Promises Kept

  Hoyt finished rolling his cigarette and lit it as he strolled to the chair in front of the desk. “McBride. I shot him last night.”

  Lurching from his chair, Wallace planted both palms on his desk and leaned forward. “You did what?”

  Hoyt blew smoke in his face. “I killed McBride.”

  “I gave you no authority to kill McBride, at least not yet.” Wallace wasn’t angry that McBride was dead; he just wanted to be there to see him killed. He had a score to settle.

  Hoyt grinned. “Let’s just say the opportunity came for me to expedite matters. I’m tired of this nothing town and it’s time I moved on. Besides, you own the sheriff, so it’s not like he will come looking for me. Right?”

  Wallace shook his head. He was an idiot to think a hired killer could take orders, or be trusted, for that matter. “I wanted things handled more subtly. Do you know what that means?”

  Returning Wallace’s glare, Hoyt’s voice took on a deadly tone. “Yeah, I know what it means. Problem is, you’re going about this all wrong. Everyone’s noticed you’ve been distracted by a pretty face. I’m not inclined to stay around here until you finally decide how to handle that woman and get your mind back on business.”

  “I’m paying you as well as every other man on this ranch to do things my way.”

  Hoyt dropped the cigarette on the fancy rug and ground it out with his boot. “I’d say I just did things my way. Now I want my money.”

  If Hoyt thought Wallace was going to roll over and play dead, he didn’t know who he was dealing with. Wallace sat back down in his chair and wrapped his hand around the pistol under his desk. “This is not over. I want the Barlow farm. I had a plan for McBride. Since he’s dead, I guess getting what I want will be easier.”

  “I told you, I don’t intend to hang around here forever,” Hoyt ground out. “I don’t see anyone else standing in your way.”

  “McBride has two brothers, and I guess you didn’t know that. One happens to be a U.S. Marshal.”

  “I don’t see what difference that makes. I don’t see him around.”

  Wallace just shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose you do. As I stated in our agreement up front, when I have the Barlow farm, then you get your money.” Before Hoyt could respond, he added, “Find Gage Hardy for me and send him in.”

  “Why do you want him?”

  “I have some questions for him.”

  “There’s a man that can’t hold his liquor,” Hoyt said.

  Wallace was counting on that. “Few men can. Just get him in here.”

  Hoyt stood to leave, but Wallace stopped him. “You’re sure you killed McBride?”

  “Yep, it was after midnight. No one saw me.”

  “If it was dark, how do you know you shot him?”

  “He’s a big man. Hard to miss.”

  “I thought you wanted to draw against him,” Wallace taunted.

  “I did, but I shot his foreman, and McBride came running, so I had no choice.” Turning to leave, Hoyt gave him a parting demand. “If I hang around here any longer, I’ll expect triple the amount we agreed on. And don’t think of asking Hardy to take me out. He’s not fast enough or smart enough.”

  Wallace leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. It amused him to see what went through Hoyt’s brain. He had no intention of asking Gage Hardy to kill Hoyt. But maybe he needed to think this through. Perhaps that wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. Hoyt was proving to be a problem, and it might not be a bad idea to find a way to eliminate him after he got what he wanted. Killing McBride didn’t bother him, except for the timing, and the fact that Hoyt had a habit of bragging about his exploits to the men. Maybe he should hire someone to take him out.

  Thirty minutes later Gage Hardy walked into Wallace’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

  Wallace poured him a large glass of whiskey. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Unable to sleep, Victoria squirmed around in the large chair T. J. had carried from Colt’s office upstairs so she would be comfortable. It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable, she was just nervous. Colt hadn’t moved a muscle for hours. She leaned forward and placed her palm on his forehead for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. No change. After she refreshed the damp cloth on his forehead, she picked up the books on his bedside table. The Bible and a book of Shakespeare’s works. That made her think of Mr. Barlow’s letter: I read the Bible and Shakespeare. She hadn’t read the Bible in a long time, but she picked it up and started reading one of her favorite passages to Colt. After a long while, she closed the book and spoke softly to him.

