Chase the Fire

by Barbara Ankrum

  "All depends on the man who's shooting it, I suppose," Chase answered, dropping his two-dollar gold piece on the entry table.

  Jonas licked his thumb and swiped at the sight on the barrel of his Spencer Repeater. "That's a fact," he agreed with a chuckle. "The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Let's see what kind of a cook you are, Whitlaw."

  "It'll be my pleasure, Harper."

  The targets were empty bottles, set up in long rows across a fallen cottonwood trunk. Each man had three shots in the first round, eliminating any who missed by more than one shot. Both Chase and Jonas easily hit their marks, as did Early and several of Jonas's men and the slender blond-haired marshal, John Pratt. In all, fifteen went on to the second round which was moved back ten paces from the firing line to increase the difficulty. This round drew more of an audience, including the women who'd hung around on the outskirts of the cooking.

  Libby was one of them. A smile crept to her lips. She'd seen Chase shoot and if it had been ladylike to lay odds on his winning, she would have done so. Her heart beat faster as she watched him shoulder his Henry and pick off three bottles in quick succession. Juan Ortega, a Santa Fe gun merchant, John Pratt and Jonas each picked off their bottles, too.

  The third round was moved back another ten paces, with only the four men left. Gunpowder smoke hung in the air. A murmur of excitement passed through the crowd as the men reloaded their guns. Jonas cast a glance at Libby and winked at her. Chase glanced at her, too, but there was no mischief in his eyes, only a confident grin that said, "This is for you." She looked away quickly, afraid someone would notice the heat passing between them.

  Ten more paces put the prize out of reach for Jonas who missed his last bottle. He swore and lowered his gun slowly, not a little disgusted with himself. He gave Chase a grudging tip of his head as he walked away from the firing line to stand beside Libby. Ortega, too, missed one, eliminating him from the competition. That left John and Chase.

  "Let's make this interestin'," called James Johnson, a bushy-faced merchant from Santa Fe. "Both of these fellers is crack shots. I say to choose the best shot between 'em, we let 'em have a go at a movin' target."

  A roar of approval went up and Johnson was chosen to do the honors. The onlookers became divided into cheering factions, each supporting one of the two contestants. Six bottles were thrown for each and twelve were hit. On the signal, Johnson threw two more into the air. John hit one and missed one. Chase exploded both of his.

  A roar went up from all sides and John walked back to shake Chase's hand. "That's some kind of shooting, Whitlaw. Where'd you learn that?"

  He shrugged. "Army." Chase fended off the claps of congratulations that came dangerously close to his healing shoulder. "You're not half bad yourself, Marshal."

  John smiled wryly. "Good to know the Army wasn't a complete waste of our time, isn't it? You ever need a job, you come look me up, Whitlaw. I could use a gun like you."

  Chase shook his head. "I'm not looking to be a hired gun. The only man I aim to see justice for is Trammel Bodine."

  John rubbed his square jaw as they walked toward the shade of the aspen grove near the corral. "Matter of fact, I heard some news about your 'friend' just yesterday. Seems he's running with a feller name of Clay Allison. Bad sort, too, that one. Had me a couple of run-ins with him in my jail. He was working at a spread over on the Rio Grande. Apparently, Bodine worked there at one time, too.

  "Allison killed two men over there. Couldn't prove it wasn't self-defense, but I know it wasn't. Anyways, seems Allison and a feller fitting Bodine's description was seen rustling some cattle down near San Miguel and killed a ranch hand in doing it. So your friend just progressed from attempted murder to murder and cattle stealing."

  "San Miguel you say?"

  Pratt nodded. "He's probably long gone from there by now, but the alcalde there did tell me before they done it, this feller calling himself Travis Barlow"—he carefully enunciated the initials T. B.—"wearing that rattlesnake hatband like the one you described, was spending money like he had it to throw away."

  Chase scowled. "Where would Bodine get that kind of money?"

  Jonas interrupted them before Pratt could answer. "Congratulations, Whitlaw," he said curtly, handing Chase the jingling bag full of prize money. "Have to admit, you're a damn good shot."

  "Thank you," Chase replied, his eyes flashing to Libby's.

