Crossroads (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 8)

by Logan Winters

  ‘The Oxhead. There’s no place else to go except for Crossroads, and she sure wouldn’t want to head there.’

  Flower continued to slap the flanks of the bay with the reins. Justine had no option but to jounce and sway beside her, clinging to her hat, eyes fearful. Flower had only one intent; she was driving like a stagecoach driver passing through Indian country with a hostile party of Comanches in pursuit.

  ‘Tell her to slow down,’ Tremaine said, as they continued to trail the buggy. ‘There’s no great need for speed now.’

  ‘I doubt she’d listen to me. She’s pretty determined.’

  ‘She’s downright feisty,’ a hoarse Warren Tremaine called back. ‘Did you teach her to act that way, K. John?’

  ‘Not me,’ K. John said, with a suppressed smile. ‘It must be something she’s come by naturally.’

  Tremaine wanted to yell back, but couldn’t come up with a rejoinder.

  Now K. John Landis decided that it was time to take a hand. A furious Justine was screaming unintelligible things at Flower. The big roan K. John was riding had tired, as had Tremaine’s animal. The bay pulling the buggy had been run nearly to death. K. John angled his horse toward the buggy, leaned forward in the saddle, and touched Flower’s arm.

  ‘That’s enough, Flower. No one’s after us.’

  ‘They will be!’ a furious Justine Masters shouted at him. ‘A dozen men, fifty! Clyde will never let you get away with this.’

  The girl had done so much shouting at Flower that her voice was nearly gone. Thankfully, K. John silently remarked on the fact that Justine had referred to Willit as ‘Clyde’, not as most women—especially a new bride—would as ‘my husband’. He doubted, without knowing for certain, that the ceremony had been performed. Clyde Willit had apparently left Justine sitting out in the buggy while he conducted some business with Judge Baxter, and this was why she was so angry when they had first come upon her.

  But that was of no importance right now. Flower had slowed the bay to a reasonable pace. Ahead, K. John thought he could see a corner of the Masters house, just beyond the oak trees that grew in the yard there.

  ‘That’s it, is it?’ Tremaine asked, relief evident on his face if not in his words. ‘A nice-looking spread!’

  ‘I wonder if Emerson Masters is back?’ K. John said. It would sure make matters easier if the rancher had returned from Albuquerque. They could hand Justine over to him and then K. John and Flower could depart for ... for where? K. John shook his head. That was a problem to be faced later.

  Any place that was away from Crossroads—that shabby, infected, little desert town. They no longer owed anyone there anything. K. John’s thoughts stumbled a little. Did they owe someone something?

  How would Flower feel about that? Surely she must have had some wild thoughts about trying to help the other lost girls who lived at the Double O. She had known these young women for a long time. At least some of them must be friends of hers—and all of them were not as fortunate as Barbara, who had her little ranch to go back to and a crew of men to stand by her. The others still had nowhere to be and no way to get there.

  Well, no one could save the world. Would Flower agree? K. John had once thought that the girl had more common sense than courage. Now he was not so sure. He wasn’t sure of many things concerning Flower Tremaine.

  They trailed into the yard of the Oxhead Ranch, the horses all dragging their hoofs in the dust. From the shadows of the big oak trees, K. John was watching the house with careful eyes. They had come this far; they needed no surprises now.

  But the only person K. John saw was Olive the cook on the porch, watching them quite stoically as if she were just counting heads for supper.

  All of the wild ride had been a picnic compared to the project of getting Justine Masters to return to her house. Unwilling to re-enter her home, she had twisted, squirmed, fought and screamed.

  ‘I have to get back to Clyde! You’ll not get me into that house!’ she had yelled at Flower, who had been trying ineffectually to loosen the girl’s grip on the side-rail of the buggy seat. Justine must have had some grip: Flower could not even pry one finger loose. The bride-to-be wanted her man, and she was fighting to remain free. That was the way Justine saw it, at least. The reality was that Clyde Willit had probably planned a quick marriage and an early demise for the daughter of the Oxhead owner. To Willit, it was the easiest way of acquiring land.

  Watching Flower continue to struggle with the enraged Justine, her little white hat now tipped over to the side of her head, K. John decided that it was time for him to take a hand.