  “I wanted to talk to you, to tell you things about my past.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to talk to him. Maybe it was her deep-seated fear he wouldn’t survive, no matter how often she told herself otherwise. Somehow it seemed easier to spill everything in her heart without those black eyes boring deep into her soul. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m the daughter of a woman who worked in a saloon in Abilene. The twins are also children of a saloon woman.” From there, she spilled every sordid detail of her life. She told him of the night Gage Hardy attacked her, the one thing she hadn’t even told Mrs. Wellington. She described the fire at the saloon, and how she took the boys that night and left that life behind. She told him of her ordeal traveling with the young boys, right up to the day she reached Mrs. Wellington’s boardinghouse. When she finished telling him her story, she was both exhausted and relieved. Smoothing his wavy hair back from his forehead, she gazed at his strong features. He was an unbelievably handsome man. Everything about him was masculine except those long, dark lashes of his. She wanted him to know how much she cared for him. “I love you,” she whispered.

  Her story would have to be repeated one day; she owed him that. Leaning over, she kissed his forehead, much as she did the twins every night. Resting her elbows on the bed, she folded her hands together and did something she hadn’t done since she was a little girl living with her grandmother. She prayed.

  Colt had awakened before Victoria started talking. The room was quiet, and he didn’t know where he was or what had happened. His mind was fuzzy and his body ached all over. And why is my hand so cold? Events flashed in his mind as he tried to remember what happened to him, but everything was disconnected and confusing. He saw himself standing by Victoria’s barn, talking to her. Kissing her. Then . . . What happened after that? He was starting a fire . . . T. J. was there. He saw himself near the fire . . . Tate was asking him about . . . Victoria? They were laughing. Nothing was making sense; each thought seemed to be disjointed. He heard something . . . a gunshot? Then he saw himself kicking dirt into the fire . . . running . . . his gun was in his hand. What is evading my memory? Tate . . . where was Tate? What happened to . . . Tate? To T. J.? Suddenly the disconnected scenes of that night assaulted his mind. It was so dark, but he saw a body on the ground. Not . . . oh no, not Tate! No! He reached down to feel the boy’s chest to see if he was breathing. Warm blood was flowing from his lifeless body. Tate . . . shot . . . no, God . . . Tate was dead. He started to drift back to the place where he couldn’t feel the pain. This had to be a dream. Tate couldn’t be dead.

  Someone placed a cool cloth on his face. He was so hot and it felt so good. Maybe he’d caught a fever and was out of his head. Then he heard Victoria’s sweet voice. He tried to hang on to every word to remain conscious. He wanted to ask her if he was dreaming, but he couldn’t speak. All he could do was listen. He concentrated on what she was saying so he wouldn’t drift away. She was telling him about her past. She told him why she’d lost her faith.

  Focusing on what she was saying kept his mind off his physical pain and his mental confusion. When she explained how she left Abilene with the boys, he realized she had to have been younger than Tate at that time. How had she survived? What a testament to her strength of character. She had certainly saved the boys from a terrible future. It was amazing that such a
young woman had the determination and courage to take on so much responsibility.

  Victoria stopped talking and the room was quiet again. Finally, he found the strength to open his eyes. In the dim light he saw her with her head bowed. Is she praying? He looked down to see why his hand was wet and cold, and he saw Bandit by his side with his cold, wet nose pressed against his hand. Not wanting to interrupt Victoria, Colt gently rubbed Bandit’s paw resting beside him, and in silent understanding, Bandit returned the affection with a lick.

  When Victoria finished praying she rested her head on his arm, and after a few minutes he realized she had fallen asleep. Her soft breath tickled the hairs on his arm. He closed his eyes and thought about all she had been through the last few years. Growing up in a saloon couldn’t have been an easy life for a young, beautiful girl. In a wild town like Abilene, anything could have happened to her. When she talked about Gage Hardy, he wanted to get out of that bed and track him down and call him out. He figured he would still have his chance. Now he understood why she didn’t like cowboys. He also understood why she had lost her faith. What young girl could experience such a past and still believe there was anyone who cared about her? He understood because he’d felt that way when his mother was killed. He’d turned away from his faith, and it wasn’t until he returned to church that he realized his faith was an important part of him.

