by Linda Broday
“You were born,” the sheriff snapped. Without more, he turned and walked to the front of the jail.
* * *
Panic pounded in Brett’s temples like a herd of stampeding mustangs long after the slamming of the two iron doors separating him from freedom. This proved that the sheriff had targeted him solely because of his Indian heritage; he had no crime to charge him with.
His crime, it seemed, simply was just being born.
Dizzy, Brett collapsed onto the bunk as his hat fell to the crude wooden floor.
Movement in the next cell caught his attention. Willing the room to keep from spinning, Brett turned his head. He could make out a woman’s form in the dimness. Surely his pain had conjured her up. They didn’t put women in jail.
He couldn’t tell what she looked like because she had two faces blurring together, distorting her features.
“You’re in pitiful shape, mister.”
Since his bunk butted up to the bars of her cell, she could easily reach through. He felt her cautiously touch one of his moccasins.
“Checking to see if I’m dead?” he murmured.
“Nope. Do you mind if I have your shoes after they hang you?”
Brett raised up on an elbow, then immediately regretted it when the cell whirled. He laid back down. “That’s not a nice thing to ask a man.”
“Well, you won’t be needing them. I might as well get some good out of them.”
“They aren’t going to hang me.”
“That’s not what Sheriff Oldham said.”
“He can’t hang me because I didn’t do anything wrong.” It was best to keep believing that. Maybe he could convince someone, even if only himself. “I think he was joking.”
“Humor and Sheriff Oldham parted company long ago. He’s serious all the time. And mean. You don’t want to get on his bad side.”
“Wish I’d known this sooner. You sure know how to make a man feel better,” Brett said dryly, draping his arm across his eyes and willing his stomach to quit churning. “What is your name?”
“Rayna.”
“Who stuck that on you? I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s a made-up name. My father is Raymond and my mother is Elna. My mama stuck ’em together and came up with Rayna. I’ve always hated it.”
“Got a last name, or did they use it all on the first one?”
“Harper. Rayna Harper.”
“Forgive me if I don’t get up to shake hands, but I’m a little indisposed. I’m Brett Liberty.”
Blessed silence filled the space, leaving him to fight waves of dizziness and a rebelling stomach. Keeping down the contents seemed all he could manage at present.
Rayna appeared to have other ideas. “Where did you get those Indian shoes, Brett? I’d sure like to have them.”
“My brother.” His words came out sounding shorter than he intended.
“Sorry. I’ve been in here for a while by myself, and I guess I just have a lot of words stored up. Sometimes I feel they’re just going to explode out the top of my head if I don’t let some out. What are you in here for? I couldn’t hear too well.”
“For being born, I’m told.” Brett was still trying to digest that.
“Me too.” Rayna sounded astonished. “Isn’t that amazing?”
Brett had a feeling that no matter what he’d said, she would say the same thing. He wished he could see her better so he could put a face to the voice. Even though the conversation taxed him, it was nice to know he wasn’t alone. Maybe she’d even hold his hand if he died.
That is, if she wasn’t too busy trying to get his moccasins off instead.
“Why do you think it’s amazing?”
“Because it makes perfect sense. I figure if I hadn’t been born, I wouldn’t be in here for picking old Mr. Vickery’s pockets.”
“So you’re a pickpocket?” Surprise rippled through him.
“Nope. I’m a spreader of good. I don’t ever keep any of it. I take from those who have and give to the have-nots. Makes everyone happy. Except me when I get thrown in the calaboose.”
“You’re a Robin Hood.” Brett had seen a copy of the book about the legendary figure at Fort Concho. He’d learned it so he could share the tale with Toby, Rand’s adopted son. Brett had taken the six-year-old into his heart and loved spending time with the boy.
“I’m a what?”
“A person who goes around doing good things for the poor.”
“Oh. I guess I am. It makes me so sad that some people have to do without things they need and no one helps them. This past winter, my friend Davy froze to death because the only place he had to sleep was under a porch. He was just a kid with no one except me to care.”
Rayna’s big heart touched Brett. She seemed to speak from a good bit of experience. “Do you have a place to sleep whenever you’re not in here?”
“I get along. Don’t need you to fret about me. Worrying about them putting a rope around your neck is all you can handle. Do you reckon it hurts a lot, Brett?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Hopefully he wouldn’t find out.
“I’ll say a prayer for you.”
“Appreciate that, Miss Rayna Harper.”
Pressure on the bottom of his foot made him jump. He raised his head and saw that she’d stuck one bare foot through the bars and was measuring it to his.
“Stop that,” he said, drawing his legs up. “The doctor’ll be along soon. I’m not going to be dead enough for you to get them.”
The next sound to reach his ears was sawing and her soft, “Oh dear.”
“Why did you say that? What’s wrong?”
“The sawbones had best hurry or you won’t be needing him. They’ve started building the gallows.”
That ticking clock in his head had taken on the sound of tolling bells.
Two
Brett must’ve lost consciousness. Panic gripped him when he came to. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or why he was behind bars.
When it came flooding back, he called, “Rayna, are you still here?”
