Grace and the Guiltless

by Erin Johnson

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 1

  Grace felt her heartbeat quicken with a spark of panic as she ran toward her brother. She watched the horse rear and whinny as it dragged him by the lead rope. Daniel flew into the air and fell down hard in a cloud of dust. Bullet reared again, his eyes wild and darting, his hooves stamping inches from Daniel’s head.

  Grace’s throat tightened, but she kept her voice steady. “Let go of the rope. Roll to your right.”

  Daniel quickly curled into a ball and rolled aside. Grace gave a shrill whistle, and Bullet wheeled around to charge across the yard straight for her. But Grace held her ground, and he skidded to a halt, flanks heaving.

  She grabbed the swaying rope. “It’s okay, boy.” She reached out slowly, making sure Bullet’s gaze followed her hand before she patted his neck. “Calm down.”

  “Everything all right out there?” Pa shouted from inside the barn. The whinnying and crashing in there sounded like he was having his own problems with the mustangs.

  Daniel got up, wincing, and looked pleadingly at her. Pa had strict rules about an eleven-year-old going near an unbroken horse like Bullet, and Daniel had disobeyed all of them.

  “Fine, Pa,” Grace answered.

  Daniel grinned and began examining the rope burns on his palms. Grace looked him up and down for injuries, but apart from a bruised ego, he was unhurt. Her brother loved horses as much as she did, but he hadn’t learned the firm yet gentle approach needed to control a wild horse.

  He hitched up his sleeve, examining a couple of scratches. There’d be a few more before he got it, but Grace knew he would catch on. She knew that every Milton was as stubborn as the horses they tamed, though none of them would admit it.

  She led Bullet into the paddock, patted his rump, and watched him take off across their piece of desert. Daniel’s hat lay in the dirt near the corral fence, and she picked it up, dusting off the worst marks before handing it over. He put it on and frowned, watching Bullet canter along the skyline. Grace shook her head at his frustrated expression.

  “Even Pa can’t get near Bullet,” Grace said.

  “You can.” Daniel kicked at the dirt.

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t when I was your age.” They had still lived on the East Coast then, but Daniel didn’t need to know that. “Takes time.”

  When her family first arrived in Arizona to homestead, Grace had never expected to fall in love with this red-clay, rocky desert dotted with tall columns of saguaro and spiny branches of ocotillo. But now she felt she belonged in the West.

  The noise inside the stable quieted, and a few minutes later Pa emerged, caked in sweat.

  “Those mustangs will be tough to break.” He was tired, but Grace could hear in his voice the relish for the challenge. He nodded at her. “Good job today.”

  He glanced at Daniel’s burned palms but said nothing. Grace bit her lip to stop herself from smiling. Nothing got past Pa.

  Behind him, the sun dipped low on the horizon, tipping the Dragoon Mountains with orange fire and streaking the scrubby tufts of grass with gold. No dust clouds appeared on the road that stretched between their ranch and the distant town of Tombstone. Grace caught Pa looking for them too. Riders churned up puffs of grit when they made that half-day trip to the ranch, and her family didn’t get many friendly visitors.

  Lately the threats had been getting worse.

  She followed her father and brother over to the pump, where they washed up. Then they stomped the muck from their boots and stepped through the open doorway of the log cabin. Grace hung her hat on a peg by the door and smoothed back the strands of long blond hair that had escaped from her braid.

  Two-year-old Abby toddled over and tugged at Grace’s legs. Ma had cut down a pair of Pa’s old bucksin leggings for Grace to wear under her calico dress — she had grown out of it over a year ago, but they had no money for new clothes because every extra penny went into the horse ranch. It would be worth it though. In one more year they would own their land outright. If only their land wasn’t so highly sought after and they didn’t keep hearing rumors of ranch owners forced out. There were also Indian attacks to worry about.

