Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  While Jeb delayed just long enough for Win to feel the whiskey, he showed Meg how to twist the stick and hold it tight.

  “Meggie, this is gonna go fast when it goes . . . you stay with us, you hear me?” Gus looked as ashen as Meg, but he held her gaze until she nodded. Gus pulled his own knife from the fire, keeping it out of Win’s line of sight. He turned to Jeb. “It might be faster with an extra hand. Once you get the bullet out, this’ll stop the bleeding.”

  Jeb knew Gus was speaking from his own experience, when he had to endure his hand amputation. He was probably right—do it fast, all at once. As hard as this was, it would be best for Win, and he wasn’t going to argue with Gus. He nodded.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Gus said, putting the rag with the knots in it in Win’s mouth.

  Jeb hesitated. He remembered his father telling him that inflicting pain, even when necessary, was not for the fainthearted.

  Gus leaned on both of Win’s legs and ordered a sharp “Go” to Jeb. With scalpel and forceps, Jeb dug into Win’s thigh. Win clamped down on the rag in his mouth and groaned loudly. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and tears squeezed out of his eyes and ran down his temples. Jeb couldn’t feel the bullet, but knew there was no going back. He dug deeper and Win arched his back in pain. Finally, Jeb felt the bullet. He pulled it and a small piece of cloth out with the forceps. Gus immediately sank the hot knife into the wound to cauterize it while Win was still reeling from the bullet removal. Win passed out, much to Jeb’s relief. Gus removed the knotted rag from Win’s mouth, and Jeb quickly put a few stitches in with a needle and thread.

  Meg held the tourniquet for another minute while Jeb washed the blood off and bound it tight with clean bandages. Meg tenderly wiped the sweat from Win’s pallid face, a gesture that both bothered Jeb and endeared her to him.

  Win stirred. He looked down at the bandage and whispered, “My leg’s on fire.” Jeb handed him the whiskey bottle. They lifted Win onto a cot brought in from the bunkhouse and propped up his leg. Jeb washed off the bullet and saved it, figuring Win would want it when he was feeling better—after he forgave him for saving his life so painfully.

  “What kind of mess did you leave behind?” Gus asked.

  “We killed all three men.” Jeb glanced at Meg. He wondered what she would think of him. “Can’t say it feels good.”

  Gus leaned against the big oak table. “Thieving is risky business. They know that going in. You didn’t bring this on, son. You’re either alive or dead at the end of a gunfight—take your pick. I’ll go with you tomorrow to clean it up. We’ll have to bring ’em to Cold Springs, I figure. The sheriff will have some questions. I reckon you have answers.” Gus nodded at Jeb’s bloody arm. “You got nicked.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “Let Meggie clean it up for you.”

  Jeb took off his shirt. Meg filled the water basin again and washed his arm. Her hand trembled as she bandaged the scrape.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: MEG

  Paradise

  “You did well, Meggie girl.”

  Meg sensed that tending to Win had taken its toll on Gus. He looked drained when he left to toss out the basin of bloody water, so she followed him. She found her old friend in the barn, resting his forehead in the bend of his elbow.

  “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he, Gus?” Meg asked.

  “I’d say so. The bullet didn’t hit bone; his leg ain’t broken.” Gus pressed his forearm against the barn wall, as if trying to push the ache from the stub.

  Poor Gus. She rubbed his shoulder gently. “You’re always the one bolstering me up. I’m old enough now for you to lean on me.” She sat down in the straw. “Tell me about it, Gus. What happened when they took your hand?”

  With his forehead still pressed into the crook of his elbow, Gus said, “I had to talk the fella through it—the one who handled the saw. Sonofabitch drank all the whiskey before I could get some to help dull the pain. Goddamn fool.” Gus reached down with his good right hand and patted his thigh. He laughed sadly. “You know, I thought I felt ol’ Buddy’s heavy head resting on my leg there for a minute . . . and his warm breath. Funny how real memories can be.” He stood up straight and rubbed the stump of his left arm. “I can still smell my burning flesh when they cauterized the bleeding; damned unpleasant.”

  Gus had not told her the details of losing his hand before. He’d only told the story in reference to his dog, Buddy. She wrapped her arms around her old friend. “I don’t tell you enough how brave you are, Gus, and how happy I am that you’re part of my life.”

