Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  Sweat beading on his forehead, he nudged his hat back to swipe at his brow and squinted into the darkness. Horse trailing behind him as he ventured further into the barn, Jove half-expected to find the Devil himself working at the forge. The young man Jove found instead had his brows lifting in appreciation. Ropes of lean, bronzed muscle bunched and flexed as he pounded away on an anvil. Jove couldn't tell what he was working on, but then Jove didn't really care. He couldn't really see the boy's face, but if Jove had to guess, he was halfway between hay and grass—younger than Jove by a handful of years but not so young that it stopped Jove from staring hard enough to give himself pleasant dreams for a week.

  Of course, dreams wouldn't be necessary if they got better acquainted.

  "Can I help you?" The smoke-roughened voice carried over the din, bringing Jove up short and making him jerk his horse's reins hard enough to earn a neigh of complaint.

  "I'm looking for Mr. Frye," Jove said, aiming the words at the dark corner of the barn where the voice had come from while his free hand drifted down to the holster at his hip.

  "M'fraid Mr. Frye is no longer with us, rest his soul. However, if you're lookin' for Z. Frye, proprietor, you're lookin' at her." A woman stepped out of the gloom. Her blonde hair was shot through with silver and her fine-boned face was plain but appealing even while she stared him down with unreadable dark eyes. She wore a heavy leather apron over a simple cotton dress that looked as if it'd had the sleeves cut off. It was probably more for practicality than to show off her well-muscled arms, but those and the large hammer in her hand gave Jove pause.

  "You're Z. Frye?" It was a stupid question, and Jove knew it, but still he couldn't keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth.

  She crossed her arms. "I don't believe I stuttered, mister. And that boy you been oglin' is my son."

  Well, hell. It was one thing to mentally undress a fellow. It was something else entirely to do it in front of said fellow's mother while she was holding a hammer big as a man's arm.

  Jove smiled. "No offense meant, ma'am. I was just looking to find someone to see about gettin' a new shoe for my horse."

  Frye snorted. "Uh-huh. You talkin' about that bag of crowbait you got there? You'd be better off sellin' her for glue."

  "Don't I know it. Unfortunately, I need her to get me where I'm goin', and I don't exactly have the lucre to buy myself another horse." And he wouldn't have any money any time soon either if he kept turning up dead ends.

  Frye snorted again, but she lowered her arms and came close enough to let the horse sniff at her. "I hope you got enough to get her re-shod, then. Matthew, get your behind over here!" The last was shouted at the boy working the anvil, making Jove wince. That woman could drown out thunder if she tried. However, it got the incessant hammering to stop, and for that Jove could only be grateful.

  Jove watched Matthew approach, his shape becoming a darker shadow in the gloom of the barn as he left the fires. A kind of anticipation settled in the pit of Jove's stomach, wholly inappropriate with the boy's mother standing right there, armed—that was putting it mildly—and dangerous. But she was more concerned with taking the horse by the reins than with giving him the stink-eye so Jove kept his gaze fixed on Matthew.

  When Matthew finally stepped into the halo of light spilling into the barn, Jove had to bite back a curse. Matthew wasn't as brown, his features still held onto the roundness of youth, and his wide mouth seemed quicker to scowl than grin, but Jove recognized that face like it was his own. Even if he hadn't, the mark on the boy's forearm would've been enough. The small, black sickle flashed silver in the dim light, a tell-tale talisman mark if there ever was one.

  Jove had been chasing Coyote for over a year, yet it hadn't occurred to him that he might have kin out there somewhere. This was the best lead he'd had in months. Probably ever, if he was honest.

  Apparently Providence was a sly old bitch.

  Jove drew his pistol before Frye or her son could react. "I'm real sorry about this, ma'am, but I'm afraid there's been a change in plans."

  Matthew, already a head taller than his mother and arms almost twice as thick, seemed to swell with rage. "We're not forkin' over a damn thing, you mudsill chucklehead—"

  Jove canted his pistol slightly upward. "Easy there, boy. I'd hate to have to ventilate you in front of your momma." And it would be a damn shame, but Matthew's fists were like small boulders, and Jove had no interest in getting his head cracked open.

