Now the smile that crossed his lips was humorless and tight. “He is a sheriff’s son. And when one has such a father, a thing or two get ingrained in your soul. Even more so when one loses that father in the line of his duty. Everything about duty, honor, and justice becomes far more important.”
A few scattered birds called out in the pre-dawn light, filling the silence between Diana and himself, though not with any comfort or substance.
Memories of years gone by assailed him, dark and anxious memories he had spent ages attempting to bury deep into the recesses of his mind. All too similar and all too terrifying to his current predicament, though the specifics were certainly of a vast difference.
The feelings were near identical.
So too was his feeling of helplessness. Only now he had the power and ability to act, very unlike then.
And act he would.
“Was that what happened to you?” Diana asked in the gentlest tone he had heard from any woman in his entire life.
This was where he would draw the necessary line. Distance would be his refuge, and Diana’s best interest would be his guide.
He cleared his throat and looked up at the sky, watching those rather vocal birds circle each other. “Something like that.”
The sun peeked over the horizon then, and Wyatt’s eyes were drawn to it.
There would be much to attend to before that particular sun sank into its cradle, and he was suddenly and acutely aware of just how limited those hours were.
The creaking and rolling of wagon wheels broke his intimidating reverie, and drew his attention back to the road.
Jesse Crofter’s ginger colored hair glinted in the morning light as he raced towards them, no sign of the casual, easy driver from days before. The wagon roared up the road, and Wyatt picked up the bags again, moving to the edge of the road, his anxious desire to be gone not letting him even pretend at patience.
“Are you going to jump aboard as he passes us?” Diana asked, sounding tired, but amused.
He could not reciprocate. “If I thought it would work.”
She laughed to herself, and he forced back the burst of warmth it elicited.
There wasn’t time for that. Not now, not today.
Jesse pulled to a stop before them. “Henderson.”
Wyatt nodded and tossed the bags in the back. He turned to Diana, all business. “You’re exhausted. It might not be comfortable, but why not ride in the back? You may manage a bit of sleep before we reach New Albany.”
She raised a brow. “With the speed we need to travel? Doubtful, but I’ll certainly attempt it.” She gave Jesse a stern look. “Kindly avoid as many bumps as you can. I doubt either of you would notice if I was flung out the back.”
Jesse smiled and inclined his head. “Just scream your head off, and I’ll pull aside until you can catch up again.”
Wyatt ignored the banter and lifted Diana into the back, ignoring her faint gasp as his hands grasped her waist and lifted her with ease.
He also ignored the pleasure such a grip afforded his hands.
Then he hauled himself into the wagon seat beside Jesse and nodded. “Let’s go. We don’t have a minute to lose, and I mean that in every sense.”
Chapter 8
The sun was beginning to set, and with it Wyatt’s last shred of reserve. The last several hours had been spent arranging matters with the very few people he could trust in New Albany, and seeing to the safety of the Walsh family.
There were still some hours before the train carrying the mob would arrive, but there was no telling how many would join the ranks locally. Without a similar gathering of evil, there was no way to know who in the town were among such vigilantes. All told, Wyatt could only trust Sheriff George and Jesse Crofter, and the miniscule number frightened him beyond any fear he had ever felt.
They would be outnumbered, outgunned, and outmanned, but if all was done according to plan, they would give the appearance of several more to their ranks.
What had shocked Wyatt more than anything had been the revelation that Mr. Chelsey had been beaten nearly to death only two nights before, dragged out of his house and left in the street overnight once the beatings had been delivered. The sheriff had nothing to go on with suspects, motive, or anything else, as the town was resolutely silent, as per usual, but the stench of alcohol wafting from Mr. Chelsey himself gave him some idea. With the self-righteous running their own version of justice into every obstacle they found, it would appear that the man’s drunken habits had finally reached an offensive enough level to be dealt with.
All the more reason to intervene for the Walshes now.
Diana had said little as he, Jesse, and the sheriff had paced around the ramshackle abode of the Walsh family, analyzing it for strengths and weaknesses. She listened carefully, but offered no suggestions, which wasn’t surprising. The house had only weaknesses, no strengths, unless one considered the broken windows on the ground floor to be convenient for defense.
Which, at this moment, he did.
As it happened, the abandoned barn on the property the Walshes had painstakingly purchased upon their arrival had been filled with an assortment of materials they could use to enforce their position, which had taken the bulk of the afternoon. The bed of an old wagon, the wheels having been removed at some previous time, formed a decent enough barricade and shelter for one, perhaps two. Several warped rails from what had at one time been a fence were constructed into a shelter that could easily have been mistaken for a small shed, perfect for distraction and diversion. Stones once removed to clear a field for farming became a very unusual formation in the landscaping of the house.
