THE INNOCENT: A Cowboy Gangster Novel

by CJ Bishop

“So…this is all relatively good news, right?”

  Devlin smiled. “Yes. Like I said, there is a risk, but we have great surgeons here and I’m confident he’ll be fine.”

  A huge weight lifted from Axel’s shoulders; he didn’t know if he could have looked Kelly in the eye and told her that the one person she loved most in this world was going to die.

  •♦•

  Passing through the large cold room this time, Clint’s mind wasn’t on the horrendous stink. He walked into the kitchen. The two men remained unconscious. He left the kitchen and went in search of the back room where Axel had found the kids’ bodies.

  Clint checked all the rooms he came upon and found them empty. It didn’t take him long to find the room he was looking for. An explosion of anguish and rage hit him at once, his fierce jade eyes seeing red even as they glossed with tears. He stood rooted to the floor in the open doorway, unable to look away from the frozen little bodies. His hand slid over his mouth and held. At least one that he could see appeared to be about Jules’ age. Clint’s deadly stare shifted to the closet, wedged closed by the chair. His fists dropped to his sides and began to flex. If he removed the motherfucker from the closet right now, he would beat him to death. There was no fucking way he was leaving this life that easy.

  Leaving off thoughts of Barron, Clint uprooted his feet and walked slowly across the room to the bodies. Discarded like bundles of trash. There had been pain and tears in Axel’s voice. Clint looked away for a moment as his heart knotted painfully. He looked out the window, his eyes distant and vacant as they skipped over the patches of snow and an old broken-down barbed-wire fence that lay half on the ground, the posts weathered and rotted.

  Taking a deep breath of the chilled air, Clint reached down and picked up one of the bodies—a little girl—and took her to the nearest bed where he laid her down and covered her respectfully with a sheet. He went back for another—a boy this time, ten to twelve years old—and placed him in the next bed.

  He returned to those still lying beneath the window; three more. His hands shook as he picked up the third body. When he bent over, a tear dripped off his face and landed on the icy cheek of a little girl next in line. Clint took the third child to another bed and covered him. The room had been set up like an infirmary with multiple beds in a row. A place to transfer the sick…but not treat them. Dumped in the room and left to die alone.

  Clint sank to his heels beside the remaining two children. His tear sat in a perfect drop on the little girl’s face. Her gaunt features gave the impression she had been dead for some time, but truthfully, the kids in the living room looked nearly as bad as her. Clint picked up the child next to her, whom she had been leaning against, and transferred the child in his arms to a bed and came back for her. His teardrop that was balancing on her cheek dislodged and rolled into her eye and ran down her temple as her head tilted back, giving the impression she was crying. He carried her to an empty bed, tears distorting his vision as he very gently placed her on the mattress. It was hard to determine her age. Seven or eight, maybe? She was so emaciated she could have been years older.

  “Take your place with the angels, little cherub,” he whispered and caressed his knuckles across her cheek and over her temple, the dampness of his own tear lingering on her icy skin…then another tear—not his own—seeped from the corner of her eye. Clint froze, his heart stalling then suddenly kicking up faster and faster, beating at his chest wall.

  No…it wasn’t possible…

  His hands shook badly as he cupped the child’s face in his palms and lightly ran his thumbs over her closed eyes. Another tear dripped out; he hadn’t imagined it. “Jesus…” he breathed shakily and hurriedly removed his jacket, wrapping it around the little girl. He scooped her up and rushed her back to the living room, taking a seat on the hearth next to the fire, closest to the warmth of the flames. She was hardly more than skin stretched over bone, barely recognizable as a fully developed human being.

  Oh fuck, how can she even be alive? He stroked her cold cheeks and her head shifted a fraction, turning to his touch. He flattened his hand on her face and with what tiny bit of strength she had left, she pressed into his palm, seeking comfort…perhaps one last touch of love to know she wasn’t alone in her final moments in a world that had treated her so cruel.

