Callie's Convict

by Heidi Betts

  And the only thing that could make this moment more perfect—aside from perhaps Nathan being present—would be the knowledge that Wade would be cleared of his conviction and able to stay with her forever.

  But she pushed that thought and the fear that accompanied it aside, determined to wring every ounce of happiness from this moment, regardless of what tomorrow might bring.

  Finding her voice, she softly but firmly answered the father's question. “I do."

  "And do you, Wade, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

  Wade's eyes met hers. “I do."

  "By the power vested in me. . .” Father Ignacio intoned, but Callie barely heard him. Before he'd even finished the end of the haphazard ceremony, Wade had pulled her into his arms, baby and all, and begun kissing her.

  His mouth moved over hers like sunlight over a field of daisies. Warming her, comforting her, making her stretch up on tiptoe and lean into his intensity.

  "Yes, well. . .” She heard the padre mumble and clear his throat uncomfortably when finally they broke apart. “All that remains is to sign the marriage certificate."

  He moved to the side of the altar, returning with a sheet of vellum. Using the communion rail as a writing surface, Callie and Wade both scrawled their names, followed by Father Ignacio and the nun, who added their signatures as celebrant and witness.

  "Thank you, Sister. You may return to the children now."

  With a nod, the young woman wished them well, then turned and left the chapel.

  "You should keep this, too,” Wade said, folding the marriage certificate into quarters and handing it to her.

  Her fingers lingered over the thick paper a few seconds longer than necessary before tucking it into the reticule at her wrist, next to the deed he'd given her not half an hour earlier.

  While her purse was open, she removed several doubled-over bills she'd taken from the hidden stash at the bottom of her wardrobe at home and held them out to Father Ignacio. “Thank you again, Father. We really appreciate this."

  The priest took the money. “Gracias. This will go directly into the poor box. And it was my pleasure, child. I wish you many years of happiness together."

  "I wouldn't count on that, Padre."

  Callie and Wade both spun around at the low, dangerous voice behind them. She gasped at the sight of Brady Young standing just inside the large double doors of the church, flanked by four other men. They all had guns, and all five barrels were pointed directly at Wade.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Acting on pure instinct—and more than a healthy dose of fear—Callie practically threw Matthew into Father Ignacio's arms and stepped in front of Wade. The baby immediately began to squall, and Wade tried to shove her out of the way.

  "No,” she hissed, holding her ground.

  When she refused to move, refused to put him back in the line of fire, she felt him take advantage of the barrier she made with her body to reach under his jacket for the Colt revolver.

  "Move out of the way, Callie,” Brady growled. “Your friend there is coming with us, and no one wants you to get hurt."

  "Listen to him, Callie,” Wade whispered above her left ear. His fingers flexed around her upper arm. “We knew this moment would come. I'll be all right."

  But he wouldn't, and she knew it. Brady Young wasn't here to take him into custody and turn him over to the law. If Wade left with Brady now, he likely wouldn't make it to morning.

  Without considering the consequences, she reached behind her for Wade's arm—the one holding the six-shooter—and brought it up so that the gun rested against her breastbone, aimed at her heart.

  "What are you doing?” Wade breathed frantically just above her ear.

  "They won't shoot you if they think you're willing to shoot me. And they can't take you anywhere if you drag me off first."

  "I won't use you as a shield,” he argued.

  "You already are. Now shut up and threaten to kill me."

  "I hope to hell you know what you're doing,” he muttered, and then wrapped his free arm around her waist to hold her tight against his body and look more like he was controlling her movements.

  "Don't come any closer,” he barked at Brady and his men.

  Callie saw Young hesitate, the bead of his firearm faltering, just as she'd hoped. Now if only they could escape.

  Father Ignacio would care for Matthew; she wasn't worried about that. He had already backed into a corner, blocking the child with his body.

  "Take him out of here. Please,” she begged the padre.

  Matthew might have been only a baby, but she didn't want him witnessing whatever might take place in the next few minutes. And she certainly didn't want him to be in danger, or to be used as a pawn in Brady Young's hateful games.