On and on it went until the Walsh residence began to resemble the oddest looking picture one had ever seen, though nothing at all that would have given anyone the idea that it was being summarily defended.
Wyatt wiped at his perspiration dampened brow and pulled at the front of his shirt, sticking to him after so much effort. They hadn’t been observed by anyone in the town, thanks in part to the George boys keeping watch for them at various points along the road to warn of any approaching. Diana and Eliza George had taken to removing things of value from the house with Mrs. Walsh, given the likelihood of its destruction during the whole affair, and Mr. Walsh, ashamed at what he had brought his family to, had worked silently along the men.
“Right,” Wyatt called out to everyone, setting his hands on his hips. “That’s as good as we can get.” He looked up at the darkening sky, now filled with foreboding clouds on one side. “I think it will begin to rain before long, and everything will get trickier when it does.”
The oldest Walsh boy raised his hand. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Henderson, but I have a thought. The main road splits off into a much smaller one to get to us, and that was formed upon a very slight rise in the ground.”
Wyatt tilted his head, unsure where the boy was heading with this. “Yes…”
The boy grinned. “It wouldn’t be too hard to make that rise more prominent on either side and narrow the way. And if we do it right, when the rain comes, it’ll make the sides of the rise a mite muddy and slick, if not form grand puddles of muck. The ground’s not particularly firm, and it could slow the devils.”
Now that was some clever thinking, indeed. Wyatt eyed the young man speculatively. “You think you could manage to accomplish that before it gets too dark.”
“Right enough,” he agreed quickly. “Sure’n, me and me two brothers could see it done, and afore you all finish supper.”
“Then get to it,” Wyatt said with a laugh.
The Walsh boys grabbed shovels and darted off as though this were all a game rather than a fight for their lives.
How their perspective would change before the night was over.
“And how will you keep your identities from the men attacking?” Diana asked as she sidled up next to him, watching the Walsh boys run. “Sheriff George has to remain here, and Jesse Crofter will still need to pass throu
gh for deliveries, not to mention the Walshes will no longer be safe here.”
“I don’t need your negativity,” he snapped. “We’ll be covering our faces, no one will know.”
“I am being realistic,” Diana shot back. “What will happen tomorrow night? Or the night after? What is to stop the town from believing that the Walshes themselves are fighting them? Are we to stay here forever and fight this off constantly?”
He looked down at her in near-outrage. “What are you trying to do?”
“Make you think clearly!” She shook her head, her arms tightly folded. “Wyatt, this isn’t sensible. Yes, we can make a stand and protect the family, but how long will three men and some clever tricks prevent disaster when so outnumbered? Why not send the Walshes away?”
“Because this is their home,” he insisted, tensing with every fiber he possessed. “They should not be run off because of ridiculous and unfounded prejudice.” He jerked his head towards the house and returned his attention to the distance. “Go and help Mrs. George prepare supper. We won’t have much time, and you and the Walshes need to be safely in the root cellar before anything happens.”
“An agent never hides from her assignment,” she muttered bitterly. “You told me so.”
He exhaled roughly, wanting to shake her and hold her at the same time. “You will not be hiding. You are protecting the Walshes. What if something happens to us and they find them all in the root cellar? You will be there to fend them off and see the family is safe.”
“Me and my one pistol against the entire mob that kills you, Jesse, and the sheriff. No pressure there.” She whirled away, her skirts whacking him on the leg in a strangely poignant sign of dismissal.
But he was decided, and he would not be moved. He was willing to give his life in defense of what was right, had dedicated his life to such a cause his entire life.
He was willing to step into his father’s boots to go out with the same sort of honor.
Tonight was as good a night as any.
Just a few hours later, the road was prepared, the Georges had returned home, except for the sheriff, and the Walshes were getting settled in the root cellar behind the house.
Diana stood nearby, watching the children file silently in, terror evident on their faces. Her own expression was set, and Wyatt couldn’t keep from staring at it. She hadn’t made another line of argument since earlier, and had cheerily encouraged the children about the fun of staying down in the root cellar, and what adventures they could have in their imaginations there. It was clear to him now that she did not believe a single word she had said to them, and knew all too well what possibilities lay ahead.
But the root cellar was well hidden. Even if the worst should happen, she and the family would be absolutely safe.
That was enough.
The sky thundered overhead, and a light rain began to fall. She didn’t even flinch as the rain started to dampen her blouse and dark hair. She continued to watch the family, and then her eyes moved to him. There was no recrimination in her gaze, and no anger to behold. A quiet resignation lay there, and it was somehow more painful than anything he had seen.