  Clint felt helpless; there was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. She was too far gone. He felt Misha and Billy’s eyes on him, heard Misha’s quiet sobs as she watched him hold the dying child. He lowered his head and touched her cold brow, holding her close to his warm body. “I’m here, angel…you’re not alone.”

  Her eyelids fluttered once and fell closed, then again…and opened halfway. Clint stared into the prettiest emerald eyes he’d ever seen. She tried to open her mouth but barely managed the slight parting of her blue lips. A faint sound emerged. It didn’t sound human…but like that of a baby animal…wounded and dying.

  Clint held her eyes as his own formed tears that dripped onto her sunken face. “You’re beautiful, angel,” he whispered with a tremor. “Too beautiful for this world.” He didn’t know if she could hear him or if she was even truly coherent…but her tear-filled eyes told him she was there.

  Her arm shifted inside the jacket and Clint peeled open the coat. She was trying to lift her hand, so small and shrunken. He helped her, and she brushed her thin, brittle fingers along his jaw, rough with a sprinkle of beard stubble. He gently covered her fragile hand and pressed it to his lips. Her throat worked as she tried again to speak as her little fingertips drifted weakly across his lower lip…like a baby exploring the face of its loving parent. Another sound emerged as she struggled to form syllables. He could feel her sagging deeper into his arms…her life fading away. As her eyes closed for the last time, one tiny word floated out on a final soft exhale. “Daddy…”

  Clint gently hugged her small body against him and buried his face in her neck…and broke down.

  “Her name was Grace.” The small, quiet voice came from right beside him.

  Clint raised his head. The young boy from earlier stood next to him, the vacant look in his eyes gone as he gazed at the little girl.

  “Before she got sick,” he whispered with tears in his eyes. “She kept saying that her daddy would come save her. She never stopped believing it. After she got sick…she said he would come. That he…that he wouldn’t let her die alone.” The boy raised his damp eyes to Clint’s face. “She thought you were her daddy.”

  •♦•

  When Axel received the call from Clint, he expected it to be the confirmation of Cochise’s arrival.

  It wasn’t.

  His cowboy was hurting inside but he couldn’t tell him why. Not wouldn’t…but couldn’t. Axel felt helpless being so far away when he knew Clint needed him there, right now. He could feel Clint’s fury boiling beneath his anguish and wondered if the three men at the orphanage would survive until Cochise and the others arrived. Axel didn’t care; if Clint needed to butcher them by himself, then so be it. There was nothing he could do to them that would be too brutal. These beasts masquerading as men deserved no mercy. Not one fucking shred.

  “Clint?” Axel’s voice shook with emotion, tears thickening his words. “Baby, you do whatever you need to do. And when you come home tonight…” his chin trembled. “…I’ll hold you in my arms and be your escape from these horrors you’re facing right now. We don’t have to talk, we can just hold onto each other and feel.” He wiped his eyes as they refilled, the pain in his cowboy emanating through the phone. “I’ll be at the door, waiting for you. And if it’s dark out there…I’ll leave the light on.” A quiet sob caught in his throat. “I’ve got you, baby…and I’ll never let go.”

  •♦•

  Clint laid the phone aside and stared down at the still child in his arms. The boy and two new kids were the only ones who seemed fully aware of the little girl’s death. Misha slid off the sofa and tentatively approached Clint. She reached inside her c
oat and took out a small book. When she turned it over, Clint saw that it was a Bible.

  “My mom gave me this,” she whispered with a tremor. “She was sick, and she knew she was going to die. She marked some scriptures for me to read after she was gone, to help me understand that…that she would be okay, and we would see each other again someday, in heaven.” Tears glimmered in her eyes and she held out the bible to Clint. “Maybe if you read one of them, it’ll make you feel better too.”

  The young girl’s face swam before Clint. “Why don’t you read it to me.”

  Misha lowered her eyes and opened the book, slowly turning to the marked pages. She paused toward the end of Bible. “This one was my favorite.” Her voice shook. “Because my mom was in so much pain before she died.” She looked at Grace, understanding that the little girl must have suffered much torment before her death as well.

