Around her, men took off their hats and women folded their hands. Death was so common here. A boy being shot down in the street elicited no more reaction than that. She seemed to be the only one who couldn’t get used to it.
Dear Lord, grant me the serenity to accept this.
Looking at Billy propped in his mother’s lap, pale and shaking, fresh rivulets of red already flowing over the paths she’d partially wiped away just moments before, she was struck anew by the impossibility of the task she had set for herself. No one should have to accept this. Sally put her hand on Hazel’s shoulder, trying to absorb her grief into her palm as Billy coughed up fresh blood, then sucked air back into his lungs in a short, strangled gasp. The end was almost here.
Looking incredibly young and vulnerable, Billy shaped the words I love you to his mother.
The pain almost took Sally Mae down. Instinct sent her gaze to Tucker. He was watching her, his dark face impassive, his eyes cold. She’d never felt the differences between them so keenly. The corner of his mouth twitched, and though it was illogical, she knew he wasn’t as remote as he would have her believe.
Tucker didn’t lower his head and she didn’t take her gaze from his as she recited the Lord’s Prayer. As the prayer ended, a woman in the back began singing “Amazing Grace.” For the purity of the tone, Sally Mae knew it was Alma Hitchell, Dwight Hitchell, the saloon owner’s, wife. Sally Mae always wondered how Alma, a deeply religious woman, reconciled her beliefs with her husband’s profession. As the notes of the hymn slowed around her, Sally Mae closed her eyes and added a private prayer to the public one.
Please grant us all the serenity to accept this.
“What happened?” Roger, the town’s newly-appointed sheriff, came to a stop a few feet away, startling Sally Mae into opening her eyes. Inevitably, he started shifting his weight from foot to foot. Sally Mae knew if she looked up from where she knelt, he’d have his thumbs stuck in his vest pockets, looking down his nose at everyone. As if he had a right. The only reason he’d gotten to be sheriff was because the appointment had occurred over a drinking match. And the only reason the appointment had stood was because everyone thought he would have been shot dead long before now.
“Billy got himself shot,” Dwight offered.
The wording grated on Sally Mae’s nerves. Billy hadn’t wanted to be shot. All he’d wanted to do was walk into that saloon and prove he was a man to the men he admired. And all he’d ended up proving was that he could bleed like the rest of them.
“Kids his age have no judgment,” Peter interjected. The fingers of Sally Mae’s free hand curled into a fist. The ones with no judgment were the men who’d accepted Billy’s challenge when they should have sent him home. They probably even thought it made them big and tough to kill a young boy whose only flaw was wanting to grow up too fast. And looking between Hazel, rocking her dying son in her arms, and the crowd standing witness, she knew something else. Tonight, tomorrow, maybe the next day, there’d be another knock at her door and another call for her to help another person who’d been shot. The cycle would continue round and round, death begetting death, death begetting hate. In the end, only the undertaker would profit, but no one seemed to see how pointless it all was. How much better they would do if they worked together.
Pushing to her feet, Sally Mae brushed at the blood smearing the dark gray material of her dress. Some came off on her fingers, but the stain didn’t diminish.
Please, Lord, give me…
The words stuttered to a halt in her mind. The murmur of voices rose to a cacophony in her mind, shattering her concentration. She blinked and looked around. No one seemed bothered by the noise other than her. The noise continued to rise until it became an accusing roar that only she could hear, a roar she couldn’t block out. Brushing at her skirt again she took a step back. She couldn’t pray here. She couldn’t think here. She couldn’t be here. Turning on her heel, she headed toward home, ignoring the few who called after her, blinking as tears burned over her stiff skin.
Someone stepped into her path. She shouldered past. The scent of leather, sage and man followed, telling her whose hand grazed hers, whose fingers managed a discreet squeeze. Tucker again. Tucker, who’d showed her such tenderness last night. Tucker, who, if he’d been in town instead of being with her, would have slipped into the violence that had taken Billy as naturally as he took his next breath. She didn’t squeeze his fingers back, didn’t hold on to his hand—just let it fall behind. She kept walking until she reached the door of her house. Behind her there was a scream of anguish. Her fingers tightened on the handle before she opened the door and slipped into the peace of her home.
