“Probably Tom checking the horses,” she said. “He’s in charge for tonight.”
“Maybe,” he said tightly. “But it doesn’t look like Tom.” He stomped his feet into his boots and snatched a shirt from the drawer, buttoning it as he headed for the door.
Chloe grabbed for her robe and pulled it around herself, aware of the lack of sleepwear beneath it, but anxious to follow J.T. through the house. The kitchen was dark and she reached for the lamp, striking a match to light the wick. The glass globe slid in place and she looked up to find J.T. shrugging into his slicker, his hat pulled low. A frown pleated his forehead, and she felt a moment of apprehension at the taut look of his features.
Without a word, he pulled the door open and was gone, the screen slamming behind him. Wind blew in a gust across the yard and she saw the bucket spin crazily from the trough toward the tree. From over J.T.’s head a flame licked high into the night, and she swallowed the horror that gripped her.
Fire. The menace that threatened the livelihood of every rancher, every farmer with barns and livestock to protect. And J.T. was heading for it, running full tilt, his slicker flying behind him.
She reached for her own rain gear, her fingers awkward as she tugged it over her robe, then pushed her feet into the boots she’d left by the back door.
“What’s going on?” Tilly came through the doorway from the hall with a rush, her bulky form covered by a quilt she’d apparently snatched from the bed.
“Fire,” Chloe said, the single word an explosion of horror as she burst through the door and across the porch. Standing stock-still in amazement, she watched as flames licked from the hayloft window to curl over the edge of the barn roof. So rapidly it spread; so quickly destruction followed in its wake, and she was sickened as she heard the sound of horses inside the barn, frantic as they kicked against the stalls.
Most of them were in the pasture, but the barn held the milk cow in the nearest stall, and she knew the stallion was there, somewhere, unless J.T. had already taken him to safety. Two mares, tempted by the rich timothy hay, had nosed through the fence and eaten their way into a bellyache and J.T. had put them in solitary stalls for the night after dosing them down. She heard their shrill whinnies as she reached the barn door and ducked as a piece of burning wood fell beside her.
“I’m coming,” she muttered, lifting her long gown with one hand, wondering where J.T. had gone. And then, as she released the first mare, turning with her to lead her from the barn, she heard a groan from behind her.
“J.T.?” She called his name, but the man who rose from the floor next to the wall was not her husband. Tom’s face blurred before her, and he staggered in the glow of the fire, one hand pressed against the side of his head.
“Tom?” She led the horse to where he stood and grasped his arm. “Come on, Tom. You’ve got to get out of here,” she told him, and he allowed her to lead, pushing on the wide door as they passed through it, and then took the mare from her grasp.
“I’ve got her, Miss Chloe,” the man said, his voice slurred.
Chloe turned back without a word, hurrying past the patient cow, who lowed and jerked her head within the stanchion, begging her freedom. “I’ll be there, Bossie,” she said, entering the stall with the second mare, uncaring of the animal’s shifting and frantic movements, set only on removing her from the peril of a ceiling full of hay coming down from above.
“Chloe, get the hell out of that barn.” J.T.’s voice was strident, his words sharp and nearby, and she ran with the horse she led, stumbling and tripping her way to the doorway.
“Take her. I’ll get the cow,” she panted, and thanked J.T.’s good sense for doing as she asked. The cow was a simple matter, only too willing to back from the confining wooden contraption that held her prisoner, and was led outside in moments.
The rain, the blessed, heavenly rain poured in torrents, taking her breath as Chloe left the burning barn, and she looked up into the heavens with thankfulness. It sizzled on the barn roof, sending clouds of steam skyward as it cooled the wood and soaked the hay beneath.
“Will it be enough to put out the fire in time?” she asked as J.T. reached for her.
“Yeah,” he said harshly. “It’s only gotten a good hold here at the front, and the wind’s blowing the rain right on top of the fire.”
