Joe crossed his heart and hoped to die if he told anyone, though it would be hard not to tell one or two of his friends. His mother had been phenomenal in the classroom. She had been a hero. She did what no one else had ever done—she stuck up for him—and that included Joe’s father.
As they rode along, the conversation took a more serious turn, though Joe didn’t know how that was possible. He looked at his mother. Her slender cheeks seemed pale. Her brown eyes were fixed ahead and stern when they would normally be soft and welcoming.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Joe,” she finally said.
Joe sat a little straighter. He didn’t like it when his mother got serious like this. It always meant something bad had happened. Last time she started a conversation with there’s something I need to tell you, he had learned that their dog had been killed by some coyotes. Joe remembered crying himself to sleep that night.
He could feel tears start to well up in his eyes even though he hadn’t yet heard the news she was about to deliver. He wanted to shake his head and talk himself out of crying, but he couldn’t get rid of the fear growing inside him.
“You’re brother is home,” she said, looking at him.
At first, Joe breathed a sigh of relief, but a sudden curiosity overtook him. “Why is that a bad thing?” he asked.
“It’s not, but for the reason,” she said. She looked away and toward the road. “You know you’re father’s books haven’t been selling like they should. Money has been awfully scarce.” She bit her upper lip after she said this. “We can’t afford for Nate to go to the university anymore. He’s going to stay with us until he can find some work.”
The tears left him. The thought of having his brother around sounded wonderful to Joe. He loved being around Nate. But he knew this news would only have his father in a bad mood. It wasn’t to say that their father didn’t love Nate, but the two of them didn’t exactly get along. Whenever Nate was home, there was always tension, mostly because he and their father would get into heated arguments about something Joe didn’t even understand. Then they would threaten each other. One confrontation had nearly turned into a fistfight. Joe hoped there wouldn’t be anymore of that this time. For everyone’s sakes.
“It’ll be good to have him around,” she said. “Your father’s going to focus on the farm more this year. He thinks it will keep us afloat while he tries to get another book published.”
“So, more work for me this summer,” he said, mostly to himself. Last summer had been blissful. He remembered when they had started the farm. It was only three years before. For some reason there had always been this long waiting period of wondering whether James R. Cole was going to become a household name. He had written a lot of manuscripts, but one in particular caught the attention of someone in New York. They had bought the story and suddenly the Coles had become the wealthiest people in town. They purchased a house—one Joe could barely remember—nice furniture, and the finest clothes. Nate even told Joe one time that they had paid servants, though Joe doubted it. He didn’t think his father the type to have strangers living in the home.
But one thing Joe did remember was moving from the illustrious house in the city and settling on a farm a couple of miles outside. The farm was just a fall-back in case they didn’t make enough money, they would still have food. But now, according to his mother, the farm would be used to try and make some money too. Every year so far, they had planted some crops, but nothing more than they needed.
“Why doesn’t he just write another book?” Joe asked. “Then maybe we could move back to the city and I won’t have to walk all the way to school.”
“Now don’t complain, Joe,” his mother said. “You’ve got a perfectly good set of legs on you. It doesn’t do you any good to complain about walking. There are some who don’t have legs, you know.”
Joe knew. It was his mother’s catchphrase. Whenever one of the boys would complain about something, there was always someone in the world that didn’t have that particular thing.
There are some who don’t have dishes to wash. There are some who don’t have horses to feed. There are some who don’t have a bed to make.
Sometimes Joe wished they didn’t have dishes, horses, or beds. Then he could be one of those people his mother spoke of. Better to be one of those people than to do chores all the time. But he knew, truly, that it was a soft-spoken yet stark reminder that they were truly blessed in every way, no matter how badly his father’s books were doing in New York.
“I just want you to know that I love you,” she said. “Your father loves you too. Times might be getting a little tougher for us, but we need to look at it as a chance to grow closer as a family.”
“How can we grow closer if all Nate and father do is fight?”
“I’ve spoken to your father,” she said. “All of us are going to try and be civil while Nate stays with us.”
“Is father going to look for a job too?”
“He’s going to work on the farm and on his book,” she answered.
“Oh, right.”
Joe stared at his older brother as the family sat down for dinner. Nate usually wore an almost constant mischievous grin on his twenty-year-old face, but now his face was serious as his head turned from their father, to their mother, to his plate.
“I tell you it ain’t right,” Nate said. “A man my age ought to have his own farm if he ain’t going to college.”
“Did that education I was paying for teach you to talk like an ignoramus?” James said, staring down at his plate. Their father was always getting on to them about the way they talked. He wasn’t opposed to the country drawl so much, for even he sounded country enough, but he rarely spoke before thinking through his words first. The ain’t nevers or ain’t got no’, or I seen hims, irked James R. Cole beyond reason. No doubt, he had gotten used to people talking in this way, but he wouldn’t accept it from his sons.
“No, the education that you were paying for wasn’t teaching me to talk in any way,” Nate said. “I didn’t get to finish, if you recall.”
If there had been any warmth in the house, it left with Nate’s harsh words, but he didn’t seem to notice. Joe could feel the heaviness in the room and tried his best to alleviate the tension.