  "Pull in your horns, Matthew." Unlike her son, Frye was unfazed as she carefully lifted the horse's leg to get a look at her hoof. "He ain't here to rob us. Now go get back to work before you ruin Mrs. Danniger's weather vane."

  "But Ma—"

  Frye cut Matthew a look that could curdle milk and he slunk away with one last, dark glance at Jove. Jove watched him go—it'd be a crime not to—and scratched at his chin. Well. That wasn't exactly how he'd expected that to play out.

  "Before I tell you anything, Jove Whittaker, let me make one thing clear."

  That got his attention. "How did you—"

  "One. Thing." Frye hadn't moved except to let the horse's leg fall, but the sudden coldness in her eyes made Jove glad he was armed. "You threaten my son again and it's gonna take a hell of a lot more than that half-rusted peashooter to put me down before I snap your neck. Clear?"

  Jove could feel new sweat breaking out on his brow. "Yes, ma'am."

  She stared him down for a long moment, Matthew's renewed banging at the forge punctuating the silence between them. Then, finally, that rattlesnake stare left Frye's eyes. "Good."

  Jove let out a slow breath and holstered his gun. "Now, mind telling me how you know my name?" But he already knew the answer to that, and the look Frye sent him said she knew it.

  "Come on. Let's bend an elbow. We got a lot to talk about."

  *~*~*

  The shed behind the barn was a makeshift structure held up by four thick posts, a rusted tin roof, two perpendicular walls of salvaged wood planks, and a spit and a promise. It looked like it would come crashing down if Jove even glanced at it wrong, but it provided welcome relief from the baking sun and the heat of the forge. It was open on two sides but it spent most of the day in the shadow of the barn at its back. Jove couldn't help but sigh his contentment when he stepped into the cool interior.

  The rough walls were covered with all sorts of tools—or torture instruments. It was hard to tell which. The back corner where the walls met was piled high with scrap metal of all shapes and sizes, the heap spilling across the floor like a sharp, jagged puddle. It suddenly occurred to Jove that he might have let himself be led out of the frying pan and into the fire. But instead of bushwhacking him, Frye dug up two stools, a glass, and a bottle from somewhere and poured him a drink.

  "Jove Whittaker." Frye shook her head before taking a pull from the bottle. "You know, I never thought I'd actually get to meet you."

  Jove held his glass up in salute before throwing back the shot. The whiskey burned smooth all the way down, surprisingly good for something dug out of a blacksmith's shed. Jove had an inkling where it might have come from. "Likewise. I didn't think Coyote had any family. More fool me."

  She snorted. "Coyote? Is that what he's calling himself these days?" After a moment's thought, she shrugged. "Suits him, I suppose."

  "It does. Your husband's got a flair for the dramatic."

  Frye paused in the middle of pouring Jove another drink. "My husband's dead and buried. Has been for six years now."

  He arched a brow. "That's real peculiar considering your boy looks a hell of a lot like the man I've been chasing all over the back end of nowhere for longer than I care to admit."

  Frye's laugh was as rough as her voice, but it transformed her face from plain to something that could enthrall a man if he was so inclined. "Damn. He was right about you. Pretty as a picture but dumb as a post."

  "Guilty." The insult didn't get Jove's dander up. He knew his failings. Though he liked to
think the former more than balanced out the latter. Still, there was plenty of stupid to be had if he was pleased again to know Coyote liked the look of him. Clearly it had been far too long since he'd been bedded and didn't that just lead his thoughts down a merry path. Jove took another drink to clear his head, then asked, "What, pray tell, am I missing?"

  "Matthew does look a lot like his father, I'll give you that. Spittin' image." Frye's look was so pointed, Jove felt pinned to his seat. "But last I checked, twins tend to bear a passin' resemblance now and again."

  Jove blinked at her, the information she'd just dropped gumming up the already sluggish workings of his brain. Coyote had a brother. A twin brother. The Fryes were his kin all right, but not in the way Jove had assumed. It shouldn't change anything, but Jove felt like he'd had the rug pulled out from under him.

  He held out his glass to be refilled again. She obliged.