  His thoughts drifted back to Tate. He knew it wasn’t a dream. He hadn’t caught a fever. Tate was dead. That sweet young boy with so much promise was gone. There was no doubt in his mind Wallace was responsible for Tate’s death, and he figured Hoyt Nelson just pulled the trigger. Both would pay for killing Tate. He choked up thinking about the boy he loved as much as his brothers. Tate’s mother was sure to be devastated. He reminded himself that the young man was in God’s hands now. But that brought him little comfort because he knew he’d let Tate down. It was his fault he’d allowed Wallace to have free rein for so long, and now Tate was dead because of his inaction. Well, no more. Wallace was going to pay.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been thinking about Tate when he finally opened his eyes. Victoria was watching him. “Hello,” he said raggedly. He hardly recognized the sound of his own voice, it was so weak.

  Relief overwhelmed her in the form of tears streaming down her face. “Hello yourself.”

  He lifted a hand and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Why are you crying?”

  Smiling through her tears, she whispered, “I’m so happy you’re awake.”

  “If you’re happy you shouldn’t be crying.” His words came out in a rough whisper.

  “Consider them happy tears. Would you like some water?”

  “Please.”

  She held his head while he gulped the water. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been shot.” He struggled, trying to move to a sitting position.

  She placed a staying hand on his chest where he wasn’t covered by a bandage. “You shouldn’t be moving yet.”

  Colt looked at her pale hand on his dark skin. It felt like someone shot him again. He glanced at her face and she quickly pulled her hand away. He knew she felt it too.

  “Could you put two pillows behind my head?”

  She put one pillow behind him. “You can’t sit all the way up. I’m afraid you will open your stitches. Can I get you something else?”

  He pointed to a table across the room. “That bottle of whiskey over there.”

  Quickly fetching the bottle, she poured a generous amount in a glass for him.

  Throwing the whiskey back in one gulp, Colt held the glass for a refill and asked, “How long has it been?”

  “It’s been over twenty-four hours.”

  He had to ask, even though he knew, but prayed he was wrong. He took a deep breath and when he released it, he said one word. “Tate?”

  She brushed an errant curl from his forehead and ran her palm over his cheek. “They’re taking care of him,” she responded gently. “I’m so sorry, Colt.”

  He shut his eyes. “He was just a boy. I was supposed to look after him.”

  She took the glass from his hand and linked her fingers through his. “Don’t you even think this was your fault,” she told him sternly. “This was the deed of a coward hiding in the dark.”

  “He was still my responsibility,” he said sadly.

  Hearing the misery in his words, she wondered if anyone ever looked after him. The first day she saw him at the boardinghouse, she thought he was larger than life. Since that day, she learned she was right; he was indeed larger than life, not only in stature but in his strength of character. The schedule he maintained on the ranch would be too much for many men, but she had never heard him complain. He looked after everyone: Tate and his family, Bartholomew, Tom and Helen. He’d taken time to see to her needs when she arrived in Promise. She thought of how he had taken care of Bandit, and the time he spent with the boys. He didn’t expect anything in return.

  It embarrassed her to think that she had been afraid of him. She took his hand and held it tightly between hers. “You are not responsible for this in any way.”

  He needed to change the subject or he was going to break down. He would think about Tate when he was alone. Finally he pulled it together enough to speak. “I didn’t ask why you are here.”

  “One of your men rode over to tell us what happened and we came right over.”

  His gaze moved to the chair that was usually in his office. “Was that your bed?”

  “Yes, T. J. moved it up here for me. I told Helen I could sleep anywhere.”

  Looking at her eyes, he thought she looked tired. “Did you sleep?”

