Though she hardly ever spoke of it, Victoria knew her mother had been hurt before—desperately hurt—by someone who had wandered away, someone she’d loved more than anything in the world.
So, instead of following her dreams of travel, Victoria read books—any books she could get her hands on—books about sailing the seven seas, books about gunfighters in the Wild West, books about Europe. She didn’t care as long as they took her somewhere else and allowed her to wander, allowed her to drift.
The day had been a warm one for April, but at sunset a cool wind had freshened out to the north. Victoria planned to have a long soaking bath with her new Charles Dickens novel. It was supposed to be about the French Revolution—full of intrigue and such. Peggy Langford said it had made her cry. Just the sort of book for a long soaking bath.
Dressed in a thick cotton robe, Victoria padded barefoot through the house, closing all the windows and drawing the drapes. That done, she stoked up the fire in the kitchen stove and checked to make certain the copper hot-water box attached to the side was full. Tiny bubbles formed along the side next to the stove signifying the water was just about the perfect temperature for the kind of skin-pinking bath she enjoyed while she relaxed with her book.
Gallows, her father’s red bird dog, lay curled up on his blanket next to the box of kindling, warming his old bones. Flecks of white had crept into the hair around the faithful dog’s muzzle. Victoria stooped to rub his ears, and he raised his head to give her a good-natured whine.
“So what do you think, boy? Would a railhead and stockyards be a blessing or a curse to Parker County? How do you plan to vote?”
The dog groaned and stretched to meet her scratching.
“Come on and tell me what you think, boy,” Victoria said. “I trust your opinion as much as Reed Whit . . .”
The dog suddenly came to his feet; his eyes glowed and locked on the kitchen window. A rumbling growl rattled his chest. His lips pulled back in a toothy snarl.
Victoria shot a quick glance over her shoulder at the window, then looked back at the dog. His growling grew more intense.
The back doorknob rattled. Victoria caught her breath and tightened the sash on her robe. If she was going to have to confront an intruder, she wished she’d worn something a little more practical.
Her father wasn’t due back for another hour. Even then, he knew she would be in the kitchen having a bath, so he would never have come in that way if he decided to come home early.
Victoria glanced quickly around the room sizing up her situation. If she was going to have to fight half-naked, she would need a weapon. She reached behind the kindling box and grabbed the three-foot wrought-iron fire poker just as Gallows broke into a violent frenzy of barks and snarls.
The rattling at the door changed to a heavy knock.
Victoria stood beside the kitchen stove clutching the iron poker. “Who is it?”
She heard deep voices, muffled and tense.
“Who’s there?” she asked again, struggling to keep her voice steady.
The knocking resumed. “Need to leave some papers for the judge,” a muffled voice said.
“You’ll find him still at his chambers.” Victoria cringed and cursed her stupidity as the words escaped her lips. She might as well have told them she was home all alone.
The doorknob jiggled again, and Victoria thanked her lucky stars she’d been about to have a bath—otherwise the door would not have been locked. There had never before been a need.
She heard glass shatter as a window broke in the side parlor. Gallows bristled and growled again before tearing through the swinging door out of the kitchen toward the noise. The back door bowed on its hinges as someone outside put a shoulder to it.
Victoria considered screaming, but dismissed the idea. She really wasn’t the screaming type. Beyond that, the women in the surrounding houses were all at the same auxiliary meeting as her mother. Their husbands likely used that as an excuse to leave the house and go down to one of the local saloons to do their weekly carousing. She could yell at the top of her lungs, even fire a twenty-one-gun salute, and no one would be likely to hear her.
Instead, she doused the gas lamp and moved up closer to the door to meet the intruder head-on. It was dark, but she had the advantage of knowing where everything was. As she passed the kitchen counter, she transferred the poker to her left hand and snatched a large meat cleaver off the cutting board for good measure.
She tensed as the door bowed in again. Wood flew out in splinters. A booted foot crashed through a jagged hole under the knob. She took a swipe with the cleaver, but whoever belonged to the boot drew it back quickly and she missed.
She caught her breath and stood by, waiting. Her heart pounded in her ears. Gallows snarled in the other room, barking and howling as if he had something treed.
Slowly, a hand felt its way through the new opening in the door. Stubby fingers reached up, searching for the lock.
Victoria grasped the cleaver firmly and swung with all her might. This time, she didn’t miss.
The hand, minus the ends of two fingers, jerked back through the hole. There was a loud yowl from the other side followed by a stream of molten cursing. Rather than dissuade the intruder, the injury seemed to infuriate him and he redoubled his efforts to get through the door.
Two hard shoves and he had it. The entire door flew off its hinges and crashed into the butcher block. A crouching figure followed it in. The figure stood up straight to get his bearings just in time to get a snoot full of twisted fire poker.
Victoria had dropped the cleaver, figuring the heavy iron bar a better weapon for close fighting. She swung with both hands, putting her hips into it. The figure slumped to his knees with a groan. She hit him again across the back, and was about to follow up with another to his swaying head when a shot rang out in the next room.
“It’s a damned dog, dumb ass.” The voice was a loud whisper. “Pa said not to hurt the girl. I don’t think he’d mind it if we shoot a dog.”