“So, does this mean you’re going to help with the farm?”
Nate looked back down at his plate and shoveled in a pile of potatoes. With a full mouth, he looked up at his little brother and answered. “That depends on me getting a job.” He swallowed and his mischievous grin returned. “Miss Abigail Stephens ain’t gonna marry a grown man who still lives at home.”
“You leave that poor girl alone,” their father said. “She gets enough inquiries from the men around town without you adding your flavor to the mix.”
Nate placed a hand over his heart and let his mouth fall open as if he were about to gasp for air. “My dear father,” he said in his best Shakespearean voice, “I am vexed that thou wouldst bind my wrist behind my back and forbid my love to flourish!”
James set his fork down on the table and sat back with his arms crossed. He wore a look on his face that showed a labored tolerance rather than annoyance or anger. Melanie put a hand over her mouth and tried not to laugh, but Joe just sat back and cackled as Nate stood from the table and waved his hands through the air, pretending to be lighter than air.
“The beauty she carries with her bears the likeness of royalty,” Nate continued, almost frolicking around the table. “To deny my attempt to woo her would be to deny my soul the very joy of life.” He settled next to Joe and knelt to his knees. Nate placed a big arm around him. “Have you seen her, little brother? Have you seen this woman by whom the essence of beauty is defined?”
“She’s very pretty,” Joe said.
Nate gave Joe a disapproving look. “Pretty is such a commoner’s word, little brother. Pretty is a stallion riding into the wind. Pretty is a diamond the size of a walnut. Pretty is a thousand miles away from Abigail
Stephens. She is so far above pretty that philosophers, poets, and linguists have yet to invent a word for her. No tongue can describe her beauty. To do so would insult her. No mind can match her wit. No performer can duplicate her talent. I heard once that she simply had to hear Mozart once to be able to play a symphony on the piano.”
“Hogwash,” James said.
“To you perhaps,” Nate came back. Slowly he stood and walked back toward his chair. “But like me, you are a mere mortal who cannot fathom her likeness. She graces us with her presence because she has no equal. She lowers herself to be among us because where she reigns, she is lonely.”
“Then perhaps you ought to go after Katrina Oscar,” father said. “She is a mortal like the rest of us.”
“A fine woman she is,” Nate said, staring up into the ceiling. “But a man wants to better himself, not settle for mediocrity.”
“That’s rude, Nathaniel,” mother said, though she was still fighting a grin.
Joe watched his brother and couldn’t help but laugh. He knew it was an act, but he played the part so well that Joe almost wanted to get another look at Abigail just to see if she glowed or floated above the ground. To Nate she was an angel. And there was no doubt in Joe’s mind that Nate would marry her.
Joe
Autumn, 898 A.O.M.
Joe and Clive were only about twenty minutes out from Vandikhan. Joe sat in silence and held on to the reins as a horse pulled the covered wagon, while Clive dressed his shoulder and leg wounds. Joe had to help him dig the bullet from his shoulder. He was thankful to find that the bullet which had hit the man’s leg had gone through, missing the bone. Clive was okay with sewing himself up and applying his own bandages so long as Joe was willing to take care of the wagon.
For some reason, talking about what had just happened didn’t feel appropriate. There was an urgency felt by both of them that said they needed to get off the road and away from the dead bodies. Joe was more than happy to go along with Clive, but he also needed some answers.
“What’s your plan?” Joe asked.
Clive shook his head. “You and I are going to talk, but I want to focus on getting away from the road. There’s no telling who might find the bodies. Hopefully the wolves will eat most of them in the night.” Joe slapped the reins against the horse’s back and the wagon gave a sudden lurch as they sped up. “We will stay in Vandikhan tonight,” Clive continued. “There is an inn there. We should be safe.”
“Is Vandikhan not usually safe?”
Clive turned to stare at Joe, and studied Joe’s face as if he didn’t believe he was actually there. Normally, Joe would have no problem telling a man to keep his eyes fixed elsewhere, but Clive seemed truly spooked.
“It’s an outlaw town,” Clive finally said. “It’s safe as long as you keep your wits about you. You don’t go into Vandikhan being loud and obnoxious. You don’t go there if you’re looking to start trouble. And you surely don’t go there under the banner of the Crimson Army.”
“People there don’t like the president?” Joe asked.
“As I said, it’s an outlaw town,” came Clive’s answer.
A few minutes passed by without them saying anything else. As Clive finished with his bandages, Joe thought about the past couple of days with bewilderment. How he had gone from being stuck in a cabin and running from the law, to a prisoner of some rogue group in a land he had never heard of, to making his first kill—was all beyond him. The timeline of events was there. Logically, he could see how everything transpired, but he never would have imagined it.
Oddly, he didn’t feel much remorse for killing the Warlord. Nor should he have, he thought, since the man would have surely killed him if Joe hadn’t pulled the trigger. What could have possessed Clive to turn on his own men was a mystery that Joe intended to figure out. It was too early to trust Clive fully, but he owed the man his life.
“I’m sorry I killed the Warlord,” Joe said after a long moment of quiet. “I know you wanted him for yourself.”