  Stepping out of the saddle, K. John strode toward the buggy.

  ‘Climb down now, or I’ll bust those fingers one by one and carry you in over my shoulder.’

  ‘You have no right ... !’

  ‘Your father left me in charge of this ranch. I have the right. Now get down before you get hurt.’

  Flower looked nearly as shocked and upset by K. John’s tone as Justine did. True, K. John would never hurt a woman, but he had thought that Flower, at least, would know that, whereas Justine couldn’t know that he was incapable of carrying out such a violent threat. Warren Tremaine stood apart, separating himself from events. Olive peered out of the window of the house at them, her face as expressionless as always. Probably she only wished to know when they would end their games and come in for supper.

  ‘Last chance,’ K. John said, adopting what he hoped was a menacing voice and expression, and he watched as Justine’s fingers slowly loosened their clutch.

  ‘This won’t defeat true love,’ Justine said, stepping down from the buggy.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ K. John said. ‘Do you see that man over there?’ he asked, nodding toward Warren Tremaine, who still stood aside, rifle in his hand. ‘He has orders to keep you under his guard, his rifle at the ready for any unwanted visitors. That might not be enough to defeat true love, either, but it ought to be enough to slow it down.’

  Tremaine, who had heard this, tried his best to look like a hard-eyed old man, and he succeeded rather well. In his sun-bleached clothes with his weather-cut face, Tremaine looked the part of a dangerous man.

  ‘I don’t understand why all of you are doing this,’ Justine said, in a slightly calmer, still irritated voice.

  ‘We know you don’t,’ Flower answered. ‘I could explain it, but you wouldn’t accept what I could tell you. You will understand one day; we just want to protect you until that day comes.’

  ‘You talk in riddles!’ Justine snapped.

  ‘Life’s a puzzle,’ K. John replied, with little feeling. He really didn’t like this woman and was wondering why they had gone to such lengths to protect her from herself.

  They traipsed into the house one by one. Justine swept up to her room. K. John, feeling a hazy obligation, carried her trunk into the living room. Tremaine stood around uneasily, studying the big house, no doubt comparing it to his poor farmstead. Flower said, worriedly, ‘I wonder if I should go up to her, try explaining things.’

  ‘I doubt that she’s in the mood to see you right now,’ K. John said. ‘All we can do for the next few hours is eat supper and watch the doors and windows so she don’t try to get away again.’

  ‘And keep an eye on the back trail,’ Tremaine reminded them.

  ‘And that,’ K. John agreed. There was no telling what a man like Clyde Willit might try now that he had been thwarted in his plan. He was a hard man to deal with at any time. Now he would be furious. The man could afford to hire any number of shooters he wished, and they were still alone on the ranch with an unwilling prisoner.

  Olive called them in to supper, glancing toward the stairway where Justine had disappeared, without commenting. She worked for Emerson Masters, for the ranch, but she was not paid for concern or opinions. She only had one job.

  And she did it very well. Supper—as to be expected on a cattle ranch—was beef. It was tender, juicy, and served with a rich, tasty, dark gravy, a huge bowl
of mashed potatoes and thick hunks of cornbread heavy with melted butter.

  Olive served and cleaned up soundlessly. Tremaine outdid himself, cleaning his platter twice. He looked appreciatively at Olive. Finished with her meal, Flower asked K. John, ‘What do we do next?’

  ‘I’m putting the buggy away. They won’t have the use of that again.’

  ‘Wait a minute and I’ll give you a hand with the other horses,’ Tremaine offered.

  ‘Relax. Finish your coffee first.’

  ‘The woman’s a fine cook,’ Warren Tremaine said. ‘Don’t talk much though, does she?’

  With a long, careful look outside at the yard and the land beyond, K. John led the horse and buggy toward the barn. The bay horse had been ill-used that day, and it plodded on with its head hanging, not even the promise of rest and food brightening its demeanor.

  Inside the barn K. John saw to the unharnessing of the bay. He used main strength to position the buggy in the corner; placed the bay in its stall and then went up the ladder to the loft to fork down some fresh hay, which all the horses would need. When he had dropped a bale and a half of fresh fodder, a sweat had built up across his brow, and he judged the job to be well-enough done.

