by Jillian Hart
He ambled into the livery and pushed a greenback at the blacksmith who owned the place. The kindly faced, older man gave a nod of respect, nodded toward the gelding waiting patiently and looking both well-rested and bright-eyed from the quality meals he'd been rewarded with for his valiant behavior last night, saving both of their lives and turning fast so the sharpshooter's bullet went wild, while Winn's had hit its mark. He wished he could rest the gelding and give him more leisure, but he could not guarantee how this would end.
He mounted up, listening to the rise and fall of little boys' laughter sailing in on the icy breeze. He paused the horse in mid-aisle, looked over his shoulder and spied a trio of boys walking down the road on the back-end side of the livery barn, tossing snowballs at each other good-naturedly and having a fun time. They disappeared, walking out of his sight toward the residential streets, their voices fading into the ache of memory as he thought of his son and felt like he was drowning in sorrow. Grieving him wasn't easy. Neither had been walking away from Saydee. Her memory, so very different, lingered like a room occupied in his heart, and he bowed his head, wishing he could have had the life to have spent with her.
The gelding walked quietly on into the storm, where rain mixed with ice and snow, making the progress slow and dangerous. He kept his eyes peeled sharp and his senses sharper, paying close attention to his surroundings and the hard punch of warning in his gut that he was getting closer to the danger, to the man hunting to kill him.
Midway between towns, following Brant's trail back to the town of Blue, back to Jack, he caught sight of another horse joining him. He recognized the horse's uneven gait and loosening horseshoe print and he knew Brant's sharpshooter was back on the job. Well, it looked like luck wasn't with him, not now. He bowed his head against the hard wind and damp and pressed the horse harder, riding fast to meet his fate.
37
"There, thank you for helping me put up my sweet horse in his stall for the night." Saydee tugged the scarf from around her neck and hung it up on the peg alongside where she'd hung her rain-dappled coat. "Uncle Stan is right, you have a good way with horses. Romeo loved you. He doesn't take to just anyone. He's very finicky."
"I've got my pa's know how, that's all." Jack shrugged one shoulder as he pushed the door closed and unbuttoned his rain-damp coat. He politely dogged her compliment, but looked happy at it, even for a boy who'd just lost his father forever.
The cold, hard feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that Winn would never be returning, never coming back to love them both. It was a feeling that settled in when he left, and with every tick of the clock and every breath she took deepened and grew more certain. Their time together had been like a dream, something not a part of regular, everyday life, but a separate snippet of a dream not meant to last or be part of her lifetime. And neither did it for Jack.
She winced at the loud cacophony emitting from the shepherd who dashed into sight looking as if he'd fallen asleep on the couch and was still groggy from all his pleasant dreams. "Goodness, Pete, stop barking or you'll make us hard of hearing, including yourself."
Saydee hoped that would get Jack to smile, who quietly hung up his coat and went down on bended knee to let the dog kiss his face. Her heart warmed at the boy attempting to smile and couldn't resist adding, "I think Pete missed you really bad today. He sure must love and adore you."
"I love him more. I can't believe I've got my own dog."
"I know the feeling, even if my ears are ringing."
The boy bowed his head, hiding his response, but still no smile. Saydee carried her bag around the table and counter end and into the kitchen. The lamplight didn't reach to the stove, so she set down the bundle and reached for the match tin. "I'll have the fire roaring and supper warming in no time. Would you like more cocoa, Jack?"
"No thank you, Miss Saydee." He polite unwrapped his arms from around Pete's neck and stood up, scuffling into the light in the eating area. His cowlick stood straight up with static electricity from his knit cap, so endearingly tousled and little boyish.
She resisted the urge to reach out and smooth those errant tufts of hair down. She didn't know the boy that well yet, but one day she knew he would be the son she'd never had. That put a soft warmth in her heart, when it was so cold and feeling shattered, and likely that would never mend. She knew love like what she'd shared with Winn didn't happen every day, or even more than once in a woman's life. Unable to endure the loss, she tucked down the raw sorrow and did her best to concentrate on what she could do for her beloved one's son.