The window in the loft was wide-open, and even as Chloe watched, the fire subsided. J.T. set her aside, issuing a warning glance. “Don’t go back in. Send Tom in as soon as he gets his head clear. We’ll check it out.”
The front part of the barn was damaged, the wall burned out in one spot, thankfully allowing the rain to soak down the hay behind it. In moments, she watched as J.T. pitched the last of the smouldering stuff from the window to the ground below. The stench was acrid in her nose, and she wondered how he stood it, tall amid the smoking mess around about his feet, there, where surely the smell was filling his lungs.
Even as she watched he lifted the kerchief he’d tied around his neck and allowed it to drape his nose and mouth. Beside him, Tom took a stand, following J.T.’s lead, getting rid of the rest of the hay that still held danger in its depths. And then they halted, looking upward as the rain poured down, blowing against their stalwart forms and, even now, seeping through the ceiling and falling to the barn floor.
It was over, the threat held under control, and Chloe closed her eyes, whispering a prayer of thanksgiving for the gift of rain.
“Somebody set that fire.” From behind her, Tilly’s gloomy voice spoke Chloe’s own fears, yet she felt obliged to deny it.
“Might have been lightning,” she said firmly, turning to face her aunt.
“You and I both know better than that,” Tilly said sharply.
“Pete?” Chloe’s whisper sounded loud inside her head, and she repeated it, stunned by his absence, aware that unless he had an awfully good reason for not being here, the finger of suspicion pointed directly at him.
“Yeah, Pete.” From the barn door, J.T. repeated his name. “He took the new stallion, Chloe. He set the damn fire and took the paint stud.” Tom stood beside him and nodded.
“Caught me broadside, Miss Chloe. I went in the barn, followed him in fact, when I heard him leave the bunkhouse. He had a saddle and was heading for the stud when I came in.”
“He knocked you out?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah. Caught me with the saddle. I wasn’t lookin’ for it, and he laid me out like a log.”
“He could have killed you,” she said dully, thinking of Tom on the barn floor with the fire blazing overhead.
“Well, he worked fast, I’ll give him that,” J.T. said. “And now he’s long gone, and I’ll bet we’ll find trouble riding with him.”
“What are you going to do?” Chloe asked, watching as the two mares wandered the middle of the yard, the cow ambling peacefully toward the tree by the house.
“Saddle a couple of horses and head north to the herd.” He looked up at the barn. “I think we’ve got it all out, Chloe. The rain will take care of the rest if we’ve missed any. See if you can tie those mares somewhere or put them in the pasture with the cow.”
“All right,” she said, unwilling to cause him any delay. “Go on. Do what you have to.”
He strode past the barn to the pasture fence and a shrill whistle brought half a dozen horses toward him, his own among them. Within minutes, he’d led two of them toward the barn, tying them at the hitching rail while Tom brought out saddles and bridles. The blankets smelled smoky, but the tack room was undamaged, and Chloe whispered thanks for that.
She watched as the two men rode into the darkness, her heart aching at the turn of events, even as her anger rose toward her brother. She’d given him her trust, again and again, and now could find no reason to excuse his actions.
Pain overwhelmed her as she watched the silent, slow-moving men approach just before noon. There was a certain air of satisfaction in Lowery’s face as he doffed his hat to
stand before her, yet Chloe felt the hesitation in his voice as he spoke.
“Boss said to tell you he’ll be back as soon as he can, Miss Chloe. He went on into town to see the constable. Hale Winters and his bunch is with him and they’re turnin’ in six rustlers at the jail.” His jaw was set and his eyes flashed an angry message. “They tried their best to clean us out last night, but between the Winters’s crew and the rest of us out there, we chased them down and got the best part of the herd back where they belong.”
She hesitated, fearful of voicing her fear. But Hogan saved her the choice, riding up behind Lowery to sweep his hat from his head and face her with a somber expression that told the tale. “We got the stallion back, ma’am. Pete just about ran him into the ground out there. The boy musta been crazy to do that to a horse. I’m surprised he didn’t get dumped and trampled.”
