The Substitute Wife

by CiCi Cordelia

  Soft murmurs began, as smart folks got out of Harrison’s way.

  Pouring himself another drink, Brody lifted the glass halfway to his mouth before he spotted Harrison and froze.

  Suddenly, Cat was standing between him and his target, a Colt steady in both hands. “Hang on there, Harrison. We don’t want any trouble here.”

  Brody slowly lowered his shot to the table with a clunk. A bead of sweat slid down his forehead and dripped off his nose. His gaze darted toward the door.

  “Addie’s missing,” Harrison stated bluntly. The urge to put his gun to the man’s temple and pull the trigger was strong. But he needed information first.

  A flurry of murmurs went through the crowd. Cat’s eyes narrowed to fierce slits.

  She tilted her head toward Brody. “Think he’s got something to do with it?”

  “Yep.” Harrison jerked his thumb toward the swinging doors. “Retta’s outside, Cat. She sure could use a woman’s comfort right now.”

  Lowering her weapon, Cat nodded, and without another word she pushed through the crowd to the door.

  Brody slowly got to his feet, hands raised in the air. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with nothin’.”

  Harrison never took his eyes off Brody, as the man grew more and more agitated. Edging toward the door, he looked ready to bolt.

  “Where’s my daughter, Mills?” Harrison managed evenly, though he was anything but calm. The rage bubbling inside him had taken on a life of its own.

  Brody was obviously too dumb to understand how close he was to having his head blown off, because he had the audacity to shrug. “I don’t know nothin’ about your daughter.”

  Harrison narrowed his eyes. “Wrong answer.”

  Whipping his arm out, Harrison fisted Brody’s collar and yanked him across the table, flinging him into the middle of the room. Shattering glass and breaking wood mingled with the sound of disgruntled gamblers as they quickly snatched up their winnings and moved out of the way.

  Two long strides brought him to where Brody lay sprawled on his back. Gripping his shirt in one fist, Harrison jerked him up, punched him in the face, repeatedly, as he demanded, “Where.” Punch. “Is.” Punch. “My.” Punch. “Daughter?”

  Punch.

  Punch.

  Dub’s voice broke through his fury, as he caught hold of Harrison’s shoulder. “Carter, dead men can’t talk.”

  Breathing heavily, Harrison forced his fist to relax as he let go of Brody, uncaring when the barely conscious man slid to the floor with a groan. His bloodied face had already begun to discolor and swell, one eye puffy, his nose smashed. Bending, Harrison relieved Brody of his gun, shoving it toward the barkeep. “Put this behind the bar.”

  As the man silently obeyed, Harrison turned to his foreman. “Wait outside.”

  Dub exited out onto the sidewalk, the swinging doors creaking behind him. Harrison glanced around, spotting a beer tankard that hadn’t ended up on the floor. Finding it almost full, he grabbed it, stepping over strewn cards and broken glass, then flung its contents into Brody’s face. “Wake up, Mills. We’re not through.”

  Sputtering, Brody blinked away foam as he opened his eyes. When he spotted Harrison standing over him, he swore and rolled to his feet. Before anyone could stop him, he bolted from the saloon.

  Harrison sighed. With his brother and the other miners waiting in the street, Brody wouldn’t get far.

  Dub poked his head through the door. “Sheriff’s not in town, boss.”

  “Yeah.” Wiping his knuckles on his trousers, Harrison stomped outside. As he’d expected, Frank and half a dozen of his men had their guns leveled on Brody, who swayed unsteadily in the middle of the street, unarmed, hands in the air.

  Near the mercantile, Cat stood with her arm wrapped protectively around Retta. Betsey hovered on the other side, a hand pressed against his wife’s stomach as though to hold her back. Briefly meeting Retta’s eyes, Harrison spotted desperation along with anger. I know how you feel, honey.

  He wanted to kill the dirty skunk with his bare hands. Hell, he had to hold himself back as it was.

  More townsfolk were lined up and down the street. Some called out encouragement, others retribution.

  “Punch his face in, Harrison, he’ll tell ya.”

  “Hang him!”

  “What kind of monster hurts a child?”

