Better Off Without Her
Rita Hestand
Better Off Without Her
Rita Hestand
Better Off Without Her
Rita Hestand
Better Off Without Her
(Book One of the Western Serial Killer Series)
Copyright© 2013 Rita Hestand
All rights reserved
Book Cover designed by Adrijus G. from
RockingBookCovers.com
Other Books in this series:
Good Day For a Hanging
Bad Day for a Killing
License Notes
This book Better Off Without Her is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. Please purchase an additional copy for each person you share with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
Rita's Other Books
1854
Panhandle of Texas
Palo Duro Canyon
Chapter One
He took the fingers out of his pocket and twirled them against his own. Some were lean and tapered others were short and stubby. Problem was…they didn't feel real anymore. They were no longer warm, and agile. He wanted them to feel real, to be warm. They were cold, lifeless, and quickly turning colors. Blood oozed from one, the last victim. He culled the rotten ones from the new, throwing them in the dirt as he rode, leaving an eerie trail of souvenirs. His shoulders hunched as he protected his treasure from prying eyes.
He couldn't identify his own feelings for the children he had protected—perhaps the only good he'd done in the world. The word "proud" came to mind, but he wasn't sure what it meant. Many words eluded him. He'd heard the words spoken by his father and Uncle, and wondered at their meaning. His eyes narrowed as he glanced about him, thrusting the good fingers back into his pocket. He patted his pocket and nodded. It was enough.
He rode most of the night, weary and sleepy, but more than that, hungry. He'd known hunger before too. His stomach twisted. He relished familiar feelings–they fed his soul. Pain was normal. As long as there was pain, he knew he was alive, and he knew it as surely as blood drips from a knife.
This cold here wasn't much different from the cold he'd suffered in the Kansas prison, only a month ago. The wind howled the same tune, only it wasn't coming in through a crack in the floor, where someone had tried to escape only a few days earlier. He remembered killing the guard, a non-essential man, and shooting another one in the leg. He'd taken the gun from the first guard as he strangled him against the prison bars. He remembered how the second guard had followed him, relentlessly.
None of that mattered now that he was free…
The word froze on his tongue. Free—what did that mean exactly? He wasn't sure. It was times like these, when he tried to think, that he wished sorely he had been able to go to school.
He knew nothing of the world.
He wished fervently someone could explain all the words to him he'd heard over the years. He heard people talk in towns, and understood the meanings very little. It was almost as though he were not of this world. He certainly didn't fit in anywhere he'd been. It seemed important to fit somewhere.
The sound of his horse clopping against the dry floor of the desert made a lonely echo through the desolate canyons as he struggled against the north winds of winter.
Hunger, loneliness, pain, he knew and understood. And another kind of need…revenge. He heard his father and Uncle speak of it many times, asking him if he wanted revenge? Revenge was what he sought.
The silence broke when a war hoop sounded from the ridge and a scream for help came out of nowhere. He looked around and spotted a boy running as though the devil himself were after him. It only took seconds to realize a lone Comanche chased the kid. He let out his own war whoop and aimed his horse straight at the attacking Indian. His own mortality was unimportant. He must save the child.
The boy must have seen him as he ran towards him. He drew his knife, put it in his mouth, and then he held his arm out for the kid and as he rode by the boy mounted behind him. Victor yelped like the wild Indian, as soon as the boy let loose of his arm, he threw the knife, hitting the Indian square in the chest. The Indian slumped against his horse and slowly slid to the ground.
"You got him senor," the boy hollered as he jumped down and ran to the Indian, grabbing the knife and pulling it out, he wiped it on the dead Indian's clothes, and then handed it to Victor with a smile. "Thank you senor, you saved my life."
"What you doin' out here, by yourself kid?" Victor asked taking the knife and putting it in his scabbard.
"I live on a ranch not far from here, with my mother and father. I was out looking for my mule— she wandered away. Will you take me to them?" The boy eyed him, his mouth falling open.
"I reckon…What are you starin' at kid?"
"I've never seen anyone like you before."
"Like me? What's so different about me…?"
"It's your face…so scarred. You were beaten?" the boy asked.
Victor merely shrugged.
"And…you're voice…it is like a girl, it is so high. Who did this to you?" The boy seemed almost angry, and yet concerned.
Victor nodded showing not surprised at the boy's observation, "Ain't no nevermind boy, it was done many years ago. Now, get his horse, and let's go."
"Am I stealing the horse?" the boy asked.
"Nope…just takin' the leavin's of the dead, boy."
The boy frowned but obeyed. He mounted the Indian's pony and hung on as Victor rode in the direction the boy pointed.
As they rode into the ranch yard, a Mexican woman came out and started talking to the boy in Spanish. Then he looked at Victor.