"Let me get the fire going and supper will be warm in no time." She lit the wick and shook out the match's flame. Light danced and the flame strengthened and the lamp glowed golden, illuminating the cozy kitchen. She knelt down, not sure why the back of her neck tingled or why she heard the dog's restless paws clicking on the floorboards pacing back into the parlor where there was no light and nothing but banked coals in the hearth. The damp cold radiating in from the rest of the house as she fed kindling to the coals in the cookstove and flames leaped, immediately crackling and sputtering. Heat licked across her face as she added small, dry sticks of wood and the growing flames consumed them, snapping and crackling. There. She left the door ajar to feed the flames and to keep an ear on them so she could add larger pieces of dried cedar.
"What are you trying to show me, huh, girl?" Jack's voice echoed in the empty-feeling rooms as he paraded after the dog. "Did you have a good day without me, huh? I missed you."
Whatever happened, Saydee didn't poke her head around the corner to peer down the length of the room and into the parlor, but she guessed at the boy's soft chuckle of delight that Pete had granted him several doggy kisses. It was satisfying to see the dog making the boy so happy, and to know that her dog had such a kind and fine boy to love him, too. That's what every good dog deserved, a sweet child of his own.
Here's hoping that Jack liked the meal packed up for two. She gave thanks for her wonderful job and loosened the crock lid of the still warm chicken and dumplings. Well, that would take very little to warm up, it just needed ten minutes or so in the oven and it would be piping hot. The butter coated green beans would tempt him to eat, she hoped, and slipped the sourdough dinner rolls onto a baking sheet to rewarm, and boy, did they smell good. Where had the butter gone? She hunted down her crock, finding it where Aunt Peg had left it in the pantry and not in the cupboard, and she smiled and left the butter bowl near to the stove so it would soften. Brr, the house felt chilly and she couldn't get warm. Maybe it was that way because her mind couldn't stop missing Winn.
She reached up into the cupboard to for two plates and set them on the counter near the cookie jar. She tugged out the silverware drawer and counted out two sets of flatware and smiled, listening to Jack's soft murmuring. "You are a good boy, yes, you are, Pete, a very good boy."
She smiled, set the knives, forks and spoons on top of the stack of plates and turned around to check on the fire in the stove. Yep, it was about time to add some sticks of wood, but before she could reach for them a clattering and clinking behind her had her checking over her shoulder. "What are you doing, Jack?"
"I'm gonna set the table for you, Saydee." He grasped the piles of plates topped by silverware and lifted it with both hands off the counter. "I promised my pa that I would be a good boy and do all I could to help you for taking me in. I know all about you staying in that orphanage with my pa when he was a boy. He knew your brother real well."
"Yes, and I know he would never want his good boy to have to live as sorrowful as we all were in that orphanage. So I'm very glad you're here, and so is Pete."
"I'm really glad I get to have a dog as a friend here. I really like dogs. And horses, too." He set the plates down carefully on the table.
"I bet if we ask Uncle Stan if he can get you your own little mustang. Romeo wouldn't mind having a friend to share his stable with and Stan can teach you to ride and everything. Why don't we ask him that in the
morning?"
"Okay! I'd sure like that. Thank you." The boy brightened enough to drive a shade of sorrow from his dark eyes. He industriously and capably took a handful of silverware and set it on the table.
Well, that was one step made. She filled the stove with wood, and the lamplight danced as the wind gusted, rattling the windows and doors and the stove pipe gave a small puff of smoke. She closed the door, straightening, and thought of the icy rain falling and thought of her Winn out there, fighting through the weather and worse. Had Brant found him? Or had he managed to make it over the pass last night and was safer having the upper hand in his tracking pursuit of them?
She hoped he'd found shelter. She wished she could touch him one last time, have one last kiss, make love all over again. Her heart felt too shattered to beat and she reached for the oven mitts to slip the food into the oven, but her dog's sudden sharp bark! bark! ringing through the house stopped her.