The scent of lemon, wax and the faintest hint of carbolic surrounded her in a weak greeting. Lyle called to her from the sickroom. She ignored him as she climbed the stairs. In her bedroom, she knelt down, folded her hands and prayed. For Billy. For his family. For an end to the violence, but mostly she prayed to forget how her husband had looked as she’d last seen him. The hole between his eyes had looked too innocuous to have stolen the intelligence and life that had been there. And then she prayed again, because it was too easy to see Tucker’s face superimposed over her husband’s, to see him coming to the same violent end.
Please, Lord, give me the strength.
Tucker watched from beneath his hat brim as Sally Mae strode down the street. Those slight shoulders were squared, but he knew she was crying, knew she felt the boy’s fate keenly. Hazel’s wail announced Billy’s last breath as Sally Mae opened the door to her house. The shadows of the porch emphasized the slump in her posture when she thought she was safe from prying eyes. He ached to follow her, to take the burden from her, to hold her. He was her lover. He should be there with her, comforting her, not standing on the fringes of the crowd listening to a lot of people grumbling about a lot of things they’d never work up the courage to do.
Someone brought a sheet and put it over the kid’s face. Hazel sobbed and traced the silhouette of his profile through the worn material with hands that shook. Her oldest boy, he’d heard someone say.
“They just shot him down,” he heard Old Jed tell the sheriff. “The kid came in this morning and bellied up to the bar. Everyone knew it was his first time. No one expected trouble. The loco next to him said something to him. The kid looked surprised and, faster than you could blink, the no-account just shot him.”
“Did you see who he was?”
“I think he was one of Tejala’s old gang, but I can’t be sure.”
“Bastard.”
“Soon as he fired, he lit out of here.”
“No point going after them then,” the sheriff huffed.
“He killed my son,” Hazel snapped. “It’s your job to bring him to justice.”
The sheriff straightened to his full height. “It’s my job to keep the peace, not to get good men killed chasing shadows, which is all Tejala’s men would be.”
“Damn you for being a coward!”
“Here now! Watch what you say.”
Hazel glanced at the sheriff. “I know exactly what I’m saying and who I’m saying it to.”
So did Tucker, and he couldn’t blame the woman. He also couldn’t blame the sheriff. The man was a coward and his appointment a joke gone bad, but that being the case, a body couldn’t do much. Especially against Tejala’s gang, which was becoming a bit of a problem. With Tejala now dead, they’d all struck out on their own, but pickings were sparse for so many rival efforts and the fighting over leadership left everyone going no place fast. Dangerous men with no outlet and no money often found negative ways to amuse themselves to the point that Tucker would almost be glad if the gang did get another leader. Then, rather than putting out wildfires in different directions, the law could focus their peacekeeping in one spot.
“What are you going to do about this, Ranger?”
He’d wondered how long it would take for someone to remember he was a Texas Ranger. He pushed his hat back. “I think
I’ll get a description and maybe do a little hunting.”
Hazel looked around, her face ravaged with grief, her voice dripping with sarcasm, and asked, “Are any of you brave men who stood by while my son got shot going with him?”
Tucker couldn’t blame the men for hesitating. They had families to worry about. Retribution to fear.
“Your little boy bellied up to the bar like a man and a man takes his chances,” one of the newer residents countered.
Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t, Tucker thought, but picking on a kid was low in anybody’s book.
“I’ll go,” Old Jed said.
Jed had been a force to reckon with in his day, but his joints were rheumy now and his health fragile. The one thing Tucker didn’t need was the old man’s death on his conscience.
“No offense, ma’am,” he said to Hazel, touching his finger to the brim of his hat, “but I want to catch him before he reaches his friends. A man can sneak up on his quarry a lot easier when he’s not dragging a posse along.”