  “Feelin’s mutual, darlin’.”

  “We should start ranching,” she said, hoping the thought would cheer him up. “There’s no reason to wait.”

  “We’re gonna need some help,” Gus said. He studied her. “We can’t do it alone. You should think about taking a husband.”

  “We can handle a ranch ourselves. Or hire some hands. I don’t need a husband.”

  “I don’t see how it could hurt. I know a pretty girl like you gets a lot of unwanted attention, and I don’t blame you for being a bit skittish around men. But you grew up fine, darlin’, and you’ve got a lot to offer. You should think about your future, having a family.”

  “You’re my family.”

  “You know what I mean. A husband, babies . . . it’s just natural. Now, Jeb and Win—”

  “Those two promised each other that I wouldn’t interfere with their friendship! They made a pact about me!” Meg folded her arms across her chest.

  “Nope, that ain’t it. That’s the excuse you’ve been using, but what are you really scared of?” Gus had a way of seeing more in a person than that person wanted to reveal, and he was especially good at reading her.

  She looked away then, and felt her face burn. “I . . . don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “Which one?”

  She shrugged and dropped her head. “Either one. I don’t know anything about men and what I’m supposed to do.”

  Gus opened his arm so she could bury her face in his shoulder. He closed it around her and said, “I wish your ma was here. A gal needs a ma at times like these.” He sighed heavily. “Female talk ain’t my specialty, you know that. But I’ll tell you something I know is true. Every baby girl is born with sparkle. It’s just a fact. And it’s the job of the men in her life—her pa, her husband, or even an old geezer friend like me—to make sure the sparkle don’t get scraped away. A husband is particularly called upon to see that his wife don’t lose her sparkle. It’s a big responsibility, and it can humble a man who has any sense in his head at all. It ain’t just the wife that’s fearful of disappointing, and I’d say the best marriage is the one where they figure things out together. Are you following what I’m saying?”

  Her questions were answered in the one simple sentence she’d heard before. The furrow in her brow relaxed. “Yes, I do, Gus.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: WIN

  Paradise

  Win woke to the smell of coffee and found himself alone with Meg. She draped a towel over a bowl of bread dough and set it next to the pot of simmering stew. She opened the oven door to check the gingerbread, a favorite of Win’s. He smiled slightly, feeling the joy of being cared for, even though his leg hurt like hell. They spent the morning quietly together, Meg in the kitchen and Win resting in front of the fire. He tried to read, but the pain made concentrating difficult. From behind his book, Win watched her work.

  Meg moved through her chores as though preoccupied, too. Win wondered what she was thinking about—if she was bored at the station, or worried about him, or dreaming about something else. He wondered what she would say about Powell and the Colorado. Would she wait for him? What if he invited her along on the expedition? She’d be fun to have along. If Meg joined them on the expedition, he’d even be doing Jeb a favor.

  He put his book aside and said, “Are you and Gus really going to ranch out here? You sure that’ll make you happy? A
re you sure Gray Wolf will let you?”

  Meg laughed and looked up briefly from scrubbing a pot. “We’ve been planning this for a long time. Of course we’re going to be happy ranching. Gray Wolf didn’t understand at first, but he does now.”

  “And you never second-guess yourself? Are you sure it’s enough?”

  “Ha! I know you need more excitement.”

  “My feet get itchy, I admit.” Win rubbed his leg. “And even though Wyoming is now a territory, there’s still some wilderness left to explore. Jeb and I met someone forming an expedition party. He plans to map some rivers. It sounds like quite the adventure.”

  Meg’s smile faded, but she didn’t speak.

  “You know, the man’s wife is going along. She climbed Pike’s Peak.”

  “Hmmm . . . She sounds formidable.”

  “Maybe you should come along, too.”

  Meg stopped scrubbing the pot. She froze, like people do when so much is flying through their heads that their bodies can’t cope with extra activity. But then she started scrubbing again and shook her head. “You and Jeb are the adventurers, Win, not me.”

  Win scoffed. “Right. Someone who rides her horse across the Nebraska Territory all alone has no spirit of adventure at all!” When that didn’t bring a smile, Win changed his tactics. “You and I are more alike than you think, Meg. I’ve always seen the daring side of you. I should’ve stopped that day you raced me; that day you proved you were as fast as a Post rider. If I had met you properly back then, I’d have whisked you away. Hell, we might have traveled the globe, you and me.”