  Grace picked up Abby, feeling the burn in her muscles from the day’s work, and settled her little sister on one hip. Abby beamed, chattering away to her cornhusk doll in a language known only to her.

  Ma’s face was flushed from bending over the iron pot hanging in the hearth, and she wiped her hands on the flour-sack apron tied over her dress. Steam rose from the bubbling broth, and the tang of onions perfumed the air. With the fire going, it felt hotter inside than it had been under the blazing sun earlier. Already used to the heat, the littlest Milton, Zeke, slept soundly in the hand-carved cradle near the hearth, one tiny pink fist clenched.

  “Supper’s almost ready,” said Ma, as Pa wrapped his arms around her.

  “Good. I’m hungry as a horse,” he said, giving her a swift kiss.

  Ma laughed. “Daniel, go get some hay for your pa’s dinner.”

  “You mean it?”

  Grace rubbed her knuckles over her brother’s head. “Come help me set the table.”

  Still balancing Abby on one hip, Grace handed bowls and spoons to Daniel, who thumped them down on the table quickly. When they were done, she settled Abby on the bench and began to slice the corn bread.

  Ma handed Pa a mug of water as he stretched out in a chair. “What do you plan to do about that deed, Bill?” she asked in a low voice.

  “If Hale and the Guiltless Gang think they can . . .” Pa’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  Grace leaned closer to hear, but Ma held up a hand to stop his words.

  “Daniel, bring in more branches for the fire. And Grace, I need you to fetch more potatoes and carrots for the soup.”

  Grace sighed. Ma was still treating her like her younger siblings — maybe they hadn’t picked up on the tense atmosphere lately, but she had. She dawdled, hoping Pa would start talking again before she went outside.

  “Now, Grace.” Ma issued the command in her obey-or-else voice.

  Grace trudged outside to the root cellar, which was dug into the ground a few feet from the side of the house. She tugged on the handle to lift the hatch and, holding the door up with one hand, started down the rough-hewn steps that led into cool darkness. The sharp scent of garlic and onion mingled with the earthiness of potatoes and string beans, and the unique aroma wafted up from the cavernous underground space.

  Almost at once, her boot toe struck something and sent it clattering down the stone steps. She swore, safely away from Ma’s ears, realizing she had kicked the long wooden stick they used to prop the cellar door open. It would be almost impossible to find in the slivers of dying daylight coming in from the slatted cellar door.

  Inching her way down into the stone-lined pit after it, she struggled to keep the hinged lid open with one outstretched arm. The moist air cooled th
e sweat that had begun to bead on her brow as she peered into the dark. But then the sole of Grace’s leather boot slid across the damp stone, and she fell the last few steps, smacking her funny bone on the hard surface.

  The hatch slammed shut overhead, shrouding her in darkness. Pain radiated through her arm and vibrated through her clenched teeth, and she lay on the wet dirt and cradled her elbow, groaning.

  The sound of thunder shook the ground above her. No, not thunder. Pounding hooves. Whooping and hollering filled the air. A stampede from behind the ranch? An Indian attack? But how?

  She hadn’t seen the telltale kick-up of dust in the distance. They must have come from another direction.

  Grace’s heart thumped against her ribs as she scrambled up the steps and pushed on the heavy door with one hand. She strained her muscles, but the hatch didn’t budge. It was wedged shut.

  Before she could call out, the crack of a rifle bounced off the stone walls and echoed through the hollowness around her.

  Grace gasped, but the noise caught in her throat. The thundering hooves quieted. A horse snorted close by. Whoever had ridden in was almost overhead.

  “William Milton, you signed that deed yet?”

  Pa’s boots clomped across the wooden porch of the house. “This ranch is mine, Elijah Hale.” Grace’s fists clenched when she heard the tremor in his answer.

  A muffled, mirthless laugh.

  Stirrups jingled and heavy footsteps tramped across the ground toward the house. There was the sound of a scuffle overhead. Grace’s mouth went dry. What’s going on? She shoved again at the wooden hatch with both hands, ignoring the pain shooting through her throbbing elbow. Open! Just open! Grace pleaded silently, but it was stuck fast.

