“Now, you don’t want to go nowhere. Poor old Dev, he’d be heart-broke, and him not hardly cold in the ground yet.”
By then her husband had been dead nearly two months. After the long, hard winter they’d just gone through, he was as cold as he was ever likely to get. “I just want to go home, Alaska. Back to Charlotte.”
“We can’t let you do that, Elly Nora.”
She’d been so crushed with disappointment she hadn’t bothered to argue, knowing it would do no good. Alaska had escorted her back to the cabin. Neither of them had said another word.
And then, shortly after her second attempt at escape, what she’d come to think of as the courting parade had begun. Even now, she could hardly believe it, but the bachelors of Dexter’s Cut, practically every one of them between the ages of eighteen and fifty, had waited three months to the day after Devin had blown himself up to try their luck with his widow.
She hadn’t laughed—it wasn’t in her to hurt a man’s feelings, not even a Miller. Instead, she had listened to their awkward proposals and then gently declined every one of them, praying she would never reach a point when she would regret it.
Chapter Two
A hand-lettered sign warned against trespassing. Traveling cross-country as he often did, that was one big word Jed had learned to recognize. But roadways were roadways, and while this one was overgrown, the rutted tracks were still visible.
He could hear the sound of rushing water close by. Evidently McGee heard it, too, from the way he picked up his pace. Jed gave the gelding his head and held on to his own hat as the horse broke through a dense laurel slick to emerge on the banks of a shallow creek some ten feet wide.
He could use a break, and this was as good a place as any. He had saved some of the cheese and soda crackers he’d bought earlier that morning—but first a drink. The sight of all that water made him realize how thirsty he was. Dismounting, he slapped McGee on the hindquarters, knowing the horse was going nowhere until he’d drunk his fill. Founder at the trough, if he let him. Damned horse didn’t have a grain of sense.
He was on his knees lowering his face to the rippling surface when a sound and a scent made him glance over his shoulder. One look was all it took.
Ah, Jesus, not now.
Guns and whiskey spelled trouble in any language, but in the hands of a mob of dirty, grinning polecats like the five lining up behind him, the odds weren’t all that favorable. His best bet was to get to the other side of the creek, but something told him he wasn’t going to have a chance. “You fellows want to talk about it?” he asked, his mind reeling out possible excuses for being here.
One man held an old Sharps bear rifle; another one carried a newer Winchester and the tallest carried a spade over his shoulder. That left two men unarmed, which helped even the odds.
But not a whole lot.
“Have at ’em, McGee,” Jed whispered, his hands closing over a river rock.
“We wanna talk about it, boys? ’Pears to me we got us a traipser.” Winchester grinned, revealing a total of three long, yellow teeth.
A traipser? Would that be a trespasser? Jed wondered.
“I might have got lost and—” That was as far as he got before the shovel caught him on the side of the head. From that point on, things went rapidly downhill. Later, he would dimly recall hearing a lot of hooting and hollering, rifles being fired and a gleeful suggestion that they tan his hide and nail it to the side of the barn as a warning to “traipsers.”
His head ringing with pain, he fought back, the fear of death lending him strength. He even managed to get in a few good licks, mostly with his feet, but five against one pretty much settled the outcome. At least they didn’t shoot him outright, but that damned spade was almost as lethal. All he could do was roll with the punches, try to protect his vitals and hope the sumbitches would fall down dead drunk before they managed to finish him off.
His boots… “Ah, Jesus, no!” he yelped, feeling his ankle twist in a way it was never meant to twist.
The smell of whiskey was everywhere. If they doused him with the stuff and set him on fire—
He tried to roll toward the creek. Someone kicked him in the ribs, and then the others joined in, cackling and shouting suggestions. On his hands and knees, Jed tried to crawl toward the bushes, but they followed him, kicking and jabbing him with the butt of a rifle.
“Git that there hoss ’fore he gits away!” one of them shouted.
“Hit ’im wi’ the shovel ag’in, it won’t kill ’im!”
“You git the hoss, them boots is mine!” The voices came from all sides, like buzzards circling over a dying animal.
“I got ’is hat. Gimme yer jug, ’Laska,” someone yelled.
“Go git yer own jug, mine’s empty.”
They seemed to come from a distance now, the voices…but then everything came from a distance. Either they were leaving or his head wasn’t working properly. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, but God, he hurt!
For what could have been minutes, could have been days, he lay facedown in the dirt, hurting too much to move even if he could have found the strength. He could still hear the bastards, but the voices came from much farther away now. Unless his ears were playing tricks on him.
He was afraid to lift his head to look around, afraid that damned spade would connect with the side of his head again. Better to play possum until he felt like taking them on.
Oh, yeah…that would be right after Sam Stanfield apologized for any discomfort he’d caused him eight years ago and invited him to take dinner with him and his family at the Bar Double S ranch.
“McGee?” he rasped. God, even his voice hurt.
No answering whinny. If the damned horse would just move in close enough, he might be able to reach a stirrup and haul himself up. In the bottom of one of his saddlebags he had a Colt .45, but it wasn’t going to do him much good unless he could get to it before they came back.
“Git that hoss.” Had he heard them correctly? McGee would eat them alive if they laid a hand on him. Wouldn’t he?
Jed listened some more. Had little choice, lacking the strength to move. From time to time, hearing the sounds of drunken revelry from farther and farther away, he called to McGee, but either the horse had taken off or he was ignoring him.
Or he’d been stolen.
“Hellfire,” he muttered. Groaning, he rolled over onto his back and blinked up at the treetops.
The sun had moved. He was maybe twenty-five feet from the creek now, and there was no sign of McGee and his saddlebags. Or of his boots.
Sunovabitch. They’d stolen his boots, Jed thought, fighting the urge to rid his sore gut of the only meal he’d had since yesterday.
Now what? Lie here like a lump of buzzard bait until they came back and finished him off? It wasn’t his nature to run from a fight, but five against one, even when the five were drunk as coots, that was just asking for trouble.
Downhill would be easiest. Trouble was, downhill was where the sound of all that hooting and hollering was coming from. The storekeeper had said it was rough country. Like a fool, Jed had thought he meant the condition of the road.
Varnelle set the basket of supplies on the edge of the porch and turned to go without a single word, despite the fact that Eleanor was standing in the open doorway.
“Varnelle? Do you have to leave? I could make us some tea.”
No answer, unless the toss of a mop of red hair could be