“Why don’t you just shut up and get on with this.” The other voice was strained and tense, like the man didn’t really want to be there. Victoria thought she recognized it, but couldn’t quite put a finger on who it belonged to.
She let her eyes play around the dark kitchen, trying to decide what to do next. She couldn’t stay where she was.
The man at her feet muttered incoherently under his breath and tried to push himself to his feet. He wore a black hood over his head with two large holes cut out so he could see. It looked like the same kind of hood they put on people who were about to hang.
More voices came from the side parlor. Gallows was silent.
Victoria looked at the demolished back door, but decided against trying to escape that way in case there were more men outside watching the horses. In the books she’d read, they always left someone to guard the horses.
The door past the stove lead to her parents’ bedroom. Beyond that was her father’s study. He kept his guns in there. Victoria gave the man at her feet another whack on the noggin just to be sure he wouldn’t follow, and ran for the door.
She’d never fired any of her father’s pistols, but he’d taught her to use his shotgun when she was twelve. Up until he’d reinjured his leg, they’d gone to shoot doves in the maize field at the edge of town every fall. He’d been surprised at her skill.
Now, she tore at the coats in the closet of his study, pulling out the long double-barrel from its hiding place in the back. A bag of paper shells hung on a peg beside the gun and she had it loaded in no time. She could hear voices drifting in from the kitchen. Dogs barked up and down the street. She wondered if anyone had heard the earlier shot.
Backing up to the far wall, Victoria hid behind the corner of her father’s heavy oak desk. She aimed the loaded shotgun at the door and used the heel of her hand to pull back both hammers. The first person into the room would meet a face full of bird shot. At this range—less than fifteen feet—that meant he
wouldn’t have much of a face left, or a head for that matter. She held her breath and waited, almost wishing for someone to come through the door.
Getting shot was an occupational hazard when you broke into other people’s houses. Breaking in on a poor defenseless woman like this—if someone got their head blown off, it would serve them right.
14
Pony Crowder crouched low and played his pistol around the dark kitchen. Ronald Purnell turned up the gaslight on the wall.
“Good Lord above, look what she done to Pete.” Pony’s voice was thick, like he had rocks in his mouth. Blood trickled from Pete’s ear and pooled around his mouth where it pressed up against a plush, handwoven rug. They pulled off their masks and looked around the room. “Don’t worry, Pete. I’ll kill her for you,” Pony said, kneeling beside his addled brother.
Purnell shook his head hard enough to make his headache seem like it might explode. “Pony,” he hissed. “Your father told us not to hurt her. Remember that?”
A cruel grin etched Pony’s crooked face. His bottom jaw stuck out a good half inch further than his top, and he always seemed to have a string of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. He sucked the spit back each time he spoke.
“That was before she beat the hell outta poor Pete. I’m pretty sure he’d want me to kill her now.”
Purnell felt like his whole world was crashing down around his shoulders. He couldn’t remember how he got mixed up in all this. If the pompous old judge would just listen to reason . . .
“Listen to me, Pony,” the lawyer said. “We have to remember what we came for. Your pa doesn’t want anything to mess up the vote, right?”
Pony nodded, blinking. “I reckon that’s so.”
“Well that’s what he wants, take my word for it.”
Pete groaned, pushing himself into a kneeling position. He held his head with his good hand. “Damn that little bitch.” Pete staggered to unsteady feet, pulled off his mask, and stuck the nubs of his injured fingers behind his gun belt to stem the bleeding. He gave his brother a sullen gaze and looked like he might throw up. “I’ve a mind to kill her too, Pony. Maybe we’ll get the chance later, but Pa would do worse to me than she did if we don’t carry on just like he told us.”
“She must’ve run in there.” Purnell nodded toward the door that lead to the master bedroom. “We’d best hurry before she goes out a window. . . .” His voice trailed off.
The front door creaked open, then shut again. At first the lawyer thought it was the Monfore girl slipping out. He half-hoped it was, even though there would be hell to pay with Old Man Crowder if they came back empty-handed. At least then he might not hang for kidnapping.
He had no such luck. Footsteps approached the kitchen.
“What the deuce . . . ?” a stern voice said. A strange thudding tap accompanied the footsteps. A cane.
Judge Monfore had come home early.
Pete Crowder happened to be the closest to the kitchen door when the judge came in, and the hapless outlaw caught the brass knob of his cane square in his prominent forehead, splitting his thick eyebrow down to his nose.
Pete was already too dazed to cry out, and slumped to the ground with a deflated whump. Blood poured from his head wound. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he blinked like a madman trying to clear his vision before he passed out.
The judge wheeled on his good leg, cane raised, seeking a new target. When he saw Purnell he paused, a puzzled look creasing his jowled face.
The lawyer cast his eyes toward the ground under the scrutiny of such a formidable man. Monfore had recognized him. He was as good as dead now.
“Judge Monfore,” Purnell pleaded. “If you’d just listen . . .”
Monfore brandished the cane. His eyes went white and he bellowed like an angry bull. “What the deuce are you doing in my home, Purnell? Where is my daughter?”