  “Go ahead,” Clint said thickly.

  Misha nodded and wiped the tears from her eyes, blinked a couple times, then recited softly, “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” She closed the book, held it a moment, then laid it gently on Clint’s jacket that wrapped Grace. She leaned over and kissed the child on the forehead. When she looked up, fresh tears shimmered in her eyes. “She’s in heaven now…with my mom.”

  The boy came closer and kissed Grace’s cheek. “No one can hurt her anymore.”

  When Clint was finally able to let go of Grace and laid her on a loveseat at the edge of the room, he left her wrapped in his jacket, took the bible, and walked out of the living room. He didn’t go into the other part of the orphanage, but outside instead and sat on the porch step, unmindful of the bitter cold biting his arms and face. He opened the small Bible and flipped to the marked passages, then began turning to random pages. He believed in God but wasn’t familiar with the Bible, only knew what others quoted from time to time. The pages fell open to the book of Luke and he was captured by the words before him. He read the scripture a few times over then marked the page and closed the book.

  Clint stood up and carefully tucked the Bible into the back pocket of his Wranglers then walked around to the rear of the large structure and tromped through the patches of snow toward the broken-down barbed-wire fence.

  Chapter 22

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Barron jerked awake, smacking his head on a hard surface. “Fuck.” Blackness engulfed him. His face and head throbbed like a bitch. What the fuck happened? Then he remembered; the cowboys had shown up…posing as buyers. He’d been sure he could take the younger one, but the fucker hit a hell of a lot harder than Barron had anticipated.

  Shifting in the confined space, he searched for a way out. Where the fuck was he? He felt around and worked himself to his feet, and bumped his head against a clothing rod. The closet. The little fucker had stuffed him in the closet. He found the door handle and twisted, but the door refused to budge.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  What the hell was that? He paused and listened. Hammering. Someone was hammering.

  Barron shoved against the door. It wasn’t locked—the knob turned freely—but it had been wedged closed. He gripped the handle and slammed his shoulder against the door a second time, harder than before. Whatever was securing the door held fast. He growled and bashed the door again…and again…and again—then suddenly tumbled out onto the floor as the chair dislodged and the door flew open. He struck down with a sharp grunt then scrambled to his feet. The room was empty except for…

  The dead kids had been placed on the beds and covered with sheets.

  They were not his concern.

  The hallway reverberated with the distant echo of forceful hammering. It was coming from the main room where they kept the kids. Barron avoided that room and took an alternate path to the kitchen. If the cowboys had subdued Olson as well, it was likely they’d gotten Vinny also, but he had to check.

  Silence met him from the kitchen as he approached the swinging door and cautiously inched it open a hair. He spied both Olson and Vinny on the floor, hands and feet bound up. It wasn’t them tied up that shocked him—but the mess they were lying in and…Vinny’s face. Barron stepped into the kitchen and almost fell on his ass as his foot slipped in a pool of tacky blood. “Fuck.” He moved around it and his expression twisted with disgust and disbelief at the sight of the cook’s horribly blistered face, hardly recognizable as human. “What the fuck…?”

  The large pot used for the gruel was on the floor tipped over, the repugnant odor of the slop heavy in the air. The shit was all over Vinny’s head and chest as if he’d tried to dive into the muck. Or someone had dunked him.

  “Hey,” Barron spoke low and nudged Olson. “Wake up.” The older man’s leg was bleeding through a tightly wrapped strip of cloth, and a small blood trail led back to the tacky pool Barron had slipped in. “Olson.”

  The man groaned, started to open his eyes, then clamped them shut again in sheer pain. An ugly knot swelled his temple, the bruised flesh creeping across his brow and into his eye. “Barron…?” he rasped thickly. His forehead pinched, and he forced his eyes open a crack. “I thought…I thought that fucker…got you.”

  Barron indicated his bloodied face. “Yes and no.” He looked at Olson’s leg. “What happened to your leg?”

  “Fucker…shot me.” He strained against the cords binding him and winced in pain. “Get me loose.”