  “I was twelve!” she said, laughing. “You can be so outrageous, Win.” But she looked at him for a moment, and the tenderness in her eyes stirred his heart. He wondered if she were imagining what it would be like to do just that, travel the world together.

  “Come over and keep me company.” Win stretched to reach a chair. He pulled it closer to him.

  “Looks like you want to drink and play cards.” She eyed the bottle of whiskey and the deck of cards on the table next to him.

  “C’mon, sit with me. My leg’s aching. Let’s play a few hands of gin rummy to take my mind off it.”

  The fire was warm, the stew was off the stove, and the bread was rising. Other chores could wait—he wanted to be alone with her. She took two glasses from the shelf and dropped into the chair. He pulled a little table up and poured them both a shot. A collegial bond sparked between them as they toasted and took a sip. The warmth rushed into his chest as he dealt the cards. They played a few hands; Meg won the first, but he won the next two. She leaned back in the chair and sighed with a laziness that comes from drinking in the middle of the day. He shuffled the deck.

  “Do you miss racing?” The effects of the drink allowed the question to escape his lips. He dealt the cards, hoping she wouldn’t take offense. At least he hadn’t called it “flimflamming.”

  She picked up her hand. “Biscuit prefers this life. She could have been hurt . . . stepped in a hole . . .”

  “I didn’t ask if she missed it. I asked if you did.”

  Meg held his gaze. “Sometimes.” Maybe the whiskey was talking, but he liked the candor it produced. A distant memory fell across her face. “There was something about racing. It was scary, but thrilling at the same time. It was a little dangerous, and yet I loved it. There was something about it . . .” she repeated, and looked at him as if to seek confirmation that he understood.

  Maybe there’s a chance she’ll come with me, Win thought. He nodded encouragingly. “Spoken like a trailblazer. You’ve got . . . gumption. I think that’s what they call it.” Win put down his cards. “Think of the vistas we’d see, Meggie. Gus could come. Powell lost a hand, too; if he can manage, you know Gus can. Gus is ten times stronger than Powell, he’d—”

  “Stop, Win.” Meg shook her head. She rose a bit unsteadily to check the gingerbread and pulled it from the oven. When she returned, she poured them both another drink. “I’m not the girl you think I am, and I doubt it’s gumption you see. I’ve been so confused lately.”

  Win’s heart sank, but didn’t press the idea of Powell’s expedition. Instead, he asked, “What are you confused about?”

  She shrugged and shook her head. “I was so content a few months ago; now I feel unsettled about almost everything. I want all this to stay just as it is.” She opened her arms. “But I want to move forward, too. I feel caught between two worlds. Gus and I have the money to start our ranch now, but I don’t want this to end.” She tossed her cards on the table. “Ach, I’m not making any sense.”

  “There’s no way to move ahead without leaving something behind.”

  She stared at the fire, her brow furrowed. He could tell she’d heard him by the look in her eyes. He’d been moving forward and leaving behind all of his life. “It hurts, though.”

  Her honesty seduced him. It was damned inconvenient that his leg throbbed every time he moved, otherwise he might have taken her hand and pulled her into his bed. But he was kidding himself. He would lose everything. She’d never forgive him if she gave herself away to him like this, and it would hurt Jeb deeply. He’d ruin any chance of friendship with either of them. Jeb had better appreciate what a goddamn gentleman I am, he thought.

  Intimacy sparked between them, however, the whiskey was doing its job. Win poured them another drink and they began to talk, a cerebral form of lovemaking that kept propriety in the foreground and regret at bay. Win told Meg that when his job as a Post rider ended, he was too embarrassed to return to the Dawsons penniless, so he broke into a library and lived in the basement for a while until he met Clint. Meg confessed that she, too, spent a few weeks in the Council Bluffs reading room when she was expelled from school and thought Gus would be disappointed if he found out. Win asked why she had been expelled. She got in a fight, Meg replied. What was the fight about? She said another girl called her a tomboy, so she decked her. Win started laughing and she joined in until tears rolled down their cheeks and their sides ached. Another drink later, Win confessed how the color of certain sunsets reminded him of her hair. She pretended to scoff and said that he never looked more handsome than when he gazed out at the horizon. “Wilderness beckons you like a lover,” she said. He replied he was undoubtedly looking at one of those reddish-gold sunsets. She blushed. Win nearly professed his love a couple of times, but, even drunk, he held back. And, though for a brief afternoon it was nice to pretend that Meg loved him and that she was his, another lover called.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: JEB