  "So you have a name for your erstwhile brother-in-law?" It was odd to even ask. Jove couldn't imagine another name more fitting than Coyote for the man who'd led him on a chase for more than a year now. But this was the strongest lead he'd ever had and any information about his quarry would help.

  Frye pressed her thin lips together as if fighting to hold back something that desperately needed to be said. A host of emotions flitted like shadows across her face, too numerous and complicated to name them all. She was silent too long, and Jove wasn't at all surprised when she said, "I wish to the gods I could tell you. But I can't."

  "Horseshit," Jove said flatly. "I could just ask around town, you know."

  She just shrugged and took another swig from the bottle. "Wouldn't do you no good. We're not from these parts originally. And even if we were, no one who knew him back before he was Coyote could tell you his name either."

  Jove carefully set down his glass. "Mrs. Frye, I consider myself a patient man. I have to be in my line of work. But you are testin' me somethin' fierce. You said we had a lot to talk about, but so far you've been doin' nothin' but blowin' smoke. If you wanted to get me alone, sorry to disappoint you, but you ain't exactly equipped for my kind of ride. Now, if we're done here, I'm afraid I have to take my leave. Thanks for the drink." He stood. Jove had already wasted enough time. He hated to think what his poor Ada was going through without him.

  Frye's voice stopped him before he made it more than a few paces. "Can't imagine you gettin' too far without a horse."

  Jove turned slowly. "Is that a threat?"

  Frye swung the bottle in lazy circles, watching the amber contents swish about. "It's a fact. Just like it's a fact I'm the only blacksmith in Bowden. Like it's a fact that the mail wagon won't be coming through these parts for another three days, and the passenger stage won't be through until a day after that. If you want to linger that long, that's up to you. But he's already got two days head start and I know where he's headed."

  Her gaze met his, steady and unblinking.

  "All right, I'll bite. Not like I have much of a choice, do I?"

  A corner of her mouth edged up into a smile. "Maybe you're not that dumb after all."

  "All that soft solder won't get you anywhere. Where's he headed?"

  "Canton."

  A sliver of ice ran down Jove's spine and he had to be real careful to keep his voice neutral. "Why Canton?" Coyote hadn't run a job in the capital since well before Jove had started chasing him. The thought that Jove might have to follow Coyote back to that damn city made his palms sweat.

  "I don't know. All he said was that he had a job to do. One last job."

  It was all she needed to say. Jove could tell Frye wasn't a woman prone to fretting, but the naked worry on her face made his gut churn. Whatever Coyote was planning to do in Canton, it was big. And it was likely to get him killed.

  It'd be a pity to lose all that reward money if that damn fool ended up dead. Jove needed that pay out. Especially if he was headed back to Canton. And he could kiss poor Ada goodbye forever if Coyote cashed in before Jove caught up to him. It was enough to make any man a mite anxious.

  Jove wasn't in the habit of being concerned about the well-being of the outlaws he hunted. That would be unprofessional at best and damned stupid at the absolute worst.

  "I'm not sayin' I believe you, but if I was inclined to, how do I know you're not sending me off to chase air? You know if I catch him, I'm takin' him in."

  Frye's mouth set in a grim line. "You don't know. But I'm countin' on you to catch him. At least that way I'll know he's alive."

  Jove couldn't fault that logic. "All right. Canton's an awful big city, though. What if I don't find him?"

  "I don't think that'll be a problem."

  "Why's that?"

  For a brief moment, Frye's lopsided smile returned. "He likes you."

  *~*~*

  Frye was good to her word and then some. She didn't fit Jove's old mare with one new shoe but four. That, a bag of oats, an apple, and a day's rest were apparently enough to give the old girl new life. She was downright spry when they left Bowden; maybe there were a few good years left in her yet.

  Jove spent a good portion of the trip thinking up a name for her. It was a long trek, and he needed something else to occupy his thoughts other than the gnawing dread that rode him all the way to Canton. No matter how much he tried to shake it, the unease stuck to him like a burr on a sheep's ass, and it nearly made him turn tail a few times. Nothing good waited for him in Canton. Jove's mind provided a promenade of worst case scenarios, the most prominent of which involved Coyote botching his last job and getting himself killed, and Jove running into old friends he had no desire to catch up with. Either way, Jove ended up broke and-or dead. It was enough to make him consider turning back yet again.

