by Anita Mills
She'd been desperate enough to try to hire somebody, Mary said, but she hadn't got any takers. Hell, a man'd be a fool to sign on for something like that, no matter how much she offered. Getting caught by Comanches was a hard way to die, the hardest way he could think of. There wasn't enough money on earth to make a man risk that willingly. And yet she was going back to face them herself, after all they'd done to her.
This time when he stared out the window, he didn't see the courtyard, the vast expanse of sun-baked land. He didn't even see the distant mountains. He saw a pale slip of a woman, her pretty face framed with a halo of wheat-gold hair. And he was lying beside her in that wagon, holding her while she sobbed with remembered terror. He was in her kitchen, wanting her, reliving the feel of her lips yielding ever so briefly to his.
"You're a damned fool, Annie," he said softly. "A damned fool."
And from some corner of his mind, a voice spoke to him. Not nearly as much as you, Hap Walker, because you won't let her go alone. No matter what it takes, you won't let her go alone.
The end of the month. That didn't give him very long to get over there, to try to talk her out of it. And if he couldn't, he didn't even want to think about it.
"Bad news, Hap?"
He spun around to face Clay. "No," he lied. "But I just found out I've got a little unfinished business over on the San Saba. Reckon I'll be leaving out early in the morning." Expecting an argument, he added defensively, "Nothing much. I'll leave word where you can reach me over there. I'll be wanting to know about the baby."
"Yeah." Clay hesitated, then ran his fingers through his short blond hair. "I, uh, I just came back to say I'm sorry, Hap. I guess I know how you felt every time you sent me out."
"Most of the time I felt pretty good about it. You never let me down—never."
"You taught me a lot."
"I hope so."
The younger man shifted uneasily from one booted foot to the other. "I guess I just thought if I was settled down, it was time you were, too."
"I know."
"Hell, if you don't get your head blown off over there, Helena might be a good place for a man like you. Maybe when you're not trying to cover half of Texas, you'll have time to find yourself a woman. They have a way of settling down men like us, Hap. Maybe you'll have a Horace, Jr."
"You're never going to let me live that down, are you? I should've never told her."
"Yeah, I always thought Hap stood for a family name," Clay said, grinning. "You know, something like Hapgood maybe. When you weren't around, Rios and I used to guess a lot about it."
"Well, now you know," Hap retorted. "Just don't expect me to answer to it. And don't go putting it on my tombstone, either. I won't rest easy under Horace—be like being buried in somebody else's grave. Hell, what am I talking about? More'n likely I'll be burying you." He hesitated, sobering. "Tell you what—I haven't had a good drink in nigh to three months. Tonight me and you'll split some good whiskey for all the good times. Wouldn't seem right anyway if I was leaving a place without taking a hangover with me."
"Sure. What did Rios want?"
"Huh? Oh, I don't know. I didn't get around to reading it. Guess I'll take a look at it now." Sliding his thumbnail under the flap, Hap pried it up, then pulled out two sheets of paper. Giving them a cursory glance, he murmured, "Well, I'll be damned."
"What?"
"Here, you read it. You ought to get a real good laugh out of this."
Taking the letter, Clay read aloud.
Hap,
I thought I'd better warn you before I sent him your way, but there's a man been asking about you. I guess he's been talking to some of your friends, by the sound of it. Anyway, he's wanting to publish a book of your memoirs (hope I spelled that right). Maybe I should have said your life story, amigo.
He says it ought to appeal to folks back East, what with you being a war hero, Indian fighter, gunfighter, army scout, and Texas Ranger. Funny I didn't realize you'd done all that until I got to thinking about it, and I guess that's right. I think you ought to do it, just to set the record straight, because the way he's talking, if you don't, he's going to write about you anyway.
His name is Woods—Elmo R Woods, but don't call him Elmo. He goes by E.P Anyway, unless I hear different, I'm going to tell him how to find you. I expect he'll be out sometime in April.