  “No!” came Pa’s strangled cry. “Don’t hurt her!”

  Don’t hurt who? A bubble of panic rose inside Grace. Are the men hurting Ma? Abby?

  “You had your chance.” The voice was cold.

  “Don’t!” Pa sounded desperate. He was panting hard. “Take the horses, the ranch, whatever you want.”

  “Thanks. We will.”

  A shot rang out.

  Pa moaned: a keening sound from the depth of his being. She heard Ma break down, sobbing. Abby? They couldn’t have . . .

  Grace felt sick to her stomach, and tears stung her eyes. Everything was happening too quickly. The sound of the gunshot still rang in her ears.

  She took two steps up, gritted her teeth, and thrust her shoulder against the hatch, feeling nothing at first except the weight of the door pushing down on her. But then finally it gave, and she had to stop quickly before it flung open. Palms shining with sweat, she carefully lifted it an inch.

  As the air outside the cellar hit her, her arms trembled so much she almost dropped the door. There was a scorched smell — a sickening odor of burned flesh and the sulphurous stench of discharged gunpowder. In the commotion, no one had noticed the cellar door lifting.

  She could see her little sister lying on the ground, not moving.

  Daniel ran toward Ma, calling out in fright. Grace’s heart broke. Her little brother’s voice — a voice she’d heard boisterous, excited, even delirious with fever — had never sounded so small.

  One of the men unsheathed his knife, and Grace squeezed her eyes shut on instinct, hearing Daniel’s cry of surprise, then the light thud of his body against the dusty earth.

  Nausea rolled over her in waves. Heat prickled her skin, and saliva built up in her mouth, making her want to spit, to choke, to lean over and heave, but she didn’t dare make a sound.

  Suddenly Ma broke free from the man who was holding her and ran toward the children. A man with a drooping mustache quickly glanced at Hale and received a nod. He raised his gun. Grace nearly shouted out, but Pa got there first.

  “Eliza!”

  Ma looked up, tears streaming down her face, and their eyes met.

  The man pulled the trigger.

  Two gang members stepped forward — one wrenched Pa’s arms behind his back, the other bound them tightly. Pa, weakened with grief, put up no resistance. He couldn’t stop staring at the heap of crumpled gingham that disguised his wife’s body. The soft flour-sack apron glowed gold in the dying sun.

  Grace forced herself to look away. She had to do something. Move! Get a weapon!

  If she had a gun, she’d shoot the whole gang dead without a second thought. She glanced frantically around the dark cellar, and her eyes finally fell upon the stick that was lying at the foot of the steps. It was all she had. Grace lowered the hatch lid as gently as she could, closing it off against the horror above her. She went quietly down the steps into the blackness and ran her hands over the stone floor until her fingers closed around the stick. Snatching it, she scrambled back up the steps on her hands and knees.

  If she caught someone by surprise, maybe she could grab a gun . . .

  She pushed her shoulder against the hatch again and then peered out cautiously. A short distance away, Hale bent over Daniel’s unmoving body, a smile on his lips.

  “Shame, such young ’uns.” A woman’s voice came from directly overhead and startled Grace so much that she almost dropped the door.

  Although she craned her neck, all Grace could see through the crack in the hatch were the forelegs of an Appaloosa and a snakeskin boot with a stovepipe top and a snake design stitched into it. Custom-made boots, not the kind most ranchers wore, and a smaller size than Grace’s own feet.

  “Going soft, Bella?” Hale taunted. “We can’t leave no witnesses.”

  As if to emphasize his point, he gave Daniel a swift kick with his boot.

  Fury twisted Grace’s insides. She tensed, poised to explode from the cellar and knock that grin from his face.

  But from across the yard, Pa wriggled frantically on the ground where they had dumped him. He was unable to signal with his bound arms or legs, but his movement drew her gaze.