  From the corner of his eye, Harrison saw how Retta shifted against Betsey’s hold. Raising a hand, he pointed his finger at her and mouthed, “Stay put.” If she actually heeded his command, he’d be surprised. She jerked up her chin in defiance and even from a distance he could see her chest heave as she sucked in a deep breath, but then she gave a curt bob of her head. Cat spoke to her, and Retta’s tense posture eased.

  Thankful his wife was out of the line of fire, he turned back to Brody who hadn’t moved, and studied him. The man had taken a beating in the saloon and hadn’t broken. Maybe more extreme measures were necessary. His mind flashed to the sight of Peter hanging from the tree. Unclenching his jaw, he called out, “Anyone got some rope?”

  Brody gulped, but remained still. Smart move, considering there were half a dozen guns aimed at him, cocked and ready.

  Ben, who’d been in the saloon earlier, came forward. The wiry young cowpoke worked for them at the mines when cattle driving slowed down. He nodded to Harrison. “I got rope.” Crossing to his gelding, Ben threw back the saddlebag, returning with a thick coil. “There’s a tall tree near the church that’ll work real fine.”

  “Thanks.” Accepting the rope, Harrison stalked toward Brody, whose panicked eyes darted back and forth, searching for a chance to escape.

  There was no way out for him. Not until Harrison knew where he could find Addie. And maybe not even then.

  “I’ll ask you again, Brody, real nice like.” Harrison cracked his knuckles. “Where is Addie?”

  More shouts sounded behind him. “Hang him high, Harrison!”

  “Shoot him in the legs!”

  “Cut off his man parts, bet that’ll make him talk,” a woman muttered loudly.

  Every second that passed put his precious girl in more danger. All the ways she might already be hurt, ran through his mind like a never-ending nightmare.

  Brody’s nervous gaze flicked across the street where folks were still shouting. “I told you, Carter. I don’t know nothin’.”

  Stopping directly in front of the coward, Harrison loomed threateningly. “Wrong damn answer. Again.” He turned to Frank and Dub. “Bring him.”

  Harrison’s long strides ate up the rough ground between the saloon and the church, its large sugar maple shading the front entrance. Clomping feet and disgruntled muttering told him the townsfolk followed behind, along with the rest of the miners he’d gathered as a posse. The mob undoubtedly included Retta and Cat, too.

  Coming to a stop under a low-hanging branch, he tied off the rope securely, then tossed the length over a higher limb. Brody fought against Frank and Dub, each holding an arm to keep him from escaping.

  Harrison let the rope slide along his hands, finding grim amusement in the way Brody eyed it as if it were a slithering snake. “Final chance, Mills. Where’s my daughter?”

  “Go to hell,” Brody spat, struggling to get free.

  Gathering the end of the rope looped over the branch, Harrison began crafting a hangman’s noose. Everyone fell silent as he worked, the only sound Brody’s curses as he fought against Frank and Dub.

  The sound of a door creaking open indicated certain interference by a higher authority, but damned if he’d stop now. Still, Harrison cringed a bit when Reverend Matias asked, “What’s going on, Mister Carter?”

  Finishing his task, he met Matias’s steady gaze. “Nothing that concerns you, Reverend.”

&
nbsp; Retta surged forward, breaking through the safety line of his men. “This man stole our daughter.” She pointed a finger at Brody, who sneered and rasped out a few more curses.

  Frank cuffed Brody upside the head with the barrel of his gun, then aimed it at his ear. “Don’t even look at her.”

  “Is that true, Harrison?” Reverend Matias asked.

  As if sensing an ally, Brody wrenched toward the Reverend and pleaded, “I already told them I got no idea where the girl is.”

  “He’s a killer, Reverend. And killers lie.” Harrison reached into his pocket and tossed the tobacco pouch at Brody’s feet. “Your chaw bag was found near Peter. You remember Peter, the man you shot and hung from a tree?”

  Staring at his pouch, Brody mumbled, “That dirty, no-account, sumbitchin’ . . .”

  Harrison turned to Matias. “I think it’d be best if you went back into the church.”

  At the Reverend’s conflicted expression, Harrison prodded him. “Every passing moment is a moment our daughter is in danger. We’ve got to hurry this along.”