  "I reckon fifty dollars will come in handy with your job at Elizabeth's dryin' up soon, won't it?"

  "I imagine fifty dollars would always come in handy, unless I was too rich or too drunk to notice."

  Jonas let out a sharp laugh. "You have plans to move on after the herd's in, do you?"

  Chase smiled with deceptive ease. "I don't hold much store with plans. I like to take things one day at a time. Sometimes," he continued, brazenly sliding his gaze to Libby, "fate can step in and change what we mere mortals have in mind."

  Libby blushed furiously in response, dipping her head so no one would notice. Her temper flared like a sulfur-tipped match. She knew what he was trying to do, blast him! She hardly needed a reminder of what happened between them less than thirty-six hours ago. Indeed, destiny may have put Chase Whitlaw in her path to stumble over, but she'd be damned if she'd allow him to decide her fate.

  "My, but it's hot," she commented, sending Chase a scathing look and fanning herself with her hand. "Jonas, could I bother you for a cup of Haymaker's Punch? I saw a bowl on the refreshment stand earlier."

  He hesitated only a moment, giving Chase an appraising look. "It would be my pleasure, my dear," he replied, heading off to fetch it for her. A pair of strolling musicians passed him, strumming guitars.

  The raven-haired wife of the marshal, Cynthia Pratt, sneaked up behind her husband and gave his arm a playful tug. "If you men are through talking business, maybe you can drag yourself away to pour me a cup, too."

  Pratt grinned and shrugged. "Women. They always want something from you," he said, allowing his wife to lead him away.

  "And what is it you want from me, Libby?" Chase asked coolly when he and Libby were alone.

  "Nothing," she snapped, "except that you don't try to make a fool of me here in front of all these people."

  "I have no desire to make a fool of you."

  She flashed a pleasant smile at a couple who passed by, but it abruptly disappeared when she turned back to Chase. "Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me, then?"

  "Why would I try to do that?" His expression was unreadable.

  "I'll thank you to stop making comments about fate—"

  "I've always been of the conviction that fate spoke for itself," he replied.

  "—and to stop looking at me the way you do."

  A sudden grin curved the straight line of his mouth. "And which way is that?"

  "Like... like you want to..."

  He folded his arms across his chest and one dark eyebrow arched inquiringly. His gaze dropped to her lips. "Like I want to what?"

  It was there in a flash, flickering in his eyes. All the heat of their joining, the pain of their parting. But the look was gone as soon as it came, replaced by the solid blank wall he'd again erected around his heart over the past two days. He was a proud man and she loved him for that.

  I won't beg you Libby. No, she didn't want him to beg her. Frankly, she didn't know what she wanted, but the silence between them had grown unbearable.

  Flustered, she tore her gaze from his and stared at the ground. "I don't want to fight with you. Not after everything that's happened between us. Can't we be friends?"

  Chase's eyes glittered like cold jade and he shook his head. "If it's a friend you're looking for, better shop someplace else. I'll have all of you or none of you. That's the kind of man I am, Lib. If you can't handle that, you'd better stick to something safer." He gestured, with a hitch of his chin, behind her. "And here he comes now."

  Before Jonas could reach her, Chase had turned on his heel and disappeared in
to the crowds of guests.

  Jonas handed Libby the cup of cider vinegar and molasses punch. "What did he want?"

  "Nothing," she lied, staring after Chase.

  "I don't like him."

  "You don't even know him."

  Jonas narrowed a look at her. "It's a gut feeling. I don't trust him. I don't want him getting friendly with you."

  Libby smiled sadly and looked at Jonas. "No worry about that. I saw Nora getting the dinner ready. I think I'll go give her a hand."

  * * *

  Chase stalked to the barn, where he'd seen Tad and some of the other boys go. He'd promised the boy to look at his kitten. Maybe it would help to cool him down.

  Slim chance of that.

  You should have left it alone, Whitlaw. Given her the locket and let her get on with her life—gotten on with your own.