  Father Ignacio looked as if he might argue but then gave a sharp nod and slipped through an entranceway beyond the altar that would take him into the connecting orphanage. Maybe he could even send someone for help.

  With Matthew away and safe, her mind returned to Wade's well-being—and her own. She realized that even if they managed to get out of the church without Brady putting a bullet into Wade, she had no idea how much farther they would get, what they would do, or where they would hide.

  Wade moved them a step to the side. “Drop your guns."

  Brady's mouth curled in an arrogant smirk. “Drop yours, Mason. In case you haven't noticed, you're outnumbered."

  "Yes, but I've got a badge, and the authority to back it up."

  The voice came from even deeper in the shadows at the back of the church and echoed into the rafters.

  Seven sets of eyes whipped in that direction to find Sheriff Walker standing just inside the door, his gun drawn and hovering at waist level. Callie took heart in the fact that the sheriff hadn't added his revolver to the four others already pointed at them and could aim just as easily at Brady and his men as at Wade.

  "Sheriff Walker,” Brady said, “I'm glad to see you. This man is an escaped convict. He's the one who was sent away to prison for shooting my father in the back. We spotted him over on a piece of my land and followed him here. You can take him over to the jail now, if you like. See that he finishes paying for his crime."

  "That's a fine idea,” the sheriff drawled, “and I'll do just that as soon as we have a little talk ourselves, you and I."

  "Excuse me?"

  Even from a distance, Callie saw Brady's brows knit.

  "There are some things we need to discuss."

  Two deputies entered the church through the over-large doorway and came to stand on either side of Sheriff Walker.

  The sheriff gestured with his revolver. “I'd appreciate it if you'd hand over those six-shooters, boys. We don't want anyone to get hurt."

  "What's going on, Sheriff?” Brady asked, in no hurry to give up his gun.

  Walker motioned with his head, and his deputies started down the line of men, relieving them of their weapons.

  "Just a few things we need to iron out."

  Once the firearms were in the lawmen's possession, Sheriff Walker motioned Brady's group toward a pew at the back of the church. They sat, placing their hands in plain sight on the back of the bench in front of them as the sheriff ordered.

  "Now for Mr. Mason.” Sheriff Walker turned in Callie's and Wade's direction. “I don't think you actually have any intention of hurting Miss Quinn, so if I could have your gun as well, I'd feel a mite more comfortable."

  A long, tense minute passed while Wade seemed to consider. Then his hold on Callie loosened, the revolver falling away from her breast as he let the sheriff take it from his grasp.

  "Take a seat,” Walker commanded, waving toward the front pew.

  Callie sat, her legs barely able to hold her any longer, as it was. Wade took a place beside her, his hand resting protectively on the curve of her waist.

  She wondered why Sheriff Walker didn't drag Wade off to jail immediately. After all, he was an escaped convict and a re
ward was being offered for his capture.

  But the sheriff's delay at taking Wade into custody, his disarming of Brady's men, gave her hope that—at the very least—Purgatory's sheriff wasn't one to assume a man guilty simply because his face appeared on a wanted poster.

  Sheriff Walker stood in the middle of the aisle, halfway between Callie and Wade and Brady and his men. He wore a double gun belt but kept only one weapon out of its holster. Wade's was rucked into the front of his trousers.

  His two deputies hovered behind the men sitting in the last pew, legs spread and hands on hips, ready to go for their guns if necessary.

  "Wade Mason did escape from the Huntsville Penitentiary a few weeks ago and will have to be held accountable for that. But what I find even more interesting is the crime Mr. Mason was tried and convicted of."

  Callie glanced up at Wade. His eyes were dark and somber, his teeth clamped so tight, a muscle jumped in his jaw.

  "As you all know, I haven't been sheriff here in Purgatory for very long. Jensen Graves was the law in these parts before I came along. I have always known he and I approached the job very differently. But I seem to be constantly amazed at just how differently."