I just got back from El Paso, and would have stopped in at the Ybarra, but I had a prisoner with me, and I was afraid Clay might kill him. You can tell him I caught Sanchez-Torres' brother coming across the border from New Mexico.
The service isn't the same without the two of you. I'm almost missing Clay's coffee. I know I miss swapping stories with you. The kid I've got with me now doesn't have any.
"As ever, your friend, R.R." Clay handed it back, grinning. "He's right, you ought to do it. Guess this means you'll be putting off leaving a little while, anyway."
Hap shook his head. "If he wants a story bad enough, he can catch up to me. Besides, I don't know that I want to be in any dime novel. Might give folks the wrong idea about why I did the things I've done."
"Or the right one."
"I'm not much of a hero, Clay. I always just tried to do what I could to make things right. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn't." Hap looked down at Rios' letter. "I don't reckon folks'd want to read that, do you?"
"I would. I'd save a copy for my son, if I have one. I'd want him to read it someday. Then maybe he could understand me a little easier. I've always tried to be like you, Hap."
The affection in the younger man's voice was almost more than Hap could bear. Rather than acknowledge it, he pocketed the letter, muttering, "Hell, I'm not done living yet. How the dickens am I supposed to know how everything's going to turn out? Somewhere out there there's probably a bullet getting ready to write the final chapter."
"You don't have to go."
"Yeah, I do. But I'll be seeing you at supper, and then there's that drink afterward I'll be holding you to. Later, when I'm old and gray and cantankerous, I'll be back here boring your kids with my stories. Drive 'em plumb crazy, having to listen to me."
"I'd like that, Hap. See you at supper."
As Hap started toward his room at the other end of the sprawling house, he felt immensely relieved. He and Clay had come to an understanding, and that made leaving a whole lot easier. If he never made it back, they'd have that last bottle to remember. For a moment he paused, thinking of Clay's kid, knowing he might never see him. Maybe he'd start that book, even if he never got a chance to finish it. It'd at least be something to leave to Clay's boy.
CHAPTER 18
The San Saba River twisted and meandered through the pretty, peaceful valley. It was benign now, nothing like that September day when he'd found it flooded. As he splashed across Peg Leg's Crossing, he couldn't help thinking about that, remembering the awful exhaustion, the terrible hopelessness of knowing he'd failed. He felt a whole lot different this time.
There was a real anticipation, an exhilaration at the thought of seeing Annie again. For a hundred miles he'd thought of nothing else, and now he was nearly there. As Old Red cleared the bank, Hap reined in and slid to the ground. He'd been in the saddle four days, and he didn't want to ride in on her looking like a damned saddle tramp and smelling like a polecat.
After he tied the horse in a stand of chaparral, he stripped down buck naked and, carrying a chunk of lye soap, he eased his body into the river. The water was cold as he ducked under it, then came up. Thoroughly wet, he soaped himself from head to foot, then tossed the bar onto the bank. A few more quicks dunks, and he crawled out, shaking himself like a dog.
Letting the hot air dry his skin, he filled his pan with water, positioned his mirror on his saddle, and lathered his face. It's a waste of time. She's going to think you're a rough-looking cuss, anyway. Yeah, but there was no sense going in looking any worse than he had to. He paused to study his face in the mirror, wondering if the mustache made him look older. Decidi
ng it did, he got rid of it. The way he looked at it, he needed every bit of help he could get. For good measure, he splashed on some of the lilac water he'd bought at Fort Richardson. Given the heat, he probably needed it.
The hair he couldn't do much about. When wet, it lay in ringlets against his head. Sighing, he took his comb from the saddlebag and tried to stretch the curls out, to slick them down into the hated waves. He'd meant to get some Harrison's Hair Balm to fasten it down with, but none of the places he'd stopped had any. So it was just going to have to do what it wanted to, he guessed. It had a mind of its own, anyway.
Giving up, he pulled on clean clothes, stowed his gear, and swung back into the saddle. Annie Bryce might not be impressed, but he'd got himself all gussied up for her. Now all he had to do was persuade her she wanted to give the folks in Austin another try before she took off for the Comancheria.