Pete's ruff stood straight up and the shepherd streaked into the room. What was wrong with the dog? She'd never seen him act that way and before she could set down the platter and mitt to investigate, the back door flew open and slammed hard against the inside wall. A shadow moved into the reach of the light and she saw two men, one with a knife blade gleaming in the lamplight and the other raised his gun and sited it on her, straight at her face.
"Move and you're dead, lady," he bit out, thumbing back the hammer.
Fear spilled like ice into her veins. Time slowed to a crawl as she blinked, too afraid to move and yet her hand was lifting toward the boy on the other side of the counter, turning around to stare in fear at the men dressed in denim and army jackets, the brass buttons on the cuffs of their sleeves glowing with the touch of the light, as if to accentuate the weapons they held and the power they had to take innocent life.
"Where is he, lady?" The man who must be Brant growled bearlike and, like a predator, stalked fast and hard into the house, pushing the boy out of his way with one careless swipe of his hand. The child went tumbling backward, hit one of the chairs, and fell hard to the floor on his backside. The man had crossed into the kitchen in two more strides, and abject terror left her unable to blink or breathe or do anything but try to move and run to Jack before she realized she was paralyzed, frozen in place, her body too terrified to move.
"I said, where is he?" Brant spit out. "Answer me."
Before Saydee could push past the panic flooding her, a loud bang echoed through the yard and into the house through the open doorway and the man with knife in hand staggered. Crimson flooded across his chest and the shock on his face froze into place as he pitched forward into the wall. He fell broken, still and dead. Pete's rapid barking filled the kitchen, echoing with deafening fury, as the shepherd stood in front of the boy, ruff up.
Boots knelled in the vestibule, and there he was, wearing a knit hat instead of his Stetson and all in black. Mist dampened him and squeaked beneath his boot treads as he stalked into the brush of the light. His gaze locked on hers. Before she could warn him, Brant aimed and fired as he ran, his bullet whizzed in the air and plowed into the wall where Winn had been.
"Everyone get down!" He fired, and his return shot punched a hole in the Brant's jacket sleeve and knocked the outlaw to his knees.
Brant hit with a heavy thud, pushed to his feet and rolled into the shadows beneath the archway and Winn knew it was too late. Brant would kill them all before he could get a line of sight, so ducked his head, didn't waste time on letting his gaze rove over Saydee and take in her beauty one more time or to check on his son sitting on the floor protected by the dog with terror in his eyes, the boy he loved more than his life, and simply bolted into the pathway that would block any bullet fired by the expert marksman who was moving through the night-dark parlor. He sited into the ink blackness, spotted a hint of movement and fired while he ran straight into the black.
Window glass shattered as his bullet may have missed, but Brant's grunt and his uneven footsteps racing through the room had him wondering. The door squeaked open, slamming with a hard impact against the inside wall, and he sited again, running hard and fast, but Brant beat him to it, he saw the flash of fire, rolled to the side, and two bullets shattered window panes in the parlor he tore through. Brant darted across the porch and into the yard where rain began to fall like ice veiling him and he had the advantage.
Three bullets left, Winn thought as he pulled out his second revolver and fired as he followed the killer out into the cold to meet the outlaw's gunfire. A bullet grazed his shoulder, pain tearing through him but he ignored it, discounted it as very minor and plunged down the front steps and to the side in the dark, ears peeled listening for the splash of boots in the snow and rain, straining to see the faintest movement, the darkest line of a shadow so he could fire true. He ducked behind a tree trunk, a tall pine which didn't give much cover, but it was better than being a target in the open.
"Give up, McMurphy." Brant's hard, cruel voice shot like a gunfire through the dark. "You're gonna die. I'm a better gunman than you."
Winn bit his lip, keeping the smart-mouthed retort in where it belonged and not spoken where the sound would give him away. Did this mean that his enemy had lost track of him in the dark?
Taking advantage, Winn scanned the yard. Nothing, not a thing. No movement, no sound, no flash of gunfire to pinpoint Brant's location, but his voice had come from behind the fence near the gate. At least Winn knew the layout of the yard and Brant was at a loss, as if blind in the dark, feeling his way. That might work in my favor. He turned his attention to the fence, where the open gate swung in a slow cadence with the wind, and sited.