  With the hand that wasn't holding his revolver at the ready, he dug into the inside pocket of his vest and withdrew what looked to be a book. Bound in brown leather, it was beaten and worn around the edges, the pages crinkled and starting to yellow.

  "After Sheriff Graves died,” Walker continued, “they boxed up most of his personal effects and brought them over to the jail. They've been sitting in a corner, collecting dust, ever since. That is, until Miss Quinn came to see me yesterday. She got me to thinking about some things. Like how this town was run before I came along."

  He re-holstered his Peacemaker and began flipping through the battered volume in his hands. “Turns out Sheriff Graves was involved in some rather shady dealings. In fact, it looks like he pretty much had a hand in all the questionable activities going on in town. And he was kind enough to keep track of it all.

  "Interesting reading, this book,” he said, tapping a finger against the page he'd opened to. “It's filled with notes on exactly who in Purgatory was doing what—and how much he got paid for not stopping them."

  Raising his head, he fixed Brady Young with a steady glare. “Your father had quite a handle on this town,” he told the young man. “Seems he liked to get his own way, and he wasn't above paying people off . . . or muscling them out, if need be."

  Callie's gaze shifted to Brady. His eyes narrowed to slits beneath the short-cropped bangs of his blond hair, his lips pulled back in a near snarl as his nails curled like claws, digging into the wooden bench in front of him.

  "I don't know what the hell you're rattling on about, Sheriff.” He spat the words, as though Sheriff Walker was barely a step above a belly-crawling sidewinder. “My father was a fine, upstanding citizen, and this man killed him in cold blood."

  Brady jumped to his feet, shaking a finger in Wade's direction. Wade's grip on her waist tightened, and she reached down to cover his hand reassuringly with her own.

  "Sit down.” Walker's voice maintained a normal pitch, but his tone left no room for argument.

  One of the deputies stepped forward to place a warning hand on Brady's shoulder. Brady looked none too happy about it, but he sat.

  Sheriff Walker stepped closer to Brady. “As I was saying, Mr. Young, Graves mentions your father in this book. I'm not so sure you'd appreciate his opinion of your family, but I'm inclined to believe just about everything the late sheriff wrote. After all, this was his personal diary, nothing he expected anyone else to read. It appears to be a complete accounting of the numerous pies he had those pork-sausage fingers of his dipped into."

  "I don't know what you're talking about,” Brady replied, a mutinous tilt to his chin.

  "I think you do.” The sheriff pulled some loose papers from the journal and began to unfold them. “This, for instance, is the deed to a piece of land owned by Mr. Wade Mason."

  Callie gasped and Wade's hand tightened so hard around hers, she thought the bones might break.

  "I think you're familiar with the land I'm talking about. It's that acreage Mr. Mason called the Circle M but which you're currently working and claim to own."

  "I do own it,” Brady charged. “I don't know what those papers say, but I have a deed for that property, too, and mine, at least, is real."

  "Actually, it isn't. According to Sheriff Graves, your father didn't want Wade Mason's ranch so much as he wanted access to the gold mine he suspected was somewhere on the property."

  "Gold mine? What gold mine?” Brady's head swiveled from side to side as he scrutinized his hired hands, “There's no gold mine on that land. Is there?"

  "Maybe you should ask Mr. Mason. It is his ranch, after all."

  Wade's arms looped around Callie's waist and he pulled her back against him. His heavy, rapid breathing sounded in her ear as he pressed a scratchy, beard-stubbled cheek against her neck and face. She felt his grin and couldn't help smiling herself.

  Sheriff Walker was on their side. He held in his hands proof that Wade did own the Circle M. Perhaps even some evidence that Wade was innocent of the crime for which he'd been sent to prison.

  Her heart jolted beneath her rib cage, but all they could do was wait and see what else Sheriff Walker would reveal.

  "You see,” the sheriff went on, “whatever papers you have claiming ownership to that stretch of land are fraudulent. Your father had the originals stolen from both Mr. Mason's home and the registrar's office here in town. He just didn't know that instead of destroying the extra copy, Graves kept it for himself. As a bit of a safeguard, I suppose, against your father."