Knowing it would be awhile before she came back, if ever, Annie hoed the weeds from the flower bed on Ethan's grave. She wanted to at least leave it looking nice. Kneeling to brush away the last of them, she poked the pointed end of a trowel into the ground she'd softened the night before with water. Then she carefully separated the uprooted wildflowers she'd gathered, plugging each plant into a hole. It was something she had to do, in case she didn't make it home. At least they'd reseed themselves, and there'd be something pretty there to mark the place.
Satisfied with her handiwork, she stood up and dusted her dirty hands on the apron covering her blue gingham dress. Well, that was that. Now, as soon as Jim Willett came to get the cats, the goat, and the chickens, she'd be ready to make the trip into town for provisions.
Standing back, she faced the wooden cross the rangers had placed under the tree. In black paint Hap Walker had printed, ETHAN BRYCE, HUSBAND AND FATHER, D. SEPT, 1870.
"I'm going back for Susannah, Ethan," she said softly. "I'm going back for our little girl. I know she's alive, Ethan, I can feel it."
"Annie! Annie Bryce!"
Startled, she whirled around, her heart in her throat. And for a moment she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Riding that big roan horse, Hap Walker was coming across the field. Gathering her skirts, she ran to meet him, then stopped self-consciously just short of the pen fence. Her first inclination was to hide her hands. Instead, she pushed her damp hair back from her face and waited. He swung down and walked toward her.
His memory hadn't done her justice. She wasn't skinny now, and a few months of good food had put more color in her face, making her lovelier than ever. He stopped a few feet in front of her, drinking in everything about her, like a thirsty man at a well. The way that bright, hot sun played off her hair, the slightly flushed, damp skin, those bright blue eyes, the swell of rounded breasts beneath that prim, schoolmarmish dress, the slender waist. Just looking at her made his mouth as dry as cotton.
"You're looking damned good, Annie," he finally managed to say.
She smiled. "You're looking pretty good yourself, Hap." He seemed bigger than she remembered. His collarless white shirt was open at the neck, showing sun-darkened skin. Her gaze traveled upward. "You got rid of your mustache," she said foolishly.
"Yeah, what do you think?"
"It makes you look different."
"Better or worse?"
"Just different." She stepped back. "I didn't think you'd be back, you know."
"I was kinda passing through," he lied. "Oh?"
"Yeah. I've got a job offer over in Karnes County. I'm thinking about being a sheriff there."
Her eyes widened. "That's Helena, isn't it?"
"Yeah. They get a little trouble every now and then," he added in an understatement.
"A lot of killing, anyway—or at least that's what I've read." Recovering somewhat, she started to hold out her hand, then thought better of it. "Well, I'm glad you stopped by. Come on in, and I'll put on some coffee." She caught herself and looked up at him. "I forgot—you hate coffee, don't you?"
"Yeah, but water's fine."
"You can stay for supper, can't you? I mean, you don't have to go right away, do you?"
"I got a couple of extra days."
"Good." Given the way they'd parted just before Christmas, she felt awkward. "Well, you're welcome to stay here, but I was planning on leaving in the morning. I guess I could stay another day maybe, so we could catch up. I'd like to hear about how things have been going for you."
"Yeah, I was coming by to talk to you about that— leaving, I mean. Tell you what—you get in where it's cooler, and I'll put Red in the barn. Then I'll be right on in."
"I need to wash my hands, anyway. I was trying to get some flowers planted before I left."
"Go ahead."
He watched until she'd disappeared into the house before he led his horse toward the corral. Well, he was here, and he'd seen her, and she still had the same effect on him. Now he just had to figure out how to deal with it. It was one thing to meddle in a body's affairs when he was asked, quite another when he wasn't. But he was going to make it his business, anyway. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't.
On his way to the house, he stopped at the pump and got his hands wet enough to slick his hair back. And just outside the door, he unbuckled his gun belt and took it off. Inside, he hung it on the coat peg, then went into the kitchen. Annie'd washed up and was standing at the table, slicing a loaf of bread. She looked up, smiling.
