by Janis Jakes
This isn’t exactly a social visit.
Luke’s gaze shifted toward Billie. “She’ll talk your ear off if you let her.”
Billie wondered what the woman meant but didn’t ask. She hoped to get stitched up and then be on her way.
“Oh, you hush,” Abigail said. “Just cause you like being alone twenty-four hours a day doesn’t mean everyone does.” Abigail walked up the steps and inside behind Billie.
The small cabin was cozy with dim light from the kerosene lamp sitting in the center of a kitchen table. A cradle rested near the hearth. The woman laid the babe down with a gentle sweep.
Off to the side of the main room was a single bedroom. Billie looked about, ready to stretch out and rest.
“I have a mattress out in the barn where my last patient slept.” Abigail patted the baby on the back for several seconds until he nestled in and grew still. “I’ll get Luke to bring it in for me.”
“That’s too much trouble. I can sleep in the barn.”
“Don’t be silly,” Abigail answered. “My last patient was a man. Without Henry here, he had to sleep there.” She pulled out one of the dining table chairs and held Billie’s elbow as she lowered to the seat. “My husband worries about my safety, though there’s never been a reason. You’re a woman, so I’m trusting I’ll be fine with you. Besides, if you sleep in the barn, you’ll be sleeping with my brother.”
Billie heard the subtle threat, but the woman was making a point while teasing her in the process. “Luke isn’t your husband?”
Abigail grinned, stifling a giggle. “Not even close.”
“I see.”
“Would you like a cup of water?” Abigail had already started pouring from the pitcher. “I just drew some for myself and the baby.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I look like my mother, and Luke looks like our father.” She handed Billie the cup. “We never really knew our father, not much anyway. I can remember seeing him once or twice when I was much younger, but he never stayed long. We lived with our mother and grandparents.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not complaining. It was a good life.”
Billie nodded and let Abigail speak. She’d had a couple of students who liked to talk. She wished she could return to those days where her biggest problem was hushing talkative children.
“My grandfather had a horrible stutter,” Abigail continued. “He was used to the cruelty of people, so he and Luke got along well. Our grandfather taught Luke to ignore the hateful comments of others, and my mother taught him to forgive them.”
Billie took a sip of water. “What sort of comments, or is that too nosey?”
Abigail’s hands lifted to her hips. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Luke is Comanche, well, half Comanche. Our father was full-blooded.”
“No, I didn’t—” She blinked, trying to regroup.
How could she have not seen that? The skin tone, the black hair, the dark eyes, and the high cheekbones. The way he hunted barefoot. The secret cavern he hid them in. So many things made sense now, even things she hadn’t questioned.
“Don’t worry. You’ll never find a more honorable man. Hard-headed, self-composed, and logical to a fault, but he’ll always do the right thing. Can’t help himself.”
Billie replayed the memory of him almost leaving her to Caldwell’s posse. A twang of guilt stirred her insides. She’d made him drop his guns. Most men would have left her behind to fend for herself. They’d assume she deserved death. If not for Luke, she’d be dead right now. He’d helped her. Reluctantly, but he’d still helped.
The baby whimpered. Abigail moved to his side—her eyes overflowing with love. Henry, Jr., lay with legs curled underneath him and one fist curled near his tiny mouth. He grew quiet, as if sensing his momma’s presence.
“He’s so small,” Billie said. “How old is he?”
“Almost four weeks. He came early.” She pulled the blanket up around the baby’s chin, folding it over and tucking it in to keep him snug and secure. “So, what’s the story between you and my brother? How did you end up together?”
Heat burned her cheeks. “There isn’t a story between us, and we’re not exactly together. There were men trying to kill me. Your brother brought me here. We’ve barely shared twenty words between us.”
The sound of Luke’s footsteps shuffled onto the front porch then moved inside, stopping the conversation from going any farther.