  K. John climbed down the ladder, wiped his brow and turned to find himself looking into the guns of Clyde Willit and Hammond. Working above, he had not heard their horses approaching. They must have left them some distance away.

  Nor had there been a cry of warning from the house. Warren Tremaine had not proven to be the sort of sentry K. John had hoped for, but then K. John himself had told Tremaine to remain at the table, finishing his coffee.

  ‘I didn’t expect you men so soon,’ K. John said.

  ‘You should have,’ Clyde Willit replied. His sharp, foxily handsome face was pale, but bright spots of fury stained his cheeks. ‘I’ve come for what’s mine. No man steals from Clyde Willit.’

  From the corner of his eye K. John thought he detected a shadowy figure moving in the darkness of the barn. Maybe Tremaine had not been as neglectful in his duties as he had thought. He tried to keep the man talking while Tremaine fixed his position.

  ‘You don’t really want the girl anyway, Willit. Why don’t you just ride off and leave her alone?’

  ‘No, I don’t want her, the stupid fool. But I will have her. Between the Oxhead and old man Tremaine’s farm, I’ll have half of the county in my pocket. Barbara Casey I have been considering, but she still has riders on her ranch. I’ll get around to her when it’s time.’

  ‘Seems like a low way to go about business,’ K. John said, and Willit’s flush deepened. ‘Using young women as leverage; even going so far as to marry some of them. Tell me, Willit, how many have you married and buried?’

  ‘How would you know about ... ? Oh, yes, that loose-lipped, scatterbrained Flower Tremaine. Landis, you’re a damned fool, you know that? You work hard all of your life and end up with no more than you started with, maybe even less. Let the people in skirts get out working for you and it’s a much easier life.’

  ‘Let’s just kill him and get out of here!’ Hammond growled.

  ‘That gains us nothing.’ Clyde Willit scowled at his gun-hand. ‘I don’t want any shooting right now to call attention to us. First, we have to get Miss Justine out of here and back to the Judge’s. It won’t be long until her father is back, and I won’t have him meddling in my plans to take over the Oxhead.’

  ‘You plan on killing him, too, don’t you?’ K. John asked.

  ‘Not until after the wedding is registered,’ Willit replied, with an oily smile. ‘First there has to be a wedding. Why don’t you hitch a fresh horse to the buggy, Landis, then we’ll see how we can figure out to get Justine out of here? Maybe,’ he added in a menacing afterthought, ‘trade Flower’s life for Justine’s release? Think the old man would go for that?’

  He turned toward Hammond. ‘Once we get the girl back to Judge Baxter’s, you can—’

  A woman screamed from the dark corner of the barn and Justine Masters rose up from her hiding-place where she had heard every word. All three men turned their eyes that way.

  ‘I’ll never go back with you,’ Justine shrieked. ‘You might as well just kill us all right now!’

  The same idea had occurred to Hammond and, apparently, it appealed to him. He swung the muzzle of his gun around toward K. John once again and triggered off, the Colt’s roar deafening in the close confines of the barn.

  Chapter Ten

  K. John dove for the poor shelter of the flimsy buggy, which was punctured by two rapid shots through the barrel of Hammond’s gun. The man cursed as he fired and continued to curse as Clyde Willit grabbed his arm and shouted:

  ‘Let’s go! Back to town. That shooting’s going to bring Tremaine on the run.’

  K. John had risen to one knee and now he braced his own pistol to fire at the fleeing men. Astonishingly, Justine threw herself his way and clutched his wrist.

  ‘Don’t! Please, K. John, don’t kill him!’

  ‘After everything you now know?’

  ‘After everything I now know, I mean to do the job myself.’ the blonde answered in a tight murmur.

  The shots had drawn Warren Tremaine and Flower at a run to the barn. Standing in the doorway, rifle in his hands, Warren Tremaine looked wide-eyed and ashamed. Flower rushed past Justine to K. John and asked with concern, ‘Did you get hit?’

  ‘No. It must have been one of Hammond’s bad days.’

  ‘And you didn’t get either of them?’ Flower asked, glancing down at the Colt in K. John’s hand. He shook his head. Flower told him, ‘We saw two men running out of the yard. Father wanted to shoot, but I told him we didn’t even know for sure who they were.’