Hazel’s expression tightened. “But you will catch up with him?”
He looked at Billy, still holding his mother’s hand with his death grip, blood staining his cheeks. Hell, the kid hadn’t even sprouted whiskers yet. Hunting for Ari was going to have to wait until this debt was settled. “I’ll make it a point.”
6
Two hours later, Sally Mae opened the back door at Tucker’s first knock. Almost as though she’d been expecting him.
The look she gave him was knowing, disapproving. Disappointed. She didn’t hesitate to state why.
“Thee are going after him.”
It wasn’t a question. Sally Mae might not hold his skin color against him, but his profession? That was a horse of a different color.
He didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss her or shake her for the irrationality of it. She might think the meek would inherit the earth, but out here the meek got stomped. “If you mean Billy’s killer, yeah. Any man who’d shoot a kid for the fun of it can’t be left roaming free.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I thank thee for telling me.”
Kiss her. He definitely wanted to kiss her until that stubborn conviction in her expression softened to desire. “You’re welcome. However, before you go all soft with gratitude—” She huffed, interrupting him. “I didn’t just come to tell you. I have a favor to ask.”
She eyed him suspiciously. And why not? He’d never asked a favor before.
“What?”
“I need you to take care of something for me.”
Before she could work up to a no, he whistled for Crockett, calling him from where he was exploring. The puppy came, all flopping skin and lolling tongue, a big grin on his face. Sally Mae looked at him uncomprehendingly. “A puppy?”
“Yeah.”
Crockett came right up to her and jumped. Tucker caught him before he could put his muddy paws on her clean version of her ever-present gray skirt. The puppy wiggled as he held him back. “I haven’t gotten a chance to teach him any manners yet.”
She folded her arms across her chest. Never a good sign with Sally Mae. “What’s his name?”
“Crockett, after Davy Crockett.”
She eyed the puppy skeptically. “Thee think he will become a mighty fighter?”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know he shows a strong streak of mischief.”
Her lips twitched as Crockett moaned and plunked into a sit.
“He needs watching while I’m gone.”
“And how long will that be?”
“A week, week and a half on the outside.”
Her hands dropped to her side. “Usually thee are gone much longer.”
“With a fresh trail I won’t have to spend so much time.”
Her mouth twisted as she knelt down and rubbed Crockett’s ears. “What am I supposed to do with him if thee don’t come back?”
“Send a message to Hell’s Eight and somebody will come get him.”
“Like they’ll come to get thee?”
If he didn’t come back for the puppy, there really wouldn’t be any reason for anyone to come get him. He suspected she knew that from the tight set of her mouth. Sally Mae was a smart woman.
“You can count on Hell’s Eight. They’ll take care of him. Desi’s right fond of the little fool, I’m told.”
The stiffening was slight but there. “Desi?”
“Caine Allen’s wife.”
“I didn’t know Hell’s Eight were the marrying kind.”
But Sally Mae was. And she was also jealous. Tucker settled his weight deeper in his boots, enjoying the knowledge. “We don’t like to let the cat out of the bag on some things.”
“Afraid the women will be too willing?”
“Them being willing isn’t the issue.” He said that just to tweak the intriguing flare of jealousy a bit. He watched her reaction from the corner of his eye. Her shoulders set in and her mouth flattened to a thin line. “It’s when they start attaching their brand to my saddlebags that I have a problem.”
“Thee are such a catch?”
He shook his head and squatted on the other side of the pup. Rubbing Crockett’s ears, he hid his smile. He rather liked Sally Mae in a snit at the thought of him with other women. “No, but I’d appreciate your spreading that around anyway.”
She frowned. “Do thy own dirty work, McCade.”
The pup moaned and leaned into him. “Can’t. I’m leaving.”
She reached out and touched one of Crockett’s overlong ears. Her fingers brushed his. She drew them back, albeit slowly. “Then thee can handle it when thee come back.”