  “Please,” Retta whispered brokenly.

  Matias’s demeaner softened as he took in Retta’s tear-ravaged face. Then his mouth firmed, and he nodded. “Don’t be wrong, Harrison.”

  “No, sir, Reverend.” It took everything inside Harrison to keep the fury off his face and at least appear calm and sane. But time was running out and Brody still hadn’t confessed anything concerning Addie’s location. Harrison wasn’t a murderer, didn’t plan on actually hanging the bastard. Not yet, anyway. He only wanted to scare the information from him. But if his daughter had been harmed, all bets were off.

  With an acknowledging nod, the Reverend turned and walked back inside the church.

  Frank lowered his gun as Harrison loomed over Brody. “One more opportunity to do the right thing, Mills. Where’s Addie?”

  “I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

  “If that’s how you want it.” As the afternoon sun beat down on them, Harrison dropped the noose over Brody’s head, then pulled the rope taut around his neck, until the man was forced onto the tips of his boots in order to breathe.

  Harrison met the bastard’s frantic, rounded eyes. “Last chance.”

  He tugged the rope until Brody’s toes left the ground.

  At the sound of Retta crying softly behind him, Harrison ground his back teeth together. She had been so brave. So strong, until now. He couldn’t comfort her, not until Brody confessed Addie’s whereabouts.

  Fear coiled inside him at the thought of losing the child he’d grown to love as his own. Harrison gave the rope a vicious jerk.

  “Abandoned mine, outside Animas Forks,” Brody choked out. “P-Please—”

  The garbled words sent a rush of thankfulness through Harrison, and a chorus of relieved sighs surrounded him as he let go of the rope. Brody sank to his knees, gagging. Slowly he flopped around, finally struggling to his feet as Ben stood guard, pistol in hand.

  Harrison barked, “Let’s head out,” sending his men running for their horses. Pulling Retta into his arms, he gave her a hard, swift kiss, then set her aside. “I need to go.”

  “Hurry.” Hope shone from her eyes.

  In the next instant, a child broke loose from her mother and darted into the fray as she chased a butterfly, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.

  “Melanie,” her mother cried out, rushing forward to scoop her up as all eyes turned on them.

  Using the moment to his advantage, Brody swung around and knocked Ben off balance. At the same time he reached into his boot and pulled a knife. Eyes locked on Harrison, he drew back an arm to fling the double-honed blade. Before he had the chance, Frank whipped out both Colts and shot him.

  As Ben jumped to his feet, Frank strode up and kicked the knife out of Brody’s reach.

  Blood bubbled up from Brody’s mouth as he clutched his chest. Amidst shouting and confusion, his hate-filled eyes glazed over. “I lied, you sumbitch.”

  Retta cried out in anguish at his rasping words.

  And Harrison felt his heart plummet when the dying man wheezed, “You’ll never . . . find . . . her.”

  Chapter 21

  Cat sank down on the wooden pew and laid a hand on Retta’s shoulder. “Please let one of the men escort you home,” she began, pausing when Retta gave an emphatic shake of her head.

  “No. Harrison will bring her to town. She ought to see Doc Sheaton.” Scalding tears flooded Retta’s eyes; she scrubbed them away, but more followed. Her breath hitched once, twice. When she tried to swallow, her throat felt drier than a bone.

  “Oh, come here. Lean on me,” Cat encouraged, and Retta couldn’t remain brave and stoic a second longer. She turned her face into Cat’s perfumed neck and sobbed.

  Silently, Cat rocked her. In the musty church Retta’s crying echoed up and down the narrow aisle, bouncing off the crude glass in the windows the Little Creede township wanted to replace with something prettier. As if it mattered what hung in the windows.

  Her precious girl was still missing. Worse, the only man who’d known her whereabouts lay dead in the middle of the street, his final words a vindictive garble. Trying to imagine how anyone could steal a child, hide them away, seal their fate in a lie . . . it was plain evil. It was the work of a monster.

  “She was only wearing a thin little dress. Not even a pinafore. Summer bloomers, because she wanted to use the p-potty like a b-big g-girl.” Retta slapped a hand over her mouth to hold in her mounting scream. “I can’t stay here, I’ve got to look for her.”