  But there was all that reward money. If things didn't go completely sideways and Jove caught Coyote, the payout would be enough to take care of his troubles in Canton with enough left over to be set for life. Or at least until next year. And even if he didn't catch Coyote in Canton, Jove had made it out of the city with his skin intact once before. He could do it again now that he was older and wiser. Besides, no one knew he was coming, so who would be looking for him in a city of thousands and thousands of people?

  Hellfire, Jove had been after Coyote longer than anyone! He wasn't about to stop chasing him now. Jove would just have to lay low and stay positive. To think of trouble was to court it, and Jove was far too sober to be doing that.

  So Jove went back to thinking of names for his ancient mare, and by the time the capital came into sight, he had settled on Moss-back Molly.

  Canton rose out of the rolling green prairie like a crown atop an emerald pillow. She was a sight to behold even with the storm clouds rolling in from the East dulling her shine. Many a first-time visitor gawked at the buildings that rose into the roiling purple sky, some of them even fifty feet high!

  Jove recalled that same thrilling awe the first time he rode into Canton years ago. Now he was torn between giving Molly the spurs to tear up those last few miles and hunching in his saddle. When he finally entered the city, though, Jove wondered just what the hell he was doing. The shadows of Canton's skyscrapers pressed down on him as he rode through the canyon of buildings. The back of his neck itched and he felt exposed. He turned up his coat collar to ease the sensation and obscure his face without making it seem like that was what he was trying to do.

  He was in dangerous country now. At least out in the Territories odds were good you could tell when someone was aiming to stab or shoot you in the back. In Canton all bets were off.

  Jove decided he needed to get out of the open before the storm broke or he found himself toes up. If he recalled, there was a hotel in the West End that laid claim to some pretty fine drink and a curly-haired wagtail with a mouth worthy of the gods themselves. Of course, not being near as flush as the first time he'd come to Canton, the room, the drink, the whore, and his blessed mouth were beyond Jove's reach. His options were limited to say the least.

  A low roll
of thunder and the first spit of rain made the decision for him.

  Taking a left off the main road, it wasn't long before he spotted a saloon that boasted cheap, hot meals and a covered stable round back. It was as good a place as any to ride out the storm and come up with some kind of plan. Any kind of plan.

  Jove left Molly with a beanpole of a stable boy. He pressed a few precious coppers into the youth's hand to make sure Molly got some extra feed before going to get himself fed. He dodged past a hansom that had just pulled up and headed for the door. He wondered what kinds of fixins they had to offer. The smells coming from the saloon weren't half bad, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meal that didn't consist of hard bread and dried meat. Whatever this establishment had on the menu couldn't possibly be any worse. With real food within reach, Jove was beginning to think his luck was looking up. Maybe this gamble wouldn't be a disaster after all.

  The gods took perverse pleasure in proving him wrong.

  Jove didn't even make it inside.

  "Well, as I live and breathe. If it isn't Jove Whittaker." The voice was jovial and cultured and far too familiar.

  Jove managed not to flinch when a hand came down heavy on his shoulder—but only just. Still counted, though, as far he was concerned. So what if his palms suddenly felt wet as a frog's backside?

  He plastered on a smile and turned, hand inching toward his gun. "Heya, Whelk. Long time no see."

  Whelk's crooked smile was one hundred percent genuine and twice as mean. It was also missing a few more teeth than the last time Jove had seen it. "No shit." He took a step closer and something hard pressed into Jove's stomach. Jove's hand froze. "We've got a lot of catching up to do."

  "Why, Whelk, I never knew you felt that way. I'm flattered, really—"

  Whelk jabbed the barrel of the hand cannon into Jove's gut hard enough to make him gasp. "Save your slick shit, Whittaker. Nothing in this world would give me as much pleasure as blowing a hole through your scrawny ass and leaving you in the gutter to die like the worthless dog you are. But Mr. Napier would like to see you first. So don't tempt me, boy, and get in the rig."