWED DENVER’S INSTRUCTIONS. WHEN she reached the river, she turned upstream, fighting the horses along with the current. The water wasn’t deep, but the rocky bottom made it unpredictable. The reins tugged and jerked so many times Sarah feared they would pull her arms from their sockets. Within an hour her back felt as if it might snap with the next sudden twist.

  Finally, with a bend in the river, bluffs replaced shoreline. The river branched out, and she veered to the left. She knew that if anyone followed, she would have appeared to vanish amid canyon walls lined with different colors of the earth as they rose.

  Heavy clouds roofed the cliffs on either side, creating a misty foglike visibility. Sarah didn’t bother to look ahead as she pulled the shawl over her hair. She watched the water’s edge, trying to stay deep enough in the river so the current erased the wagon’s tracks along with the echoes of the horses’ splashing.

  Every few minutes she glanced back at Sam. He swayed with the movements of the wagon. Dampness claimed the comers of his blankets. Sarah feared he would be soaked by the time they reached his cabin. She wrapped the edges of her shawl around her palms to keep the reins from cutting into her hands and pushed on, fighting time as well as water.

  As Denver foretold, the walls of the canyon rose around them, offering protection from the wind, but blocking the pale sunlight that filtered through the clouds. With the shadows came a damp cold that penetrated to her bones.

  Sarah’s fingers froze to the curve of the rawhide strips. Sam groaned once in pain, but there was no way she could stop to check on him. The shoreline grew rocky and so jagged not even a horse, much less a wagon, could climb from the water. With no room to turn the wagon around, she had to move on.

  Sarah knew if she didn’t reach the clearing before dark, she would have no chance of finding Sam’s cabin until morning. He needed to be inside, out of the weather; near a warm fire.

  Shadows layered on one another as she finally twisted with the river one last time and spotted a small clearing between cliffs. Sensing safety, the horses bolted toward the dry land. Sarah almost tumbled from her perch on the wagon’s bench.

  The wheels slid across the sandy bank, then stopped on solid ground. For a moment, Sarah did nothing but breathe. She’d made it to Satan’s Canyon. She looked back toward the stream, watching, listening. If she’d been followed by someone who also knew the secret to turn left, they’d be rounding the bend soon. Denver had warned her not to let her guard down.

  Nothing. No one followed.

  Sarah climbed down from the wagon and faced the clearing. Knotted, ancient cottonwoods thirty feet from the water’s edge greeted her like twisted sentinels. She saw no opening between them large enough to drive the wagon through. Branches crisscrossing above would knock riders from their mounts, and the huge roots would break any wheel that tried to trespass.

  She paced in front of the trees with wide steps that crushed the layers of dried leaves. Waist-high brush blocked her path in the few places she might have walked between the cottonwoods.

  “This must be the clearing.” She glanced back, hoping for a comment from Sam. When none come, she added, “But where’s the cabin? You said you had a place. Denver thought it was near here.” Sarah circled, her arms wide. “But where?”

  Sarah waited, half expecting him to answer, but he didn’t move. She unhitched the horses and let them graze on the grass that grew almost to the water’s edge. Grabbing a dead branch, she dragged it toward the wagon. “I don’t care if this is the wrong clearing. Do you hear me, Sam Gatlin!” she yelled, suddenly enraged. “I don’t care. I’m not getting back in that water today. So I guess we are camping right here. Any objection?”

  Dumping the branch beside the wagon, she stormed back for another, angry at the entire world. Nothing ever went right. She’d started out without a father or mother to love her. The one man who’d ever asked to marry her up and died before she had time to get used to him sleeping beside her. She had nothing to her name but an ugly dress and a drunk husband so mean someone stabbed him in the back. She didn’t have to think about this not being her day; this wasn’t even her lifetime.

  “And I’m sick!” she yelled at the body wrapped up in a buffalo robe. “Bailee says I’m fragile. I should take care of myself.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Fragile people can die anytime, you know.” She pulled another log forward. “They’re breathing one minute and the next thing they’re gone. Snuffed out like a candle with too much wax and too short a wick. That’s me, husband. Near death and I still h
ave to haul the wood for a fire so you won’t die on me, too.”

  Back on the wagon train she’d tried wishing herself dead, but it appeared neither heaven nor hell wanted her, for she still breathed.

  Glancing at Sam, she remembered something Lacy said about how every person has to live until they’ve fulfilled their destiny.

  Sarah picked up an armful of sticks. “I find it hard to believe my purpose for being on this earth is to marry a drunken, mean outlaw of a man who can’t leave my sight for five minutes without getting a knife stabbed into his back. I haven’t seen much of this world, but if you are the best man to come out of that hat back in Cedar Point, the whole population is in big trouble. I could have done better marrying the old sheriff. At least he was breathing, which is more then you are probably doing at the moment.”

  As usual, Sam made no comment.

  In less time than she thought possible, Sarah gathered enough wood for a fire and unloaded several of the boxes. Denver hadn’t lied about the supplies; with care they might last a month. Everything needed had been packed.

  Everything except matches.

  Sarah mumbled to herself as she went back through the stash, hoping she’d overlooked them. She came across the knife she’d pulled from Sam’s back. After washing it in the river, she tucked it away with care.

  It was dark when she finally gave up looking for matches.

  “We can survive without a fire, I guess,” she told him, as if he listened. “It probably won’t freeze tonight, and you’re covered with blankets.”

  When he didn’t answer, she added, “I’ve been cold before, you know. But this kind of damp cold just might be the death of me.”

  Curling into a ball at the back of the wagon, Sarah remembered the nights Harriet Rainy used to lock her out of the house. She’d pretend like she wasn’t cold ... like she wasn’t hungry ... like she wasn’t all alone....

  She would build a home in her mind where the cupboards were stocked and a fire blazed in the hearth. Sarah imagined lace curtains on the windows and a wool blanket beside her very own chair. She’d think of details down to the way the air smelled of fresh bread, and how it warmed her lungs when she took a deep breath.