  Their eyes locked, then he glanced quickly over to his captors, who were still watching the gloating Hale. Grace suppressed the rage roaring within her and concentrated on Pa. He was trying to tell her something.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her father shook his head. His mouth silently formed the words “stay put.” He flicked his chin toward the house. He wanted her to stay hidden because there was still Zeke to protect. So far, the baby hadn’t cried.

  Grace clenched her teeth. Standing by was almost more than she could bear, but Pa’s pleading eyes kept her quiet. Her fingers stayed tight around the stick as Hale barked out another order.

  “Search the house,” he shouted.

  A couple of the men sauntered inside, and Grace panicked, wondering if Ma had had time to hide Zeke.

  Just then, Hale turned and began to stalk lazily toward the cellar.

  He was headed straight for her.

  So be it, she thought. She braced herself for whatever might come next.

  Then Pa’s voice rang out. “Hale.”

  Hale’s steps faltered. He glanced over his shoulder. “You talking to me?”

  Pa snarled, “You’re a dandified city slicker with no guts.”

  No, Pa, don’t provoke him, Grace screamed silently.

  Hale whirled, one hand on his gun.

  Pa kept on. “You’re a damn coward, Hale.”

  Hale’s laugh held the meanness of a rabid dog as he gestured toward the bleeding bodies of Grace’s family. “That the act of a coward?”

  “Yes,” her father said through gritted teeth. “A coward who lets others do his killing for him.”

  In one swift movement, Hale whipped his revolver from his holster.

  Grace clamped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut as the gun’s sharp report ricocheted. The sound reverberated off the stones and ripped straight through her heart.

  When she finally opened her eyes, P
a lay motionless beside Ma.

  Elijah Hale glanced around. “Anyone else got something to say?”

  No one answered.

  Grace stared at her parents’ lifeless bodies, hardly able to breathe. Her father had sacrificed his life for hers. She had to stay alive for him and get to Zeke, or this hell would have been for nothing.

  Fierce tears burned in her eyes, but she knew one thing: Hale had been wrong when he had said “no witnesses.” Her arm ached with the strain of holding the door aloft only a crack, but in the dying light of the sun she imprinted every single detail of the Guiltless Gang’s faces into her memory. The man with pockmarked cheeks and a scraggly beard, and the other with a similar build but a clean-shaven face and slicked-back hair. Another, squinty eyes with a drooping mustache. The ruthless knife-wielder with the hawk-like nose. The woman with the custom snakeskin boots. All of them.

  And Grace would never forget Elijah Hale’s face. It would haunt her nightmares.

  He glanced at the bodies of her family. “One place we still didn’t check, though . . .” he said.

  Hale strode back toward the cellar, his gun still clenched in his fist.

  CHAPTER 2

  Grace’s eyes widened, and she gritted her teeth, trying desperately to stiffen her arm, but she couldn’t steady the hatch lid. She thought about letting it close, but she had to know what was happening above her. If Hale was coming to check the cellar, she was as good as dead anyway. As he stalked toward her hiding place, her heart stuttered the way it had once when she’d surprised a rattlesnake — but the cruelty in Hale’s eyes terrified her more than any rattler poised to strike.

  Part of her wanted to back away into the darkness, to hide, even bury herself under the vegetables . . . but she couldn’t.

  If the gang was searching, they would find her soon enough, and if she was going to die, she would not die a coward. Grace gritted her teeth, ready to pop the hatch door into Hale’s face when he leaned down to open it.

  His spurs jingled with each step closer. Six paces away.

  Five . . . four . . .

  “We better move out!”

  Hale stopped as one of his men galloped around from the side of the cabin, shouting. It was the man who’d killed Daniel. Bile rose in Grace’s throat, and she crouched to see his face more clearly. He was clean-shaven, and the bandana tied around his neck was as black as his eyes.