Clive shook his head. “If you hadn’t, I would be a dead man. For that you have my thanks.”
“I guess we’re even then,” Joe said.
“I guess so.”
“I suppose you plan to tell me what that whole fight was about?” Joe asked.
“When we get to Vandikhan we will talk,” Clive said.
Joe didn’t know why they couldn’t have just talked then and there as they traveled the road to Vandikhan, but he didn’t question the man. He seemed tense and nervous, and he kept looking over his shoulder behind the wagon every couple of minutes, probably to see if they were being followed.
Vandikhan came into view suddenly and much more quickly than Joe would have anticipated. Joe hadn’t been to many outlaw towns, but this place was one of them. It was a city set among the trees of the forest, hidden from the rest of the world. Joe imagined that if someone didn’t already know about it, it would be a difficult place to locate. There were a few walls that marked the city borders. Joe figured they must have been erected long ago because most of them were crumbling to pieces, the only cause seeming to be time and neglect. The road led them to a gate that was guarded by two very fat men who carried shotguns. They were quick to raise them and take aim at the riders as they approached.
Joe pulled on the reins to slow the horse, then he set his six-shooter on the seat next to him and out of view of the guards, though he kept a steady finger near the trigger.
“What’s yer business here?” the fat man on the right said.
“My friend and I are travelers,” Clive said. “We need a place to stay for the night.”
The two fat guards looked at each other, then the one on the left spoke. “Vandikhan ain’t a place for travelers. Yer best shelter would be in them there woods.”
“I am grateful for your concern, gentlemen,” Clive said, “but I have been here before. In fact, I am doing business for the Warlord.”
Again the two guards looked at each other.
“What kind of business?”
“There is a smith here that the Warlord has worked with before. The Warlord fancies himself a new sword.”
“What’s the use when a good shotgun will do?” the one on the right said with a gapped-filled smile.
The other one spoke next. “We’ve been hearin’ that the Warlord’s gone soft. We hadn’t seen him here in a while.”
“I assure you,” Clive said, “he and the rest of us have been very busy.”
“Are you injured?” one of them asked.
“I’m fine,” Clive assured them.
“You’ve been shot!”
“Twice,” Clive said with a smile. “All in a day’s work. You gentlemen have no doubt seen worse.”
“You don’t mind if I take a look in yer wagon?” the one on the left asked. He lowered his shotgun and pulled up his pants with one hand as he made his way to the back of the wagon.
Joe looked past the guard at the gate and could see clearly into the city. There were a few dwellers that watched as the wagon was inspected. Most of them looked dirty and unkempt—much like the men he and Nate would run with. The surrounding buildings often blended with the trees of the forest, but this was undoubtedly a town. Down the road, Joe could see several merchants selling their goods, shopkeepers sweeping the front of their stores, and people walking about, living their lives as though dwelling in a city in the middle of the forest were normal.
“You might want to keep a close eye on yer stuff back here,” the man from the back of the wagon yelled. “Especially at night.”
“Noted,” Clive said.
The guard finally came around to the front of the wagon. “If you’ve been here before, then you know the answer to the question I’m about to ask.”
“I do.”
The guard cleared his throat. “What is your view of President Jacob DalGaard?”
“I view him as a traitor to the people of Galamore,” Clive answered. To Joe, he almost sounded bored, or
maybe even annoyed. “And I would like to view him at the end of a rope with his gut split open and his entrails spread all across the land.”
The guard studied him for a long moment and finally nodded. “I’ll let you through this time, but we’ll have our eye on you.”
“I understand,” Clive said. “Thank you.”
The guard on the right motioned for them to pass through the gate, and the guard on the left never dropped his gun until they were out of sight. Joe slapped with the reins and looked behind them at the two fat guards and shook his head.
“That was a close one,” he said.
“Not as close as you would think,” Clive answered, wincing at the pain in his shoulder and leg. “They always do that. Really, they don’t care who you are unless they can tell you’re loyal to the president. The question is always the same. What is your view of President Jacob DalGaard? The answer is always the same too.”
“That he is a traitor and you’d like to view him at the end of a rope?” Joe asked. “Sounds a little harsh.”
“Well, you should add that you want to see his gut ripped open and his entrails spread all across the land. I’m not entirely sure that that part of the answer is required, but it always seems to work with the guards of Vandikhan.”
Clive pointed for Joe to steer the wagon down the road. There were some who stared at them, but mostly people kept to themselves. Almost every structure in the city seemed to be surrounded by trees and shrubs with small paths cut away for people to pass through. There were no decorations to speak of and very few signs to advertise businesses. The signs that were there were hand-painted with misspellings and deplorable penmanship.
Clive directed them down a side street and the view was much the same. At the end of the street, they came upon a building that looked like it was close to caving in on itself. A sign that had clearly been hanging above the front porch had been set against the steps with old and rotten ropes dangling down the sides of it. It read: Red Boot Saloon. Joe parked the wagon on the other side of the street and Clive nodded for Joe to follow him inside.
Keeper of the Books (Keeper of the Books, Book 1) Page 14