"I thought you probably hadn't eaten, and I made this this morning. With a little jam and butter, I was hoping it'd hold you till supper."
"Thanks."
She reached for the crock of butter, murmuring, "If you'll kill a chicken, I'll stew it and make dumplings for you. I've got a real good recipe for them."
"Always liked dumplings," he admitted. "I'm not a hard man to please, Annie."
She turned around at the way he said that, then noticed, "You're not wearing your gun. I hope you didn't leave it in the barn, because Henry will have already eaten the holster by now. If it weren't metal, she'd eat the Colt, too. She'll probably try, anyway."
"I brought it into the house." He tried to smile but couldn't quite make it. "Actually, I was thinking it wouldn't look right to come courting with it."
She froze, her eyes widening, and the color drained from her face. "What did you say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He hadn't meant to be so blunt about it, but now that he'd blundered, there wasn't much he could do but lay out his case. He took a deep breath, then plunged ahead.
"You need a man, Annie. I know what you've got in mind—you're wanting to go up into the Comancheria to look for your little girl. Well, you can't do it alone—be a fool thing to try it. A woman out there in a buckboard's a sitting duck for 'em. Before you start yammerin' Comanche at 'em, they'll have you killed, and then where will your kid be?"
"At least I'd be doing something. At least I'd be trying to get her. I can't leave her to be murdered by the army. But it's not your affair, Hap."
"Hear me out. I'm not much for speechifying, but I've thought a lot about this, Annie. I'd a whole lot rather be trying to get somebody in Austin to do something, but—"
"They won't. I've already been there," she said bitterly. "I wrote the governor, the president of the state legislature—everybody I could think of. You ought to read what I got back from them. They don't care, Hap—they don't care! I finally went to see them in person, and it didn't matter! They still didn't care! It's like they all think I ought to just forget she ever lived—but I can't!"
"Yeah, I know."
"Do you? Or are you like every other man who's come around here since I've been back? They all seem to think I need a man, too, that I'm some kind of harlot that can't live without—without—"
"I don't think you're a harlot, Annie. I never thought that. But you didn't let me finish—I've got something to say."
"I'm sorry. I just don't want to argue with you or anybody, that's all," she said wearily. "I'm tired of waiting. I've got
to do something."
"Those fellows wouldn't be coming around if you were a married woman, you know. What I'm trying to tell you is I'll go for you, if that's what you want. If that's the only way, I'll go, Annie."
"You'll go?" she echoed, stunned.
"Yeah. If that's what it takes, you can count me in."
"But why? I don't even have any claim on you, Hap."
It was now or never, and he knew it. "I reckon if I was your husband, you'd have all the claim you needed." Not daring to meet her eyes, he studied the checked tablecloth. "I've got a lot of rough edges to me, Annie, and I'm not trying to deny it. But you aren't going to find any gentlemen that'll go up there for you. I will."
"Oh, Hap—"
"I'm what you need, Annie. I can be as mean and ornery as they are. And I've never been a coward. Anything I've ever said I'd do, I've done. If I can't, I'll die trying. I'm thirty-seven, and you're thirty. 'Way I look at it, we've both got a chance to start over, and we ought to take it." Daring to look up now, he added, "And I haven't had but one bottle of whiskey since the last time I was here, so you won't be getting a drunkard."
Closing her eyes, she swallowed. "I can't, Hap, I can't."
"Because you can't stomach the thought of me?" he dared to ask, his heart pounding.
"No, not that. I can't stomach the thought of any man. If Ethan were here, I'd not be able to bear it." Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and her body shook. "I can't," she whispered. "I'd just cheat you."
"Here, now." Moving behind her, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Cheatin's when a man doesn't know what he's getting, Annie. Me, I've got a fair notion." Turning her around, he slid his arms around her shoulders. "I've been a gambling man all my life, Annie. I'm willing to take the chance I can make things different for you."
"But what if I can't change? What if I never get over this? What if every time you look at me like—like you did last Christmas, what if it makes me sick to my stomach?"