  "That's a lie,” Brady snarled.

  Both deputies moved their hands to rest on the butts of their guns in case Young made any sudden moves.

  "It's not. What's more, Graves made an interesting entry about your father's death. It seems Mr. Mason only went over to the Triple Y that night to confront your father about the stolen deed. And that he was disarmed almost the minute he stepped onto the property. In which case, he couldn't have shot your father at all, let alone in the back. Graves claims you shot your father,” Walker slowly disclosed. “Out of greed, he suspected. And he never said anything—went along with your plan to frame Mr. Mason—because you paid him even better than your father had. Apparently, Sheriff Graves's loyalty was available to the highest bidder."

  Sheriff Walker's eyes flashed to his deputies, and he nodded. In a smooth, synchronized movement, the three of them drew their weapons and trained them on Brady Young. One of the deputies removed a heavy set of wrist irons from his belt band.

  "Brady Young, you're under arrest for the murder of your father—among other things.” The sheriff sent the men sitting on either side of Young a meaningful look. “Your men are welcome to go with you, if they like."

  Almost in unison, the four ranch hands began shaking their heads and easing away from Brady.

  "Nope. No way,” one of them said, hands in the air as he sidled away from his soon-to-be former boss. “He pays us good, but not that good. I ain't goin’ to jail for nothin’ he did."

  "I'm glad to hear it,” Sheriff Walker said, sounding almost amused. “I'll need to speak with the four of you about what you know of Mr. Young's shady dealings, but as long as you don't give me any trouble, you can walk to the jail-house without the shackles."

  With a more pronounced nod to his deputies, he said, “Cuff him. And don't give them any trouble, Young. I wouldn't lose much sleep over putting a bullet between the eyes of a man who would shoot his own father in the back."

  Brady tensed but struggled only moderately as the deputies locked the dark metal manacles about his wrists and led him away. With a gesture from the sheriff, Brady's men followed.

  And then he turned toward them.

  Callie and Wade got to their feet. She wrung her hands in front of her nervously.


  "I'll question them,” Sheriff Walker said. “Find as much evidence as I can against him. The journal will help.” He tucked the book back inside his vest.

  "Wade has a letter from Lily, written on her deathbed,” Callie said. “She was there that night, watching from one of the upstairs windows. The letter tells what she saw that night, and may be even more help in convicting Brady."

  Walker inclined his head. “I'll be needing that letter, then. The judge will probably find it real interesting."

  "It's back at Callie's house,” Wade put in, his voice scratchy and low. “I'll see that you get it."

  "What happens now?” Callie asked Sheriff Walker, almost afraid to hear the answer. Her fingers dug into Wade's flesh like a vice.

  Gaze locked on Wade, the sheriff said, “I'm going to have to take you with me. Not because I don't believe everything I just said. . .. There's not a doubt in my mind that Neville Young stole your land, or that Brady took advantage of the situation to kill his own father. But you were tried and convicted of the crime, and then you broke out of prison. Until we can get things straightened out, I need to keep you in custody."

  Callie's hopes plummeted, and her emotions must have been clear on her face because the sheriff turned to her and laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “It'll be all right. We know the truth now, and I'm going to do everything I can to clear his name."

  His glance shifted to the altar beyond. “1 take it the two of you got hitched. Congratulations. I'll do my best to see he's returned to you as soon as possible,” he added, lips quirked in a grin.

  "Thank you, Sheriff.” Wade extended his hand and the two men shook. “Other than Callie, no one really believed I didn't kill Neville Young."

  "Well, I had my fair share of trouble with Sheriff Graves when I first came to Purgatory. It doesn't surprise me in the least that he played a part in wrongly sending you to prison. I'm only sorry I didn't go through his box of things sooner, or know what was going on so I could retrace Graves's steps, based on his past actions alone. To be honest, though, it's Callie you should thank. If she hadn't come by the jail yesterday and piqued my curiosity with her questions about you, we might never have figured out what really happened. Now, at least, we have a chance of setting you free."