  “Young lady, stop right this minute.” Betsey’s firm voice and tight grip prevented Retta from tearing up the aisle like a madwoman. She kept her hand on Retta’s shoulder as she admonished, “Trust your husband and trust Frank. All the other men, too. They’ll find your little girl.” With a bump of one ample hip, Betsey nudged until Retta had to either sit back down or risk falling over.

  She sat, Betsey plopping down right next to her.

  Retta tried to ease in the other direction, but Cat wouldn’t budge. Trapped, she fidgeted, twisting her fingers into sore knots, as both women took turns patting her arms and rubbing her back. She knew they wanted to help, but it wasn’t working. Nothing could shut off her brain or stop her memory from replaying the last few hours.

  Hours her Addie suffered, all alone and frightened, cold. Maybe worse.

  Only when Betsey slapped a hand on her knee, did Retta realize she had been bouncing her foot up and down, faster and faster. Her eyes met Betsey’s sympathetic regard, and more tears blinded her, sudden and scalding.

  “Shh,” Betsey soothed. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit, try to rest? You can use this for a pillow.” She patted her stomach. “Goodness knows I’ve plenty of padding.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Perhaps not. But you can rest,” Cat urged, pressing on Retta’s arm until she relented. A few seconds later, she lay on her side, with her head in Betsey’s lap and her legs stretched over Cat’s expensive watered silk walking dress. Releasing a shuddery sigh, Retta managed a broken, “Thank you.”

  Cat smoothed out the wrinkles in Retta’s skirt. “You know, once I had this horse. Ran off in the middle of the night.”

  Lost in her own tortuous thoughts, it took a bit for Cat’s remark to sink in. Retta turned to look at her, sitting so properly in a church pew with someone else’s legs and feet in her lap. Cat didn’t seem to care about the mud and heaven knew what else that clung to the soles of Retta’s riding boots.

  With a half-smile curling one side of her mouth, Cat continued to straighten Retta’s crumpled clothing. “Want me to tell you about it?”

  “Um,” Retta replied slowly. “All right.”

  Vaguely she registered Betsey’s fingers, gently
winnowing through her hopelessly matted hair. It felt so soothing.

  Cat’s voice took on a dreamlike quality. “Her name was Priscilla. Her left foreleg had suffered an arrow wound, and she cantered unevenly. She ran away in a storm, right after I purchased her from my weasel of a landlord.” Cat reached for one of Retta’s hands and held it. “I cried for hours. Got plenty angry, too. A couple of days passed. Then one night at the Lucky Lady, Frank Carter happened to mention he could find Priscilla for me, on account of the heavy rains in the area, and the way my sweet mare limped.”

  She tugged on Retta’s hand until her weary eyes opened and she struggled past the fog surrounding her brain. “Cat, I don’t understand what—”

  “Think about this.” Cat gave her fingers a squeeze. “Frank’s a tracker. I had no idea how good he was, since we don’t much like each other and up until then hadn’t exchanged more than maybe four insults. But he found Priscilla for me. Said he appreciated fine horseflesh too much to see one lost in the hills.”

  Retta blinked as she processed what Cat was saying. Frank, a tracker? She sat up, pushing her hair off her face. “He tracks horses?”

  “And men, and deer, elk, bear. If it leaves a print on the trail, Frank can follow. Listen to me, now.” Cat grasped Retta’s chin, urging her to pay attention. “The men examined Brody’s horse. They removed his boots, too. You understand? They’re going to find Addie.” She gave Retta’s chin a little pinch. “Whether she was taken away on foot or on a horse. You’ve got to trust and believe.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Goddammit,” Frank said as he straightened. “Dead end here.” He pointed to a spot on the ground.

  Harrison couldn’t tell much difference between the mud pattern over the ground or anything else that might have crawled, hopped, or slithered by. “You sure?” He pulled the damp bandana from his neck and used it to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Squinting at where Frank indicated made no difference, but he trusted his brother implicitly when it came to tracking. He sat back on his heels, weary and heartsick. “Now what?”