He looked up, catching the fear in her eyes that she was trying to hide. “I will come back, you know.”
“I’m sure there will be many women glad to hear it.”
“Including you?”
“Thee have been gone before. Usually for a month or so.”
But that was before they had been lovers. He shook his head, accepting she wasn’t going to soften up before he left this time. “You’re a hard woman, Sally Mae Schermerhorn.”
“I’m a sensible one, and wish to avoid the gossip thee seem to enjoy.”
“You think I like being the center of attention?”
“I think thee have become so accustomed to the attention people give thee, that thee no longer notice it.”
He cocked his eyebrow at her. “If I settled down with a good woman, that might diminish.”
Not even by a bat of an eyelash did the hint give her pause. “A woman would not welcome the violent life thee live.”
“Not all women have your peaceful bent.”
“All woman want children, peace in which to raise them and a husband’s guidance in their lives.”
She had a way of making her point effectively. “Rather than a memory?”
She nodded, stood and straightened her skirt. “Loving a man who courts death and revenge is not a wise choice.”
He stood also, staring at her lips, her eyes, wanting all of her, frustration at not being able to have anything but that brief time with her eating at him. “And you believe love is a choice?”
“I have no choice where I love.” Her eyes deepened with sadness. “But I will choose with whom I make a family.”
He remembered how prepared she’d been last night, leaving nothing to chance, using her sponge and vinegar. How she’d looked this morning, cradling Billy, completely without hope. “And you think you’ll be happy with a namby-pamby man who doesn’t know how to defend you and these kids you want?”
“Strength is not all physical.”
“When someone’s trying to rape you, a healthy amount of muscle beats the hell out of strong thought.”
“God does not smile on violence.”
Looking at her standing there, pale and wan, he felt like punching his fist through the wall.
“Well, neither do I, but sometimes there’s no choice.”
“There is alwa
ys a choice.”
The urge to punch the wall got stronger as he watched her, standing there with the courage of her convictions wrapped around her like a shield. As if they’d do her any good in a tight situation. “Sometimes you terrify me, Sally Mae.”
“Because I hold my convictions dear?”
“Because of how vulnerable they leave you.”
“I think the flaw in thy thinking is that thee think thee have control of God’s will.”
Frustration curled his fingers into a fist. “Well, maybe your God put me here to make sure you don’t head his way too early.”
She tucked her chin, that way she did when she was thinking on something, before touching his fist briefly. The frisson of energy that flared up his arm from the quick contact damn near had him shuddering like a green boy. “He is thy God, too.”
“God abandoned whatever interest he had in me the day I was born.”
“That’s not so!”
Despite the danger of being seen, he cupped her chin in his hand, cradling the delicate point in the center of his palm. So small. So fragile. So easy for a man, even a third his size, to break. His grip tightened. “Believe what you have to.”
“I don’t have to believe anything. It is always my choice. And I choose to believe that my God would never desert the man thee are.”
“I’m a killer, remember?”
“Thee have only lost thy way.”
It took him a moment to understand what put that tightness in her voice. He gentled his grip. He’d seen Sally Mae bring a patient back from certain death on nothing more than belief and hope. And now, she’d apparently decided that he, Tucker McCade, should be saved. From the interior of the house, someone called Sally’s name. Tucker frowned at her. “Lyle’s not still here, is he?”
The pseudo-outlaw wasn’t particularly violent, but he was none too long on scruples and Tucker wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. And considering Lyle’s weight, even with his strength, that wouldn’t be too far.
She had the grace to look uncomfortable as she confessed, “Yes, he had a setback.”
Tucker just bet he had. A convenient one. Lyle was always on the prowl and his interest in Sally Mae was no secret. Lately, Tucker had noticed more of that impatience in the attitude of the townsmen toward Sally Mae. An implication that maybe the widow’s mourning period should be coming to an end. Well, for those who thought it, they needed a rethink. Starting with Lyle.
Tucker’s Claim Page 8