"You are most welcome to stay with us, as you saved me from certain death. My mother insists."
"Thanks, I'd appreciate a meal and some sleep then be on my way."
The boy nodded, "And anything else you wish for is yours, my mother says."
"Your mother is glad you are home?" Victor's raised a brow in confusion.
"Yes."
He glanced at the woman who was rushing around to prepare a meal for them. An unusual woman.
"That's good, yes, that is very good." He almost smiled. "What's your name boy?"
"Antonio Del Lavaga Enriques."
"That's a big name for a little fella."
"Yes sir."
A new sensation swamped Victor. He didn't know what he felt, but he knew it was some sort reaction to this boy. He watched the boy lead him through the adobe house and into the kitchen where his mother fixed a fine meal. Victor watched the woman saying nothing. He ate in silence and
took a long nap afterward. When he woke he said his goodbyes and thank-yous and mounted. He glanced at Antonio for a moment and almost smiled again. However, the pain that a smile would inflict kept it from forming. It was the closest he had come since he was younger than the Antonio. He found it hard to smile and the feeling was strange to him, but his face but his face felt the pain, and his frown eased into place once more. A small shadow of warmth entered his heart as he nodded to the family that was so grateful—no yelling, and screaming and manner of meanness here. Victor wished he belonged here, but knew he had no place.
He found a moment of peace and as he laid his head down that night, he slept well. It was the last time he would do so.
Victor was twenty-one.
~*~
1864
Panhandle of Texas
Why had he come this way again? Something seemed to propel him; therefore, he rode, with no definite destination in mind. His urge to find his Uncle seemed to fade for the moment. It would keep.
It had been ten long years since he'd come this way. Yet it felt like yesterday, he seemed to recognize every crack in the ground. He wondered what had become of the boy, and if Antonio would remember him.
The wind had picked up, whistling like some ghostly threat. The cold made Victor anxious. His hands felt numb, and he couldn't feel his feet. He'd been in the saddle too long. He needed to warm up somewhere, anywhere.
The cold air sifted through his clothes now like a snake crawling against his skin. He glanced at his clothes–torn, weather beaten, dirty. That didn't matter to Victor. His clothes never fit. They hadn't belonged to him; he'd stolen them off a dead body he found on the trail. It's how he survived and it had to do. He nodded to himself. He supposed he deserved no better– he'd been taught too many years by a man who regarded him lower than dirt. Still, Victor pressed onward in his quest. He couldn't look back; it made him too crazy to look back.
He'd learned to shut his mind to things like hunger, needs, and wants. The clothes on his back came from the dead along the way, the food in his belly was sparse, and he'd learned to live with the gnawing ache in his stomach. Although Victor was big, he was not fat, for he'd known hunger too often to tell.
He'd seen the small ranch house some time ago. Keeping his shoulders hunched, and his hat down against the wind, he kept heading his horse north.
Loneliness echoed in the wind. The wind was one of the things that bothered him most. The thought sent a shiver up his spine. He hated the sound of the cold north wind. That had been the hardest to bare all these years, the cold emptiness of his existence. He shook his head and rode on. Don't think on it.
Spent, tired, and hungry, he could push himself harder.
Smoke billowed from the small chimney, like a flag waving in the wind. Hard to ignore. No doubt it would be warm inside. However, joy didn't quite reach Victors heart. Nothing touched Victor but what he was driven to do. He idly wondered what emotion he should feel, seeing a home in sight. What did others feel? How could people smile so much? It hurt his face to smile.
The word "home" brought no feeling to him. Home was what he rode away from, and not a good thing. Home held no warmth, no feelings, except anger, frustrations, and hell. Feelings could destroy purpose that much he knew. He'd had them once—not any more. Somewhere along his way he'd lost them altogether.
The past rose up like a sore festering inside him. Again he forced it down. Forget that's what I gotta do.
His eyes squinted, the wind whipping at his lashes as he blinked to see.
The door opened slowly as he got closer, squeaking as woman in a long gray dress with hair the color of honey came out to greet him. He wondered if he was staring at beauty, for she had not one blemish on her. He'd heard the word used, but he didn't know what it meant. Her blue eyes stared deeply into him, and Victor squirmed, uncomfortable under that blatant stare. He should be used to the reactions of others when they saw him, but he hated the staring. He neither smiled nor frowned, just stared at her for a long minute. She was easy on the eyes. No scars on her face.
She seemed to size him up quickly, her glance going from the top of his hat to the tip of his boots. Her face remained the same though, without condemnation. He found it strange that she neither frowned nor seemed upset at his ugliness. She didn't turn away as many women did— she didn't bat an eye.
"Morning sir, what can I do for you?" She stood rigid, and hugging herself with a thin shawl.