“Oh dear Lord, I thought you were dead. You haven’t made a sound for hours.”
“Not dead yet, so don’t get your hopes up,” he joked weakly.
The iron door separating the cells from the sheriff’s office rattled. Footsteps sounded, then a key grated in the lock to his cell. He turned his head to see a slight, spry man carrying a black medical bag.
“Doc?” Brett murmured.
The doctor hurried to the bunk and felt Brett’s forehead. “Sheriff, he has a raging fever. This bullet has got to come out. I want him transported to my office right away.”
Brett heard the sheriff’s gravelly voice. “Nope. Ain’t leaving here.”
“Get me some light then,” the doctor snapped. “Lanterns. Three of them plus a pail of clean water and some cloths. And quick.”
“A lot of fuss for a stinking half-breed,” the sheriff grumbled.
Doc turned Brett onto his belly and pain shot like a thunderbolt through him. He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood to keep from crying out. He couldn’t suppress a moan though.
“It’s all right, son. Not everyone in this town shares the sheriff’s views. I’m going to take care of you.”
Brett relaxed for the first time since this nightmare began. His mind drifted like a lazy cloud on a summer’s day. His ranch and beloved horses filled his mind. The smell of lush, sweet grass surrounded him, and the vivid blue sky stretched overhead as far as the eye could see.
Please help me get back to the Wild Horse. The thought of not seeing his beloved ranch again brought the sting of tears. The Wild Horse was the one place where he’d ever been happy and safe.
“Will I die, Doc?”
“Not if I can help it, son.” The docto
r sounded reassuring at least.
By the time the sawbones finished examining the wound, the sheriff was back with lanterns. Once the doctor could see, he set right to work, first producing a bottle of whiskey from his bag and holding it to Brett’s lips.
When Brett tried to refuse, the kindly man pressed, “You’ll need something for the pain when I remove the slug. Don’t try to be a hero.”
Finally, Brett accepted a drink but instantly regretted it. The liquor left a burning trail down his throat to his belly and released a fit of coughing. “No more. I’ll deal with the pain. Just get on with it.”
“As you wish.”
A few seconds later, Brett regretted his decision. The pain was far worse than anything he’d experienced, even in the orphanage when Mr. Simon took off his belt and whipped him as he curled into a ball on the floor.
He heard screams and realized they came from him. And then everything went black as he slipped beneath murky, swirling water.
* * *
In the next cell, Rayna plugged her ears with her fingers to block out the noises. A drop of water fell onto her dress and she realized she was crying.
The Indian was in such agony. And she couldn’t help.
His plight told her he was one of the have-nots, like her. Though she’d only just met him, it would kill a part of her if he died. He reminded her of a wounded animal—like the hawk she’d secretly cared for years ago after a storm snapped its wing in two.
Her father had raised a ruckus when he discovered she’d hidden the hawk in the wagon amongst the pile of bones. He’d cursed her, then yelled that bone-pickers had no business trying to be softhearted. Their only job was to collect the bleached buffalo skulls and fragments left behind after the hunters had passed through. The pickers received eight dollars a ton when they delivered them to be shipped back East where factories used them to make bone china and ground them into fertilizer. That eight dollars barely kept them fed.
Raymond Harper had made her dump the hawk out beside the trail, saying that nature would take care of things.
Rayna shut her eyes against the memory of how it squawked and hopped around, desperately trying to fly. Her father calmly took out his gun and shot it, then turned to her. “Now quit your sniveling.”
Six months ago, after he went to sleep, she finally ran away.
The lonely expanse of prairie was better than staying with him. Anything was better than being a bone-picker’s daughter. Bone-pickers had no soul. But she did. She did her best to make sure of that.
The doctor was muttering to himself in Brett’s cell, sounding very frustrated. She guessed he was having a hard time finding the bullet fragment.
“Can I help, Doc?” she asked softly.
He whirled. “Rayna child, I didn’t know he’d thrown you in jail again. Yes, I wish I had your good eyes. I can’t see as well as I used to.” Doc Perkins left Brett’s cell and returned a moment later with Sheriff Oldham.
“I’ll open her cell, but she better not try to escape. I hold you responsible for her,” Oldham muttered.
“For God’s sake, Sheriff, you have the door separating the cells from your office bolted. They don’t even have a window.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
The minute the key turned in the lock, Rayna rushed out and into Brett’s cell. “Tell me what you want.”
“The bullet fragment, child. There’s so much blood. Take these forceps and see if you can get it.”
Rayna took the pointed metal instrument from the doctor. He held a lantern up high. She stared at the open wound and again thought of that hawk. She couldn’t save that bird, but maybe she could save Brett Liberty.
With a trembling hand, she moved the torn, raw flesh aside, trying not to gag. So much blood. She took a deep breath and blocked out everything except her task. Repeated tries found no success however.
Tears of frustration trickled down her cheeks. She wasn’t a failure. She wasn’t. And she wasn’t going to give up.
Minutes ticked by and Brett’s breathing became more and more shallow. She had to do this, not only for him, but for herself.