“Your Honor, you must hear me out.” The lawyer’s head felt as if it were about to explode. His breath came in ragged gasps. The room began to spin and he found it difficult to see.
“Don’t you Your Honor me.” The judge raged. “What have you done with my daughter?”
Pony pointed his pistol directly at the back of the judge’s head. His normally cross-eyed look cleared for an instant. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, a sure sign he was about to do something.
Purnell prayed he wouldn’t shoot.
Instead, he did the next worst thing. He clubbed Judge Monfore on the side of the head.
Monfore’s cane hit the ground and gave one good rattling bounce as the judge followed it down with a crashing thud. He moaned once and lay still, a heavy arm trailing across Pete’s ankle.
“You could have killed him, you idiot.” Purnell stooped over the bodies and relaxed a notch when he saw they were both breathing. He heard the click of a revolver behind his ear.
“I’ll be killing me somebody all right. Pa never said a word about not killin’ you. Just as soon you call me an idiot again, I’m gonna splatter your brains from here to Sunday,” Pony said. “I know I ain’t none too smart, but I ain’t no idiot.” He prodded the lawyer’s ear with the barrel of his pistol. “Comprende?”
Purnell swallowed and tried to calm himself. “I understand. We still have to find the girl.” He hoped to appeal to what ever reason lurked deep inside Pony Crowder’s thick skull.
Pony shrugged as if it was all so simple. “What do we need the girl for? We was supposed to get the daughter so we could make up the judge’s mind. Now we got the judge, so we’ll just make up his mind directly. Comprende?”
The lawyer gave an emphatic shake of his head. His brain was on fire. It was difficult to debate while staring down the maw of a Remington revolver. He struggled to keep his voice calm. “I don’t think that’s what your father had in mind.”
Pony grinned and let his head loll side to side. “You’re scared of my pa, ain’t you? Fact is, I reckon you’re scared of me and this judge and even that teensy little girl who whacked ol’ Pete a good one. You’re likely scared of your own shadow.” Pony giggled and held up a thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “Fact is, I bet you’re this close to peein’ down your own leg.”
Purnell didn’t say a word. He just looked at the gun barrel pointed at him and clenched his teeth, hoping the boy didn’t see his knees shaking.
“You help Pete and I’ll get the judge.” Pony holstered his pistol and sneered. “Pete’s lighter. I doubt you got the strength to lift a teacup, let along His Royal Highness here.”
Safe from being killed for the time being, Purnell knelt and helped a groggy and bleeding Pete Crowder to his feet. The judge had seen Purnell’s face, but it really didn’t matter that he’d come along. The Crowders would likely decide to kill him anyway. If they were caught—and they surely would be caught—they would all hang.
Once they got outside, Purnell helped Pony heave the judge across the clumsy gelding they’d brought for Victoria Monfore. He was scared witless, but the lawyer was no weakling. Still, lifting more than two hundred pounds of deadweight across a tall horse left both men panting and covered in sweat. There was a chilly breeze blowing out of the north. Mounting his horse, Ronald Purnell felt as if the wind blew straight through his very soul.
* * *
Victoria sat listening to the creaks and snaps in the huge house that up until this point in her life had been her haven. The shotgun was heavy, and though she had more than her share of physical strength, the fight had taken a lot out of her. She rested the long Damascus barrel on the arm of her father’s leather chair.
It was dark in the study and the smell of her father was everywhere. The heavy, sweet smell of pipe tobacco lingered in the red smoking jacket draped across the back of the chair. The rich fragrance of saddle soap and lanolin hung above the line of freshly polished boots along the wall behind her.
Years before, when she was still a little girl, she would often come and lie on the sheepskin rug at the foot of
his desk and read while he worked on some case or another. He always asked her opinion, teaching her to defend her thoughts with viable arguments. This was the room in her home where Victoria had always felt the most grown up, the place she’d always felt safe.
Now she wondered if she might die here.
A door slammed shut in the kitchen. She jumped and took her eyes off the bedroom door long enough to check the mantle clock above her father’s bookshelf. The scant light coming through the drawn curtain just allowed her to see it was still too early for her mother to be home.
Horses nickered outside the window. Grunts and hushed voices carried through the glass. Maybe the intruders were leaving and she would survive the night after all. Perhaps thievery had been their motive all along. Maybe they were just there to steal.
Victoria rushed to the window just in time to see four horses wheel and gallop away into the dark street. A limp body flopped up and down like heavy wings on the back of a stout sorrel.
The intruders had stolen something all right. She gripped the shotgun until her fingers turned white.
They’d stolen her father.
15
Morgan awoke to find his freshly darned and laundered socks folded in the hallway outside the door to his room. He poured water from a blue clay pitcher in a matching basin on top of the shoulder-high chest of drawers. His shirt off, suspenders hanging down around his sides, he surveyed the many scars across his upper body while he washed and rinsed the sleep out of his eyes.
A man with gaunt hollows for cheeks stared back at him from the small oval mirror beside the basin. Some of his scars—the deepest, most painful ones—weren’t visible from the outside. He thought how glad he was that he didn’t look quite as old as he felt, and slicked his wet hair back over his head.
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