Without moving an eye, Victor knew there was a gun was trained on him. He could nearly smell the smoke from it. The curtain at the door moved. He nodded to the woman as he came to a halt only a few yards from her. He didn't dismount, he waited.
He understood caution, and death.
"Mornin'. Saw your smoke, wondered if I might work for some grub?" he said, his voice steady but not particularly friendly. He disliked the way his voice screeched but it remained part of him. He could not change it.
Her face seemed like a mask of emotions, but finally settled on somber. "Well now, I reckon I could oblige you sir." She seemed to relax suddenly. "If you've a mind to chop some wood for the stove I'd fix you something to hold you over." She managed a more pleasant expression as she continued to stare at him.
He tipped his hat. He'd seen that done in town. He knew nothing of how to act so he copied the fashion of other men. It would have to do.
The woman moved toward the small shed not far from the house, her skirt flaring from the obtrusive wind. "The axe is over here, sir, when you're ready. I'll be puttin' on some bacon and eggs will that do?"
Again he nodded. He didn't want to like her; he didn't want to feel anything for her, he just wanted to eat and be on his way. Feelings were for regular people, he'd never be a regular person. She didn't know that–couldn't know that, but it was fact.
"Fine, when you're done, just bring it in the house and set it by the fire, if you will. I usually have my son chop the wood; it's his regular chore now that his pa has gone to war. But it was so cold, he didn't do as he was told."
He picked up the axe and swung it, ignoring her try at conversation. He chopped the wood with a vengeance. The colder he got, the harder he chopped.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her staring, and then she went back to the house, and closing the door.
Victor chopped wood until he had a couple of good piles. His hands were long ago callused from splitting timber for the prison fires. He'd worked up a sweat, even in the cold. A warm fire would feel good, he decided.
He gathered an armful, he headed for the house. The door swung open and he saw the kid staring at him as he entered. The kid with the gun. The kid behind the door. The kid didn't move Instead he just stood there.
Her voice invited him in. "Come on in, it's almost ready now. Have a seat at the table after you wash up, and you can eat your fill."
"Yes 'um," Victor nodded. He didn't know how to carry on a conversation with anyone. He had never had a conversation with a woman. He knew he looked at her as though he'd never even seen a woman–although he had in town, just passing by. They were a curiosity to him.
Placing the wood by the fire, he warmed his thick meaty hands slowly. He watched as she served up the eggs, bacon, and biscuits. It smelled great and his stomach was rumbling. She said he had to wash his hands, so he moved toward the counter. He removed his hat, and a thick mop of black hair covered his forehead and brow.
"The name's Hattie Cole and this here is my son, John T.," she said as she brought the food to the table. She cast her eyes at her son with a slight frown. "Ya didn't do your chores did ya, son?"
"No ma'am."
"Then you know what's expected."
"Yes 'um."
Victor washed in the small basin on the counter, dried his hands, and went to the table. He studied the tined fork and plate for a minute trying to remember how most everyone ate. He picked it up and used it to scoop the eggs. Remembering how he'd had to eat from the plate like a dog, lapping it up he wondere
d why anyone bothered with a tine fork, but the fork was there, so he used it. He picked up the bacon in his hands and put some in his mouth. He didn't look up while he ate— he was too hungry to worry about these people. He'd done the work, earned the food. If she didn't like how he ate, she said nothing.
"Your man around?" he asked as he sopped his biscuit in the gravy she served him.
"Uh…no, he's gone to war sir." Hattie sat down at the table with him. Her friendly demeanor puzzled Victor. He noticed the long gray dress with interest. Her hair was nice too. She was a handsome woman, he expected.
"War?" Victor twisted his head in question.
"Yes of course—the war between the states." She frowned and explained further. "The war between the North and the South."
"North and South of what?" Victor asked.
"Northern states against the southern states…it's about slavery, and livin' under Union rules."
Victor raised his brows, but continued to eat. He didn't know anything about rules or slavery. He didn't understand what a war was. Better he say nothing than have them laugh at him too.
She acted as though he should know about this war. He wasn't sure what a war was. He'd heard the word before, but hearing it and knowing what it meant were two different things. Still, he pretended to know. Always pretend. It was the only way to get by. He knew nothing of the North or the South. North and South of what?
"You gonna eat?" he asked, his face wrinkled with a frown.
"Oh…No, we've eaten, thank you." She smiled pleasantly. "Had our breakfast a couple of hours ago."
Victor watched her with curiosity. The woman was nice to look at with her hair being so light and her eyes shone, as though she were happy. He wondered what that feeling might be like, to smile every day. Of course he reckoned some people were happy, he just didn't know any that were. He hadn't come from happy. He knew nothing of it. Yet something deep from within him hurt like a pain for his lack of knowledge and feeling.
Better Off Without Her (Book One of the Western Serial Killer series) Page 1