  Paradise

  Jeb didn’t know what to think when he and Gus walked through the door in the late afternoon and found Win and Meg sound asleep next to a fire of only glowing embers. Win was passed out in his cot and Meg was curled up in a chair, her face buried in her arms. The half-empty bottle of whiskey and the scattered cards told a story he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

  Win stirred and rubbed his head. “Aw, damn. What time is it?”

  “Late,” Gus growled as he picked up the bottle and showed it to him. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Sorry, Gus.” Win winced in pain when he tried to move. “We just got to talking.”

  “She’s gonna wake up feeling mighty poorly.” Gus sounded as gruff as any father would. “You oughta know better.”

  “You’re right.” Win rubbed his head. “We had a damned good time, though.”

  Jeb wondered what he meant by a “damned good time” as Gus went to the stove to start some coffee. Jeb built up the fire. The noise woke Meg. She raised her head, her hair falling in her face. She squinted. “What happened?”

  “Apparently, a ‘damned good time’ with Win.” Jeb stirred the embers and tossed a log on top; it quickly caught fire.

  She rubbed her face with both hands. “I feel terrible.”

  “You look terrible.” Win grunted as he tried to stand up. “C’mon, let’s sit up at the table. Gus is fixing you some coffee, and if I’m real polite,
he might pour me some, too.”

  “I’d rather just shoot you.” Gus banged around in the kitchen, retrieving coffee mugs. Meg pulled herself out of the chair with a groan and staggered over to the table, leaning on every support she could find along the way. She sat down with a thud and held her head in her hands. Win hobbled over as well. No one asked, so Jeb decided to fill them in on the men they shot. “We brought the bodies to Cold Springs.”

  “That was decent of you,” Win said, combing his hair with his fingers.

  “Something in short supply around here.”

  “Gus, be nice. Win didn’t force it down my throat, for heaven’s sake.” Meg spoke to the table, holding her head in her hands. Win smiled a half-feeble, half-smug grin. Jeb couldn’t remember a time when he felt angrier at Win, yet less inclined to say anything about it.

  Gus sighed roughly. “You two are a goddamn piece of work, you know that? Time to sober up.” He pounded two tin cups down in front of them and poured hot coffee into each. “Goddamn piece of work,” he muttered to himself. The anger within Jeb eased a bit, since Gus was covering it pretty well for the both of them.

  Whatever happened between Win and Meg that afternoon changed the angles and sides of the triangle that formed their friendship with Jeb. Within a few days, Win was up and around, feeling restless and getting underfoot. He limped around the kitchen when Meg was trying to cook, getting in her way and causing a fair amount of noise and disruption. Instead of getting irritated, however, she just laughed. The bottle of whiskey they shared seemed to have brought them closer together. Win tested his patience, but Jeb remained silent. He believed jealousy made a man look small.

  In addition to the question of what went on between Meg and Win, the question of how Win knew he and Jeb were about to be attacked remained unanswered. Jeb didn’t say it out loud, but he wondered if Win always did everything he could to avoid trouble. Once, when they were kids, the weather had been so cold that the pond next to the Blankenships’ farm froze over. He and Win were warned that the ice was too thin to support them, but Win had to see for himself. He kept going farther and farther out onto the frozen pond, despite Jeb standing on shore telling him he was a fool. Sure enough, the ice cracked open beneath him and he disappeared into the water. Jeb grabbed a rope, tied it to a fallen tree branch, and slid it out over the ice to Win, who was flailing about, trying to pull himself out on to the ice. Jeb eventually got his shivering friend to shore, but not before Jeb nearly risked falling in himself trying to rescue him. Win managed a grin and, with his teeth chattering uncontrollably, said the infamous words, “Sometimes you gotta do somethin’ bad, Jeb, just to know you’re alive.”