“Would you mind bringing in that straw mattress that’s in the barn?” Abigail gave Luke an apologetic smile. “I need a place for my patient to rest. And, Luke, I hope you don’t mind sleeping in the loft tonight…”
“Beats a cave,” he said, heading back out the door.
“Would you like some stew?” Abigail asked.
Billie’s mouth watered. It had been weeks since she’d had a home-cooked meal. “That would be wonderful.”
“You have an appetite. That’s a good sign.”
Billie sat at the dining table opposite Luke, neither saying much as they ate every last drop of venison stew. They both took the small portion of their bread and raked the juice from the inside of the bowl, behaving like two people stranded at sea and finally enjoying a meal.
“I can’t tell you how good that tasted.” Billie smiled at their hostess.
“Yes,” Luke said, standing up. “Thank you. And now, I’m calling it a night.”
“We’d better all get some rest,” Abigail said. “But first, I’ve got some doctoring to do.” She looked at Luke and pointed toward the rocking chair. “Have a seat while I check out your friend.”
“My name is Billie Jo Batson,” Billie spoke in a soft tone.
“Billie Jo. That’s a mighty fine name.” Abigail turned toward the kitchen counter. She ground something in a small bowl. “Root bark,” she murmured as she added white gel from an agave plant that sat near the window and stirred until it formed a thick goo. She placed the concoction on the table and rolled Billie’s shirt sleeve up to reveal the wound. “What on earth did you do to get yourself shot up?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“That’s your business, I guess.” She frowned, clicked her tongue, and turned to her brother. “Luke, bring a rag dipped in warm water. It’s heating over the fire. I need to get our girl cleaned up.”
“You told me to sit.”
“Don’t start misbehaving.”
“Typical woman. Can’t make up her mind…sit, get, stand, lay.”
“Just cause you’re older doesn’t mean you’re meaner,” Abigail threatened, though laughter shone in her barely contained grin.
They were like so many siblings she’d taught. One minute they were loving and grateful to see one another and in the next, baiting and bickering—almost asking for a fight.
Luke returned a few seconds later with a warm cloth.
With a feather-like touch, Abigail wiped across the wound, and then swiped back and forth until every ounce of dried blood was washed away. She set the rag aside, examining the bullet entry point. Probing fingers pressed a little too hard.
Billie winced.
“Sorry,” Abigail said. “I’m checking for infection. It looks as though the wound is inflamed, but not horribly so. I think we can get rid of any problems with several days of salve and some soap.”
“Several days?” Billie exclaimed. “I’d hoped to be gone this time tomorrow.”
“Not if you plan to keep your arm.” Abigail paused, gazing into Billie’s disappointed expression. “Rest tonight. In the morning, you can take a bath.”
“Do I smell bad?” Billie asked, already knowing the answer.
“Like a dead raccoon,” Abigail said.
Billie laughed, surprised by the unexpected honesty.
Luke glanced her direction, his eyes smiling though his expression stayed blank.
“Now, I need to check out your hip.” Abigail looked at Luke. �
��We’ll need some privacy.”
“Gladly. I’m going to bed.” He stomped out of the cabin.
“What’s his problem?” Abigail asked. “He’s not usually so grumpy.”
“He doesn’t like me,” Billie said.
“He doesn’t like many people,” she responded. “With good reason.”
Billie didn’t want to know more. She wanted to get fixed so she could leave—ride far away from Texas, Caldwell, and Luke. She had an aunt in Arkansas who would open her doors if she could get there in one piece.
“You can sleep in those clothes tonight,” Abigail said. “Tomorrow, I’ll burn them and get you something clean to wear.”
“Thank you. But are you sure we shouldn’t wash them? I might need them again.”
“They’re too blood-stained. They’d be a dead giveaway that you were shot up. Now turn on your side,” Abigail said. “Slide your trousers down past your hip. I need to see where the bullet got you.”
Billie did what she asked, surprised at her lack of embarrassment.