He slid from the saddle and nodded at Lowery, who seemed relieved to be excused from the conversation. Grasping Hogan’s reins and leading his own horse, he turned toward the barn. “Damn, sure is a mess, ain’t it?” Lowery muttered, scanning the damaged front of the building.
“Nothing we can’t fix in no time flat,” Hogan said. “Wish everything else was gonna be that easy to mend.” And then he walked up onto the porch where Chloe sat, unwilling to move from the chair that supported her, unable to catch a deep breath as she faced what must surely be bad news.
Hogan sat beside her, and in a movement unlike his usual reticence, reached for her hand. “I was gonna let J.T. be the one to tell you this, honey, but I think we’ve been together long enough for me to be the one carrying the bad news.”
Her heart ached and her breathing hitched as he spoke. It was bad, worse probably than she’d anticipated. For Pete would end up in prison for sure if he’d been caught with the rest of the rustlers. And she wasn’t sure she could face the reality of the dream that had haunted her for the past days.
“Pete was one of them, wasn’t he?” she said, and it was a statement of fact that rang with certainty. “I didn’t want to face it, but there isn’t any other answer.” She looked into Hogan’s face. “Will he just be put in jail? They won’t hang him, will they?”
“Not a chance,” Hogan said sadly. “Miss Chloe, Pete didn’t make it through the shooting. He took a bullet through the head.”
“He was wounded?” Even to her own ears, the words were foolish. Yet she persisted. “Did J.T. take him to the doctor?”
Hogan shook his head. “You know better. Don’t make me say it, honey. Just know that it wasn’t anyone else’s fault. Pete brought this on himself. Stealin’ that paint stud was the last straw. And then trying to use the animal to rustle your cattle was the finishing touch.”
The vision of Pete at the end of a rope vanished, and another appeared, one even more tragic as she thought of him being readied for a grave. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” The words were dull, whispered in a monotone that needed no reply. Yet, Hogan supplied it.
“He’s dead, Miss Chloe. Along with two others. J.T. had to make a statement at the constable’s office and appear before the judge with the prisoners. He’ll be home right soon, though.”
Deep within her chest a raw wound opened, and Chloe was seized by a wrenching pain that threatened to take her breath from her body. She’d done this. As far-fetched as the idea might be to another, she knew that accepting J.T. into her life had pushed Pete from her. That her brother’s final acts somehow were connected to her own happiness, that he’d been unable to accept the turning of her back on him, as she’d embraced a marriage with the man who had taken Pete’s inheritance.
“Miss Tilly?” Hogan called out for help and Chloe glanced at him, not able to comprehend his panic. “Miss Tilly, can you get out here?” Hogan called again, and Tilly slapped the screen door wide, her startled gaze shooting from the foreman to the woman who bent double in her chair, forehead against her knees, as if her bones were not sturdy enough to hold her erect.
She reached for Chloe, lifting her with an amazing strength, and held her upright. “Honey. You gotta breathe, girl. Come on now, take a good hold of yourself.” Hogan grasped one arm, and Tilly hoisted Chloe toward the door.
Her feet dragged across the boards beneath them and Chloe saw the dust rise, small particles that reminded her she hadn’t swept the porch this morning. The sight of Tilly’s wide shoes, made for a man, but guaranteeing comfort for a big woman’s feet, took her attention next and she tried to match her own movements to those of the black, laced footwear that shuffled in step with her own.
The kitchen floor appeared then beneath her feet, and she slumped into a chair beside the table, hearing the murmur of voices beside her. A damp cloth met the back of her neck and, bending forward, she fought to focus on the small flowers that covered the oilcloth before her eyes. Yellow with dark centers, they flowed in a seemingly endless array, and her eyes searched out the limits of their advance across the wide table.
“Breathe, girl,” Tilly said, her voice harsh, her hand rubbing in circles against Chloe’s back.