  ‘Clyde Willit and Hammond. They didn’t want to take the time to kill me.’

  ‘Then ... what did they want, K. John?’ Flower asked, still obviously worried as she looked up at him.

  ‘To get the buggy back and return Justine to the Judge’s,’ he told her.

  ‘They’d have to put me in chains to get me back there,’ Justine said savagely.

  ‘The lady’s had a recent change of mind,’ K. John told Flower, smiling crookedly.

  Warren Tremaine shuffled nearer, rifle in hand. ‘Where’d they go?’

  ‘Back to Crossroads—safest place in the world for them. To the Double O. We couldn’t pull them out of there with a dozen armed men.’

  ‘Just lend me a gun,’ Justine Masters said. ‘I’ll get Clyde Willit!’

  ‘A woman after my own heart,’ commented Tremaine, who had such ideas himself.

  ‘No one’s going to do anything crazy,’ K. John said, firmly. ‘We’re away from the man now; let’s keep it that way!’

  ‘When my father gets back ... ’ Justine started to say and K. John interrupted her.

  ‘That will be up to him. For now I’m in favor of holing up again—and keeping a sharper eye out for trouble,’ he added, looking at Warren Tremaine, who shifted his eyes, guiltily.

  ‘You told me to finish my coffee,’ Tremaine protested. ‘I got to sipping at it and talking to Olive a little longer than I should have, 1 expect.’

  ‘Talking to Olive?’ Flower asked with surprise. She hadn’t heard the cook speak more than a dozen words since they’d been on the Oxhead.

  ‘It’s no longer important,’ K. John said to the apologetic farmer. ‘Let’s just all be more watchful next time—if there is a next time.’

  ‘But why would there be a next time?’ Justine asked. ‘I told Clyde that the wedding is off.’

  ‘I don’t pretend to know how Clyde Willit’s mind works,’ K. John replied, ‘but I know he’s not the sort of man who takes “no” for an answer. Everyone stay alert.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Tremaine asked.

  ‘Finish putting the horses up. I could use some help.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Flower volunteered, and K. John nodded acknowledgement.

  As Tremaine and J
ustine traipsed back to the house, Olive watching them from the porch, Flower and K. John gathered the reins of Tremaine’s dun and collected the roan horse and the pony they had been riding. Both the roan and the pony were now finally back where they belonged.

  The animals were all rubbed down and had fresh hay forked to them. All looked satisfied to be home and taken care of again. K. John sat on the wooden bench where he had been the morning after Clyde Willit’s men had beaten him before they took the buggy.

  Flower slid beside him on the bench. ‘Are you still hurting?’ she asked him.

  ‘I’ve been in better shape,’ he replied, honestly. ‘I’ve taken two beatings in two days, and pretty skilled beatings they were. I’ll make it, though,’ he added with a smile to Flower, who sat demurely, clasped hands on her lap.

  ‘You know what I’ve been thinking, K. John?’ she asked, lifting those dark-green eyes of hers to meet his.

  ‘I’m afraid I do!’ was his answer.

  ‘I doubt it,’ she answered. ‘K. John, I was thinking about those young women who are still captives at the Double O.’

  K. John nodded, turning his eyes away. His first guess had been a good one. For a minute he watched the red roan half-asleep on its feet with a stubble of straw whiskers on its muzzle, and smiled. Then he let his thoughts go back to what Flower was suggesting—a kind, sympathetic gesture with no possibility of success. Freeing the girls at the Double O and sending them ... where? That was half of the problem that Flower had not considered, apparently.

  The first half of it, presuming she had considered that, was simply impossible. No one could believe that Clyde Willit, if cornered, would not use all of his resources to prevent having his fortune in women spirited away—and, of course, that included the use of gunmen to shoot down anyone who would attempt such an audacious act.

  K. John glanced at Flower. Her eyes remained hopeful, trusting. What could she expect of him?

  On the other hand, K. John admitted, grudgingly, he was the only one not in favor of simply rushing the Double O and taking care of business with Willit. That was what Warren Tremaine had recommended right from the start, Justine, a recent convert, filled with a neophyte’s fervor, only needed a gun in her hand to attack Clyde Willit. Flower was the brains behind the plot, the instigator.