Abigail drew a magnifying glass from off a nearby table, examining the wound further. “Not bad at all,” Abigail said. “Only a nick. I can fix that one in no time.” She proceeded to put salve on the wound, covered it with a clean cloth, and tugged Billie’s trousers over it to hold the bandage in place.
A yawn escaped Billie’s lips. “Sorry…”
“No apologies needed. Get some rest. Food in your belly and a good night’s sleep will do greater good for your body than any doctoring I might do.” Abigail drew a blanket from the hearth ledge, draping it on Billie’s legs. “Remember to say your prayers.”
Billie had said plenty of prayers over the last few weeks, hoping and expecting answers that had yet to come.
As Abigail turned away to leave her side, Billie reached out and touched her hand—stopping her. “Thank you. For everything.”
Abigail smiled with such love that tears warmed Billie’s eyes. “Thank the good Lord. He’s the One Who brought you here.”
The simple words stayed with Billie all night and though sleep came swiftly, anytime she awoke to roll over and get more comfortable, she recalled what Abigail had said. Maybe her prayers were being answered after all—just not the way she expected.
5
“If he were a chicken, I’d wring his neck!”
Billie sat up, awakened by Abigail’s outburst, and pushed wayward strands of hair off her face. “What’s going on?”
“Luke rode out without so much as a good-bye. My brother is the most inconsiderate, stubborn, hard-hearted—” She stopped in the middle of her tirade, picking up baby Henry and immediately changing her tone to one of tenderness. “You’ll not be like him when you grow up will you, my little man?”
A strange discomfort tugged upon Billie’s heart. “Luke didn’t say good-bye?”
“He did not.” The angry Abigail returned. She placed Henry across her shoulder and patted his bottom with a tender thump. “I went to gather some eggs and check on him. He left.”
The bounty hunter was out of her life and all worries of him turning her in for money were gone. But the thought unnerved Billie. She felt safe with Luke around. Anxiety lodged in her chest. What had she hoped would happen? That Luke would travel with her to Arkansas to make sure she got there alive? How ridiculous was that? He didn’t owe her anything—certainly not safe passage to another state. Still, she never expected abandonment.
His sister fed him, gave him a place to sleep, and welcomed him into her home with a loving heart. He’d acted as if none of that touched him.
“Maybe he didn’t want to wake you.” Billie had no idea why she was making excuses for the man. He deserved a good tongue lashing.
“It never stopped him before.”
The baby began to wiggle and fuss. Abigail moved to the rocking chair, offering his hungry lips a full breast, and then covering herself with a small blanket. As Henry nursed, she looked toward Billie with a radiant smile. “I think having you here is good for Henry, Jr. He hasn’t had a fever all night long, and he’s hungry again.”
That had nothing to do with Billie, but she liked to hear it. “Do you want me to scramble the eggs you brought in?”
“That depends. How’s your arm doing this morning?”
“Whatever you put on it must’ve helped. It’s not near as tender.”
“Good, then scrambled eggs sounds mighty fine. There are potatoes in the root cellar if you want to bring them in.”
She rose to leave.
“By the way, who is Malcolm?”
Billie’s stomach dropped and her body turned cold. How did Abigail know about Malcolm? Her insides trembled, though she refused to show her outward emotions. “Why do you ask?”
“You called his name several times during your sleep. I thought maybe a beau—”
“A dear friend,” she said, and prayed her heart wouldn’t burst. “Need anything else from the root cellar, or will potatoes do?”
“Potatoes will do for now.”
~*~
Billie prepared the meal with eagerness, glad to occupy her mind and feel useful. Today was Sunday—the day she typically helped her mother in the kitchen. She wondered how her parents were holding up.
Though their faith was strong, they’d endured one heartache after another over the past year. They’d suffered the loss of a daughter and a grandson in childbirth, a son who moved off to San Francisco chasing gold, another son married to a harsh woman who rejected God, and now—a daughter wanted dead or alive. Billie spooned the eggs and buttered potatoes onto plates as her mind wandered.