“I can’t.” It hurt too much to inhale, the pain of betrayal and death overwhelming her natural instincts for survival, and Chloe could only lay her cheek against the cool oilcloth and close her eyes. A sob slid from her lips and she tried to gather it to herself, unwilling to release the pain so readily, as if she must store it within her body, clutch it to her breast and dwell in its midst.
The back door opened, a muted sound of boots on the floor announcing the arrival of another, and without opening her eyes, she felt J.T.’s presence beside her, knew the tender weight of his hands on her head and shoulders, and then was lifted in his arms.
Without words, he carried her to the bedroom. Without murmurs of comfort or whispered instructions he placed her on the bed. And without haste, he drew her clothing from her, until she was garbed in the briefest of undergarments, stockings stripped from her feet and only a sheet covering her.
And then he sat beside her, holding her hands in his, rubbing her fingers and breathing unevenly. He watched. Eyes closed against the sight of him, she knew of the dark expression he wore. Her heart twisting in her chest, forming lesions on its surface she knew would never heal, took her attention. But she sensed his despair. And within herself, she ached for the chasm that spread between their souls.
“Shut the door.” His words were flat, low and final, and she heard the closing of her bedroom door. And then he rose and she listened to the sound of his gun belt being hung over the chair, heard the rustle of clothing as he stripped from his outer garments. He was there, pulling back the sheet, coming down behind her, sliding his arms around her and drawing her against the heat of his vibrant body.
But it was no use. She would never be warm again.
Chapter Twelve
The coffin was covered by a layer of dirt, its weight flattening the handful of flowers Chloe dropped into the gaping hole. And still she stood to one side, watching as the men took turns with their shovels, working in tandem to cover the final resting place of her brother. A wound that would never heal, she thought, a spot on the top of this hill where the sun would shine and the rain would fall, but where flowers would not grow, nor grass creep to cover the barren ground.
The cemetery outside of Ripsaw Creek was a sad, lonely place, yet one she had visited several times over the past years. Her mother was there, her father’s grave adjoining and now Pete occupied his own spot, several feet away. A simple stone, with only the last name of her family stood guard, and she leaned to brush the dust from its surface. Her hand held the residue, and she wiped it uncaringly against her dress. A black dress Tilly’d found at the back of her closet and brought forth as appropriate garb for this most forlorn of days.
J.T. stood beneath the solitary tree marking the top of the hill, watching. He’d waited silently as she spoke briefly to townsfolk, most of whom were distinctly uncomfortable in her presence. Not knowing where to look, fumbling for words to comfort her, patting
awkwardly at her back as they passed by, the line of mourners and curious onlookers was short. Thankfully short, for she could not abide much longer the knowledge that she was an object of pity among the people who knew her.
Pete was a rascal, a scalawag Tilly called him. Yet, he was her brother, and her heart ached that his life was cut off and wasted, his reputation in shambles and that there had been no last words of reconciliation between them before he died.
The eyes watching her were dark, flat and lacking any sort of emotion, and she met J.T.’s gaze with a curiously barren look of her own. The face that had become so dear to her over the past months bore the flesh and bone structure of a stranger. No remorse touched those harsh lines. Only a waiting, watchful stance that enveloped him in darkness.
His hat pulled low over his eyes, his gun belt in plain view, the holster against his thigh, he was a symbol of all she despised right now. The triumph of law over lawlessness, the hand of death dealt her family. She’d told him as much, and her heart clenched within her breast as she recalled her words upon awakening yesterday morning.
No matter who pulled the trigger, you were there, J.T., and you should have stopped it. Spoken without fore-thought, they’d spewed from bitterness and grief, and he had listened and turned away.
“That was the wrong thing to say to him,” Tilly had said, disgust alive in every word. “That man cares about you, Chloe, and you’ve just driven him away.”
And perhaps she had, Chloe decided, for J.T.’s hand had only touched her waist, guiding her up the hill to the grave an hour past. His body behind her, he’d offered silent support and she had ignored his presence, so caught up in the grief and pain she could not bear to be comforted, lest she forget for a single moment the anger she felt.
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