Finally, the light glinted off a piece of metal. Grabbing onto the spent bullet with the forceps, she pulled it out and dropped it into a tin pan beside the bed before she could lose it inside him again.
“You did it, child. He may well owe his life to you.”
“Do you think Brett will live?”
“He has a lot better chance now.” He took the stained forceps from her and dropped them into the pan with the fragment. “I’ll wash the wound and you can help me apply a bandage. Did you know you make a fine nurse?”
It was news to her that she made a fine anything. She was nothing but a picker. Of bones, of pockets, and now of bullet wounds.
“I’m glad I could help. He seems nice.”
Doc Perkins dipped a cloth into the water and began cleaning away the blood from Brett’s shoulder. “I agree. He’s not a monster to be locked up like some wild animal.”
“I don’t know why the sheriff wants to hang him.”
“Hate. Pure hate. His entire family was massacred by the Comanche when he was a boy. Oldham never got over it.”
Rayna rolled Brett onto his side so the doctor could get to the blood that had run down to the thin mattress beneath. Minutes later, she helped wrap the wound with gauze overlaid with strips of muslin that they tied together.
Doc stood back. “We’ve done all we can for him. The rest is up to the good Lord.”
“Thank you, Doc. I’ll sit with him as long as Sheriff Oldham will let me.”
“I’ll tell him I’ve ordered you to.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m guessing your life has always been between hay and grass, but you have a big heart. That’s plain to see.”
“I do care, and that’s a fact.”
The room felt empty after he left. She sat on the edge of the bunk and touched Brett’s dark hair. It was soft just as the hawk’s feathers had been.
She sensed a wound much deeper than that left by the bullet. One that had scarred his soul. Her brother had once told her that kisses held magic, healing. They never had for her, but maybe they would for Brett.
Rayna lightly traced his lips with her fingertips. She could steal a kiss and he’d never know. It was too tempting. She’d never kissed anyone before without being forced. Just one time, she wanted to know how it felt because she wanted to. Bending her head, she gently placed her mouth on his.
It felt nice. Real nice.
So much that she tried it again.
* * *
Brett forced his eyes open, then promptly shut them against the glare of the lanterns. Why were there lanterns there? Where was he?
Someone moved beside him and a cool hand touched his forehead.
“Who?” he murmured.
“Rayna. Don’t you remember?”
Images of his flight from the posse, the bullet slamming into his back, and the jail in Steele’s Hollow came flooding back. “Is this a wake? Am I dead?”
“No, silly.”
“What are you doing in my cell?” He tried to joke. “Did you escape so you could steal my moccasins?”
“I thought about it. I do believe they’re the right size if I stuff the toe with newspaper.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” he muttered, but his lips curved a little against his will.
The light finally allowed him to see her clearly. He couldn’t say she was especially pretty—not traditionally so, in any case—but her cloud of auburn curls reminded him of the flames of a campfire on a cold night. Her eyes danced with mischief. Their color was as difficult to nail down as she was. One minute they were blue, the next green. They changed with each movement. They, he decided, were beautiful.
As he pondered that, sleep overtook him again.
The next time he woke to find a hand in his trousers. His head jerked around as he flared back into full consciousness. “Trying to pick my pockets now? I’m afraid you’ll be sadly disappointed. I’m one of the have-nots.”
Color flooded Rayna’s cheeks. “I was only giving you something.”
Brett threw his long legs over the side of the bunk and, with great effort, struggled to a sitting position. “Giving me something? Now that’s a new wrinkle.”
“It’s true.” She sat down beside him.
“Then I suppose I need to see what you left in my pocket. Does it bite?”
“Good Lord, what kind of a person do you think I am?”
“God only knows.” He allowed a smile as he stuck his hand in his trouser pocket and found a small object. He pulled it out. It was a smooth piece of wood that someone had carved into the shape of a heart. He stared into her blue-green eyes and raised a brow.
“You need it more than I do,” she said. “My grandfather carved it a long time ago. It’s always brought me good luck.”
Brett fought the impulse to laugh and, except for a quirk of his lips, managed to keep a straight face. His gaze swept the iron bars, the plank floor, and the grim windowless space. “Yes, I can certainly see that this brought you all manner of good fortune.”
Rayna twisted a piece of her dirty, threadbare dress. “Well, it did before I got here to Steele’s Hollow.”
He caught the quick glisten of tears before she looked down. He took her small hand in his. “Thank you,” he said softly. “It’s the best present anyone ever gave me.”
“So you’ll keep the heart? It would mean a lot.”
“In that case, I can’t refuse.”
He tucked the small heart into his pocket. “You never told me why you’re in my cell.”
Her hand curled inside his. “I was helping Doc. He can’t see well and had trouble locating the bullet fragment, so he got the sheriff to let me try.”
“Then I owe you a debt of thanks.” He squeezed her fingers impulsively.
He took in the woman who’d saved his life. Both delicacy and strength showed in her face. It seemed apparent that she’d had her share of disappointments. Still, it hadn’t beaten her down. She had plenty of spunk and then some.