"You're just a dead man walking after killing my old friends. You aren't gonna get away with it."
Winn adjusted his aim. He could smell the outlaw's fear. He heard a boot squeak in the rain-wet snow and fired once and then twice with both guns. Sure of his aim, he rolled through the wet snow to the better cover of the stand of trees to his left and, senses sharpened, heard the body hit the snow. At least one bullet had struck its target.
A stroke of luck, after all. Now, would the wounded man make a mistake? Winn grimaced. He was a good bounty hunter and he knew how to wait it out, the best way to stealth up on his enemy and to take him down and that wasn't easy. But he was dedicated, everything at stake was tucked safely in the house behind him, and they matter more than his life ever could. So, he gritted his teeth against the breeze that cut like a sharp-edged knife. Her didn't flinch when rainwater dropped from the tree branch above onto the back of his cap and eked down his neck in an icy trickle. He barely dared to breathe lest he made the most minute of sounds.
The gusts of wind strengthened and warmed, carrying the scent of rain from the mountains, and weak hope glowed in his chest, the faintest light that his luck had turned for the better. There might be no sign of Brant moving into the clear, but this rain and wind could not entirely mask his movements.
The real danger was the wounded outlaw managed to sneak quietly enough along the solid wooden fence and ambush him through the trees. So staying put wasn't a possibility nor was the weather that hovered right above freezing. He could only stay in the open like this without jeopardy for a short while. One false move on his part, and all Brant had to do was fire. He never wanted to underestimate the determination of the man who wanted him dead.
You'd better move now, McMurphy, if you want to bring him in. He gritted his teeth, resolved. If the temperature dropped a degree, this melting would end and he would be working on a sheet of black ice. He lifted one foot and grimaced when the mushy snow and the scrunched-like sound carried audibly in the hushed rainfall. Not good, but he took a careful step and stealthed two more along the shadowed trees.
He heard the crunch of snow up ahead, the sound of someone moving in for a better view. Brant, impatient and worth a hefty bounty, had risked a move to get a clean shot off, Peacemaker clutched in both hands, trying site. But Winn was already firing, already had the bul
ky man's silhouette sited and doubled fired into the fury of the night dark, wind and rain. His advantaged mattered, the flashes from the gunfire gave him away and he rolled to the cover of the last stand of trees. Safe, he heard Brant's single gun fire, the bullet dug into a nearby tree but it was a good miss. Brant was down again.
Was he dead? Heart drumming with the hot fiery kick of adrenaline, Winn, still running, thumbed back the hammer, watching as the fallen outlaw's body stayed motionless. He kept his guns trained on the man, searching for any tick of movement, anything to give away if the outlaw was still alive. But the surprise and shock shaping the killer's face looked real and he wasn't breathing. And wasn't going to. A bullet had hit him straight through his cold, brutal killer's heart.
It was over. Brant's quest for revenge was ended, and Winn blew out a sigh of disbelief. He was still alive. He had a life left to live, and live it he would. He would not waste another moment.
38
Saydee shivered, listening to the rush of rain pouring off the porch roof and splashing on the snow covered ground. Damp, chilly wind blew in through the open door Winn hadn't shut behind him when he'd raced out of the house, gun firing. Other than the lamps burning and flames flickering in the breezy gusts of wind swooping in the front door and stirring the air until she shivered and, like Jack, her teeth began to chatter.
Pete whined, sitting restlessly, scooting forward onto his paws and then obediently sitting back down when she tightened her hold on his collar. But his attention and his worried eyes were trained on the open door and the danger in the night outside.
The boy sitting up beside her swiped at the minor cut on his forehead with his sleeve and didn't say anything, his breathing shallow and frightened for his father. All those gunshots they'd heard echoing in the night left them terrified to move. He gulped in a bite of air. "I don't know if I can sit here and do nothing for much longer, Miss Saydee."