  He slammed his palm against a corral post. The first time! The first damned time he'd allowed himself to feel anything for anyone since the war and she'd slapped him in the face with it. It didn't matter that he'd opened his heart and soul to her the other night. It didn't matter that she'd seen a part of him no one had since the war had stolen tender feelings away from him. She was going to marry Harper and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

  Damn it to hell. A man had his pride. He could only take so much. He'd been right the first time. It was safer to feel nothing than to live with this kind of agony. His chest ached with it and it gathered like a fist in his throat. Why had he let El talk him into coming? To see Libby reject him publicly? Maybe he'd hoped to change her mind. But it was clear she'd made her decision. And it wasn't him.

  From inside the barn, he heard voices whispering in frantic hushed tones.

  "Step on it, Jarrod! Holy cripe, it's smokin'!"

  "I am! It won't go out. Oh, Lord! Ma's gonna kill me."

  Chase heard Tad's voice, too, as he headed into the darkened barn.

  "I told ya not to, Billy! Hit it with yer coat, Jarrod!"

  Chase heard Jarrod wrestling with his coat and didn't wait to hear more. The pungent smell of smoke reached his nostrils.

  Chase made a grab for the saddle blanket hanging over a saddletree and sprinted to the stall where the boys were stomping on a small, burning patch of straw. He lunged at the fire while the twelve-year-old Jarrod Winfield, Billy Bonney and Tad stared wide-eyed at him. Chase beat the small pile of flames into submission with the thick, woven blanket and the fire sputtered and went out. A small charred circle of straw was all that remained.

  "Go get a bucket of water, boy," Chase told Billy.

  "I didn't do it," Billy said defiantly. The other two flashed him a disbelieving look, but kept silent.

  "That wasn't an accusation," Chase told him. "It was an order. Go get some water before this straw starts up again."

  Billy escaped out of the stall and disappeared out the double doors of the barn. Chase turned to Jarrod and Tad, who stood trembling and wide-eyed before him.

  "What are you boys thinking of, smoking in a barn full of hay? Don't you know what could have happened?"

  Both nodded miserably.

  Silent, they stared at the charred hay, unwelcome tears welling behind their eyes. Yes, Chase imagined they did know what they'd almost done. That kind of a scare can stay with a boy for life. He remembered the time he and El, as young boys, had done much the same thing in the silo one summer afternoon, starting a minor fire that sent smoke billowing up the tube like a chimney. El's father had made sitting pretty damned uncomfortable for both of them for quite a while after that.

  But it wasn't the whipping he remembered. It was the realization of what the fire could have done—what their carelessness could have cost everyone—that stuck with him. By their expressions, he suspected this wasn't an incident they'd soon forget either.

  Chase ran a hand through his hair. "Jarrod, I'm not your pa. Lucky for you no real harm was done here. But I'm going to trust you'll do the right thing and tell your father what's happened here. You're almost ten. Old enough to use your own judgment about when to tell him."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now git."

  Jarrod hesitated for only a moment. "I'm sorry, sir. I..." He faltered and sprinted from the barn.

  Tad hung his head and scuffed his toe in the ashes at his feet. "I'm sorry, too, Chase. Are you gonna tell Mr. Harper on me?"

  Chase had seen a taste of Harper's justice. He had no wish to submit Tad to it, considering the little damage that had been done. "Do you think I should?"

  Tad stiffened his jaw and shrugged.

  "It's not my place to tell him," Chase said finally. "I'm not your pa, either."

  "I wish you was," Tad mumbled.

  Chase's heart jumped in his chest and a feeling of tenderness swept over him. Lord, he'd miss Tad when he left.

  "I wish I was too, Tad," he said, wrapping an arm around the boy's narrow shoulders. "Sometimes things just don't go the way we want them to."

  "Do you want to marry my ma?" he asked hopefully.

  Chase ruffled Tad's blond cap of hair with his hand. "I guess that's something between your ma and me, son."

  Tad wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I don't remember my pa much. I was little when he left. But sometimes... I think he must'a been like you." Tad grew silent as Chase reined in the emotions that made him look away. "Are you gonna tell Ma about...?"

  "I'll leave that up to you, Tad. Now start to clean up this mess while I get a bucket of water," he said, handing him the rake that stood in the corner. "Looks like Billy's not coming back."