“Did you hear what I said?” Abigail asked.
“I’m sorry. My mind was adrift.”
“Henry is almost asleep. I’ll make us a cup of coffee in a minute or two.”
“When is Henry, Sr., coming back?” Billie asked, setting the plates on the table.
“In a couple of weeks.” Abigail put the baby in his crib and then placed the coffeepot on the stovetop. “Henry is a quiet and gentle man. I think you’ll like him. He makes axes and knives and takes them about the countryside every few months selling his wares. I miss him something awful, but I knew what he did for a living when I married him. He’s rather famous around these parts for his work. You’ll be quite impressed.”
Billie glanced down at her plate. She refused to keep secrets from Abigail. “I won’t be here in a couple of weeks to meet him. I’ve got somewhere to go.”
A furrow tugged on Abigail’s forehead. “You have to get well before you go anywhere. If you open that wound again, who’ll be there to put you back together?”
“I’ll give it another few days.” She kept her voice firm, wanting Abigail to know that the plan was not open to debate. “I’ve got family in Arkansas.“
“That’s not wise, Billie. A woman traveling by herself. Too many things could go wrong.”
Billie kept her expression blank. How much more wrong could things go?
“I’ll pray you reconsider,” Abigail added.
Despite the shiver than ran up her spine, Billie gave her a faint smile. The woman’s desire for her to stay came from a place of kindness, concern, and loneliness. Abigail had no idea what might happen if Caldwell’s men found out she was here. They would kill them both, and the baby, too.
She already felt responsible for one person’s death. She did not want to be the cause of more lost lives.
~*~
Luke rode hard, finally reaching El Paso in the early morning hours. More than once, he paused long enough to check his surroundings—sensing someone was following him but seeing no one. If Apache were on Luke’s trail, he would be as good as dead. If Comanche, it would depend on their mood at the time. He knew it wasn’t Caldwell’s men; they lacked the stealth of the natives or the finesse of the bounty hunters. He would have seen them by now.
He shifted in his saddle and checked over his shoulder once more. The sunrise across the dark, rugged mountains stirr
ed memories of times with his father and his Comanche brothers. He had ridden with them in peace as a young boy. Sometimes he wished he could get that back.
The whistle of a train drew his mind to the present and the task before him. Since the railroad arrived a few years earlier, a transformation had taken place in El Paso. Buildings rose out of the ground almost overnight, and more and more people arrived every day. What was once a lawless town riddled with vagrants and mischief-makers had become a respectable community where commerce thrived and families grew roots.
El Paso was also the home of the newest Littleton and Clark Detective Agency office and a regular stopping point for Luke to collect his orders and his pay.
The building sat in the middle of town—nondescript and dull against the backdrop of tantalizing smells, beautiful senoritas, colorful bonnets, light-hearted music, and wealthy entrepreneurs. Inside the building was equally plain—wood floors, bare windows, and minimal furnishings. Everything about the place contrasted with the vibrancy of town, letting any visitor or passerby know the serious view they took when it came to business matters.
Even with the windows raised, the hot Texas sun crushed the building with its relentless heat. Wide rings of sweat covered the underarms of the few men who worked inside.
A man greeted him with an outstretched hand. Theo Granger was in his early forties with wavy blond hair and a handlebar mustache tinged with silver. By all accounts, he was an intelligent man with a quick wit and a way with the ladies—all of which made Luke unsure if he should trust him or not. He’d only been the office director for a couple of months but let everyone know this was only a short stop to bigger and better things. That was another reason not to give him complete allegiance, in Luke’s mind.
“Luke Lancaster.” Theo greeted him with a somber expression. “Glad to see you again. Hope you’ve got good news for me.”
“That depends,” he said. “I want to know about the outlaw you have me chasing.”
Theo dotted the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “I’ve told you all I know. If you’ve learned something new—“