  Barron stood up. “What the fuck did he do to Vinny?”

  “Shoved his head in the pot of boiling slop,” Olson wheezed.

  “Is he…alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Olson mumbled. “He was making sound when the bastard knocked us out. Get me loose, now, before the fucking psycho comes back.”

  Barron grabbed a knife from the butcher rack and returned to Olson. He squatted down and started to slice through the cords when he realized the hammering had stopped. Shit.

  The kitchen door swung open. “Drop the knife.”

  Barron gripped it tighter and slowly rose up, turning toward the large cowboy.

  “You’re out of your cage.” The look in the cowboy’s fierce eyes was that of a madman. In his right fist, he clutched a large metal hammer. “Animals aren’t allowed to run loose in a zoo. Too dangerous.”

  “Just stay back, motherfucker.” Barron raised the knife. “I swear to God, I’ll fucking gut you.”

  “Come on, then, you sick fuck,” the cowboy growled. “You better hope your aim is spot on, because if I get a hold of you first…” He left it at that as he lifted the hammer, letting Barron figure out the rest.

  “Get him, Barron!” Olson choked. “Gut that fucker!”

  The cowboy moved in cautiously. “I’m gonna remember that,” he drawled at Olson.

  “You’re not gonna remember shit with your guts dumped all over the floor.” Barron didn’t have much room behind him. If the cowboy backed him up against the counter, he would be at a disadvantage.

  “You keep talking,” the cowboy murmured, daring him to act on his threats. With each step the cowboy took, Barron retreated an equal pace.

  “You think you scare me?” Barron sneered. “Like they say, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.” He lunged forward, striking out at the cowboy.

  He didn’t see the cowboy move, just felt the hammer connect with an explosive pain that detonated through his pelvis as his hip bone shattered and dropped him to the floor with a scream. He lost grip on the knife and the weapon skidded across the tiles. Barron gagged on his screams, unable to move, his body racked in unbearable pain. “Fuck!”

  The cowboy stood over him, the deadly hammer clenched in his fist as thick veins slithered up the man’s powerful forearm. Without a word, his face twisted and he brought the hammer down a second time, crushing Barron’s right ankle, then his left.

  Gargled screams erupted out of him as he writhed and convulsed on th
e floor.

  “Can’t have you running off,” the cowboy muttered and walked out.

  •♦•

  Kelly ate her soup slowly, fearful of making herself sick. She’d forgotten that food could taste good. Savannah watched her as she sipped a soda, warm sympathy in her eyes. Kelly noticed something else in her eyes as well, that something that said maybe life hadn’t always been easy for her, either.

  “Did you grow up in a nice family?” Kelly asked quietly.

  That look in the other girl’s eyes deepened and she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Our parents…they weren’t good parents. The state took us from them and put us in an orphanage.”

  “An orphanage?” Kelly felt sick at the thought of this lovely, sweet girl in a place as horrid as she’d been in.

  “Not one nearly as bad as the orphanage you were in,” Savannah assured. “But…bad things still happened.”

  Kelly lowered her spoon, her heart breaking at the implication. “Were you…”

  Savannah shook her head and tears filled her pretty eyes. “Not me.” She swallowed thickly. “My brother. Abel. He…he took my place to keep me safe and…and untouched.”

  Her vision blurring, Kelly whispered, “How…how long did it go on?”

  Savannah’s chin trembled. “Two years.” She plucked a napkin from the dispenser and dabbed her eyes. “But we finally ran away, and Max took us in, then Abel met Devlin and they fell in love, and now we’re all one big happy family.”

  Kelly wondered how much she was leaving out of her story but didn’t ask. What really mattered was that they got their happy ending, wasn’t it? “Who’s Max?”

  The question brought a big smile to the girl’s face, vanquishing the pain of the past. “Just the most awesome, amazing dad ever. Him and Horatio, his new husband.” Warm love glowed on Savannah’s face. “They’re the beloved patriarchs of our ever-expanding family.”