“We could just have them leave,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “It’s too late. They deserve this stand.”
Diana swallowed, her fingers trembling as they moved to push a lock of hair away from her brow. “And you? Do you deserve such a hopeless stand?”
He wouldn’t answer that. Could not. “Do you have your gun?” he asked roughly.
She nodded, her eyes steady on him. “Of course.”
“Where?” he tried, smiling just a little.
She did not return it. “Same place as always.”
Silence fell between them, and lightning lit the sky, creating stark shadows and making Diana somehow smaller and more intimidating at the same time.
If he stared much longer, he would find himself joining her in the root cellar.
“Time to get in, Diana,” he told her, his voice lowering of its own accord.
“Be careful,” she replied.
Now he was the one who nodded. “Of course.”
Diana stared at him for a long moment, then closed the distance between them, one hand seizing the back of his neck and pulled him down for a forceful, fierce, utterly dismantling kiss. Before he could do more than gasp, his hands flying to her hips, she had broken off, touching her brow to his, their noses brushing.
“Be careful,” she whispered again.
He swallowed and forced his hands to remain where they were as he nodded against her, entirely unable to speak.
She stepped away and moved towards the root cellar without looking back at him, closing the hatch behind her.
Wyatt McGrath had never been frightened of a woman before, but he freely, fully, and unabashedly admitted to himself that his feelings for his wife scared the living wits out of him.
If he were not facing his imminent death, he would very likely be focusing all his attention on removing any chance of annulling anything with her.
As it was, she would wind up a very well-protected widow, and no one would be the wiser.
He turned from the root cellar as the rain fell harder, and strode towards the front of the house, the beat of his heart pattering with all the snap of a soldier’s drum.
“Ready?” Jesse Crofter asked as Wyatt rounded the house.
Wyatt nodded, taking both rifle and pistol from him. “Ready.” He pulled the dark handkerchief from his neck up over his mouth and nose, and lowered his hat. “Positions.”
They waited in silence, the rainfall filling the air between them, a conversation they need not participate in. They could hear sounds in the distance, though nothing was clear enough to truly make out. All they could do was wait, and waiting for such a finale was maddening.
Wyatt was restless, and as he glanced over at the other two, barely visible to him from his position, he could see just enough to know they were feeling the same.
Jesse looked up at him and grinned ruefully. “Who are you really, Henderson? Nobody takes on a mob as a passerby.”
Wyatt laughed to himself and adjusted his stance slightly. “Can I trust you with my secret?”
“You trust me enough to die with me, so you decide.”
“The lad’s got a point,” Sheriff George called softly across the way as he methodically loaded his rifle.
Wyatt couldn’t argue with that. It was a good point, and if he was going to die, if they all were, it wouldn’t make any difference anyway. “I’m a Pinkerton agent,” he said without preface. “My name is Wyatt McGrath. I was sent here with Diana to look into stuff like this and see what’s going on.”
Jesse looked surprised, but the sheriff didn’t. “I’ve known Pinkertons,” Sheriff George commented. “Haven’t known any to be as crazy as what you’re doing now.”
“That’s not a Pinkerton thing,” Wyatt admitted. “I told you I was a sheriff’s son. My dad died because of a mob of drunkards and cheats. Shouldn’t have happened, and it’s nothing compared to what happened with your dad, Jesse, but it shaped me.”
Jesse shrugged, though his jaw had tightened. “Doesn’t have to compare. Not a competition.”
Wyatt nodded his thanks. There was a guilt that would never quite resolve surrounding his father’s death, but the details did not need to be revisited now.
A strange marching sound reached his ears and he turned, peering through the slats in his makeshift cover. Against the backdrop of the storm, the town in the distance, men with torches marched towards them, six and seven across, faces covered with masks, strange white caps on their heads. They were dressed in an assortment of clothing ranging from the poor farm laborer to the wealthy businessman, demonstrating a bizarre and twisted show of community and brotherhood.
Ropes were visible, some already tied in nooses, and a variety of weapons gleamed as lightning cracked and flashed across the sky. This wasn’t a mob to beat a man to death or to scare some
one into submission.
This was death itself marching to its intended victims, and with all manner of endings at its disposal.
Thunder and Wyatt’s own pulse pounded simultaneously in his ears as he exhaled and slowly cocked his guns. He laid the pistol down and set the rifle against his shoulder.
Soon they would be close enough.
Soon.
Suddenly the men at the edges of the front two lines began to slip and slide along the road, some grabbing onto the man next to them and some skidding down into the growing collection of water alongside. It was enough to congest the way, and to break up the sheer intimidation of the fleet of horror heading their way.
An Agent for Diana (The Pinkerton Matchmaker, Book 10) Page 11