  "Thanks, Chase." Tad threw his arms around Chase's waist.

  Chase hugged him back and allowed himself to wonder for one brief moment what it would be like to have a child of his own. He put the thought away. He could imagine no one but Libby mothering his children. And that, he knew, wasn't to be.

  * * *

  The dancing circle was set up after the sun dipped below the horizon and the mountains of food had been almost consumed. Yellow lantern light spilled across the yard. Guitars, fiddles, mandolins and mouth-harps appeared and couples paired off for the dancing on the smooth, raked-dirt dancing area. Elliot pulled Nora onto it with a flourish and she laughed aloud as they whirled to the tune of "Sweet Betsy."

  "Dr. Bradford!" Nora scolded teasingly. "My reputation—"

  "—Is spotless," El finished. "School teachers are allowed to have fun, aren't they?"

  "I suppose. It's just been so long since I have!"

  "Well then, now's the time to start." Nora allowed him to pull her closer than was strictly proper as they moved amongst the other couples.

  "A surgeon and a dancer, too," she said with a grin. "How many other hidden talents have you, Dr. Bradford?"

  "Ah, you've only scratched the surface, Miss Harper," he murmured in her ear, sending a shiver through her. "And may I say, you dance splendidly for a schoolteacher."

  She pinned her gaze on the silken string tie at his throat. "You've danced with many schoolteachers, have you?"

  "A few. But none as lovely as you."

  Color crept to her cheeks and she laughed. "I'll bet you were a terror in the classroom with that fatal charm of yours."

  "Possibly," he admitted mischievously, "but I learned a long time ago that a woman could always tell a lie from the truth." His fingers tightened around hers. "I enjoy being with you, Nora."

  She searched his sky blue eyes, then smiled. "I feel the same way."

  "It's funny isn't it?" he mused aloud. "We're both from the East, but we each had to travel hundreds of miles to meet each other in the Woolly West."

  The song ended and another picked up immediately. This time it was the haunting melody "Shenandoah," that drifted from the musicians' podium.

  "Do you miss it?" he asked, weaving Nora through the crowded dancing area.

  "What?"

  "The East... the hustle and bustle of civilization."

  "Sometimes. But I'm quite content here," she answered, then
glanced up at him. "Do you?"

  El drew her closer. "You know, I thought I would miss it more. Before I joined the Army, I'd never traveled farther from home than the city of Boston—to attend Harvard. Then I found myself being sent all over the countryside: Shiloh, Louisville, Philadelphia, Washington. As horrible as the war was, the traveling got into my blood. When it was over, my... my parents were both gone and... their expectations for me to settle down to a practice and start a family... well, I was... restless. I wanted to see the frontier before it was settled. My sister, Violet, encouraged me to tag along with Chase to keep an eye on him. It seemed the perfect opportunity to do just that. And here I am.

  "The West is extraordinary," he went on. "And it has its own"—he glanced down at her—"special sort of beauty. Suddenly, I find I can't think of another place I'd rather be right now."

  "I'm from Richmond, but going back there holds little interest for me. I love it out here. Though, when Jonas and Libby marry, I suppose I'll move out of this house. Maybe move to Santa Fe and teach for a while. And what of you, Mr. Bradford?"

  "Will you head back east when Chase leaves?"

  "That depends."

  "Depends... on what?"

  "On what arises between now and then. I've heard there is only one doctor within miles of here, in Santa Fe and he's old and feeble and not long for the profession. There might be room for a man like me to hang a shingle hereabouts."

  "Really." It was real surprise, not a question in her voice.

  His fingers twined with hers. "If a certain schoolteacher lived in the vicinity and might be willing to help a fledgling doctor get to know the area. Perhaps, share the journey with him."

  She stiffened slightly in his arms. "Be careful what you say, Dr. Bradford. A spinster like me might get the wrong idea."

  He chuckled and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "If you're unmarried, it's only because you haven't let any of us catch you yet. You're a woman with a mind of her own. And a good mind at that. I admire that. I've never met anyone quite like you, Nora." He gazed down at her, stroking her face with his eyes. "You haven't answered my question."