  “For a few minutes.” Those black eyes were so very hard to read. Without thinking about what she was doing, she ran her hand over his hair. “You need tending, Mr. McBride.”

  He liked the way it felt to have her fingers running through his hair. “You want to give me a cut and shave?”

  “I’ve never shaved a man, and I’m a bit groggy. I might nick you.”

  He stared at her intently. “You could crawl in here with me and catch a nap.” He scratched Bandit behind his ears. “See, Bandit thinks it’s comfortable.”

  His dark gaze made her feel warm all over. She pulled her hand away and handed him back the glass of whiskey. “You’d best be concerned with getting better.”

  He drank the contents down. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I’m already feeling better.” Having her near did take his mind off his pain. It surprised him how much he enjoyed having her in his bedroom talking to him. “What if I told you that you could keep me warm if you were beside me?”

  Her hand quickly moved to his forehead. “Are you chilled?” she asked anxiously.

  He grinned up at her. “Well, my hand is cold where Bandit is resting his nose.”

  She pursed her lips, trying hard not to laugh. “You are impossible, Mr. McBride.”

  “Back to Mr. McBride, huh?”

  She turned to leave. “I’m going to the kitchen to get you something to eat since you won’t rest.”

  He reached for her hand. “Don’t go. I promise I’ll be good.”

  He coaxed her to sit on the bed beside him. “Now doesn’t this feel more comfortable than that chair?”

  She shook her head at him, but she did have a little smile on her face.

  That encouraged him to say something he never dreamed he would say. “You know, if you married me you would have to sleep with me every night.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Marry . . . you?”

  “Yeah, me.” By the look on her face, obviously the thought of marrying him was right up there with getting shot. “Is that such a bad idea?” He hadn’t exactly planned on asking her to marry him, but once he said it, he was warming up to the idea. It was her response that set him back on his heels. Not that he expected her to jump up and down at the thought, but she sure as heck could do a lot worse in his opinion. Like marry Wallace. He surprised himself, blurting it out like
that, and he couldn’t even pinpoint when the thought of marriage had wiggled into his mind. There had been times when he would be riding alone late at night and he would envision her waiting for him. Perhaps it was having her in his room that made him realize how nice it would be to have her here permanently. He could have waited until he was healed to ask her in a more formal way, but right now he didn’t want to wait, not even another minute. He thought of what Tate said that last night on the range. Tate was probably up in heaven with a big grin on his face. He was going to miss that boy.

  “Colt, I can’t marry you. You don’t even know me. Not really.” She tried to move away, but he refused to release her hand.

  “I know all I need to know,” he said tenderly.

  “Before you left the other day, we were going to have a talk. There are things I need to tell you.”

  He squeezed her hand before she could say more. “I know you need me. The boys need me. Now give me a kiss.” He pulled her closer and placed his hand behind her head and gently urged her face down to his. “This will make me feel better,” he whispered, and nibbled on her lips. He knew the moment her mind was on the kiss and not on any doubts she was having. He finally raised his head and asked, “Do you care for me?”

  She didn’t respond right away, and he said, “You can be honest.” No matter what she said, the way she responded to his kiss told him she cared. She dropped her head, but not before he saw the tears in her eyes. “Victoria?”

  He can’t possibly understand how much he means to me. “Yes, I care, but that doesn’t change anything. I can’t marry you.”

  “Do you want to marry Wallace?” It’d be a cold day in hel . . . Hades before he would ever allow that to happen. Wallace was going to be dead.

  She was ashamed that she’d ever questioned Colt’s warnings about Wallace. “No!”

  “Then what is wrong with me? I don’t mean to brag, but I hear some women think I’m a fair catch.”

  She had no doubt every woman in town would think he was more than a fair catch. “It’s not you, it’s me.” She couldn’t deal with the possibility that he would be embarrassed if there came a time someone recognized her from her old life. Someone like Gage Hardy. “As I told you, you don’t really know me.”