“Brody told me not to. He made me promise.”
Caleb pursed his lips. If Brody made this kid promise not to give up his whereabouts it was a sure sign he was up to no good. He glanced at Mrs. Sutter. She’d been through enough today without someone else adding to her misery.
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “Ethan, if your ma was awake right now—”
“She ain’t my ma. My ma’s dead.”
Caleb hung his head. This was one convoluted family tree. He straightened and took a breath. “If Mrs. Sutter was awake right now, what would she ask you to do?”
Ethan hesitated then scowled. “Tell the truth.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow at the boy and waited. After a minute of ruminating, Ethan let out a frustrated huff then lowered the rabbit from his mouth, as if that’s what kept the secret in.
“Brody said he was gonna go to the Seahorse Saloon to win some money to pay off Mr. Kirkpatrick.”
Caleb cursed under his breath. Great.
The pimply faced boy from the lobby arrived with the doctor. Caleb explained what had happened—well, at least the fainting part. He kept what had led up to it to himself. The deed was no one else’s business, at least until he determined what he planned to do about it.
All the way back from the funeral, Caleb had mulled over his prospects, none of which left him satisfied. His original plan of signing it over and walking away had been knocked about good with the insertion of Kirkpatrick. If what he’d heard was correct, signing over the deed to Mrs. Sutter would only result in her losing the property to Kirkpatrick in payment of her dead husband’s debts.
He rubbed a hand over his face and took one last look down at the woman unconscious on the bed. When had this become so complicated?
Caleb left Mrs. Sutter in the doctor’s capable hands and slipped out of the room.
It seemed he had to go collect a boy from a saloon.
It was easy enough to find, as the Pagget was at the same end of town. Caleb followed the sound of the tinny piano. There were three saloons in all. The Seahorse had a faded sign hanging from the second-floor balcony. The slight breeze made its hinges creak as it swayed back and forth. Caleb pushed through the swinging doors where the stench of watered-down whiskey, sweat and cheap perfume rose up and assaulted his nostrils. Desperation permeated the sawdust strewn about the floor and soaked into every crack in the wall.
He hated places like this. They brought a man to his lowest then dug the hole a little deeper. The patrons here wouldn’t think twice about letting a kid buy his way into a game. Hell, they’d probably encourage it, seeing him as an easy mark.
Brody wasn’t hard to find. The room was small, the crowd sparse. One back table had a game going. A few others were occupied by solitary drinkers who looked as though they’d taken root in their seats with no intention of leaving any time soon.
The boy was facing away from the door. Dumb move. A man should never leave himself exposed in such a manner, especially in a place like this. Fastest way to take one in the back. A motley crew of men flanked the edges of the table. They paid scant attention to him, save for one old-timer who glanced up long enough to down a shot of whiskey before pouring another and returning to the game.
The pot in the center of the table was meager by most standards, but he guessed the high stakes games didn’t happen in a place like this. The Seahorse appeared to cater to the dregs, picking up whatever the other two saloons had cast out.
Caleb sauntered up to the table and stood at the boy’s shoulder. It didn’t take long for the kid to glance up as the game came to a stop.
“You lookin’ to git in?” the old-timer asked, his voice thin and reedy. What few teeth he had left were nothing more than tobacco-stained stumps.
Caleb gave his head a slow shake. “Come to take the boy home.”
Brody stiffened and threw Caleb a hostile glare before turning back to the cards. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I got me a game here and—”
Caleb’s hand came down firm and heavy on the boy’s scrawny shoulder. “The game’s over.”
Showing more balls—or stupidity—than most men, Brody tried to shrug his hand off, but Caleb held firm.
“I don’t know you, and I sure as shootin’ ain’t leavin’ here with you, mister.”
Caleb applied more pressure, gripping the ill-fitting wool coat with his fingers. Brody flinched beneath his hold. “Your sister is ill and needs you,” Caleb said in a low voice.
The boy’s stiff posture registered his shock. Caleb didn’t hesitate. He hooked his foot around the leg of the chair and pulled it back, hauling Brody to his feet in one swift movement. The boy grabbed what few coins were in front of him. It went against Caleb’s instinct to get involved like this, but responsibility for Mrs. Sutter’s current predicament weighed on him. He might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t the type of man who shrugged off his honor when it became inconvenient. Much as he would have liked to.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us.” He tipped his hat to the men sitting down. No one made a move to stop him.
He led Brody through the saloon, pushing him past the swinging doors and dragging him down the steps. Once they hit the street, the boy turned surly again and yanked his arm from Caleb’s hold.
“Get your hands off me! I was winning. You had no right!”
“You were losing,” Caleb told him. “You think for one second the pair of twos you were holding would stand up against the set of jacks the old timer had ready to play? You think every man at that table wasn’t markin’ you to take a fall?”
“I knew what I was doing.” But the telltale surprise widening his eyes told Caleb different. The bravado was all for show. The kid didn’t have a clue he was being played.
Caleb shook his head. “You don’t know nothin’, kid. You’re so wet behind the ears you might as well have just had a bath in the creek. You don’t think your sister’s got enough to worry about without you gallivanting around acting the fool?”
“We need the money. I’m the man of the family now. It’s my responsibility to watch out for us.”
“There’s better ways to put bread on the table—” Caleb stepped down off the sidewalk, his boots landing in a pile of muck and horse dung. “Aw, crud!”
“It ain’t about bread, mister.” Brody rounded on Caleb while he stomped the dung from his boot. “Maybe my sister believes Robert was in Laramie buying cattle, but I know better. He went to gamble and he lost. It ain’t the first time he’s done it, either.”
“I’m guessin’ it’s the first time he got himself shot dead.” Caleb stepped around the kid and kept walking, heading across the street. He could feel the rain coming. The moisture sank deep into his bones. He didn’t care to be out in it, even if it meant sleeping at the Pagget, a lousy excuse for a hotel. At least the rooms were big enough so that he didn’t feel the walls closing in on him. He’d pass the night under a dry roof and worry about everything else tomorrow.
Brody caught up with him. “We owe money. And if we don’t pay it we’re gonna lose everything. Kirkpatrick bought up Robert’s gambling debts and he was pressing him to pay off the markers or sign over our land for payment. Why do you think Robert went to Laramie? Figured he could make a big strike at the tables and come back and save the day. Instead he got himself shot.”
“And you think you can walk into some hole of a saloon and make all your problems go away?”
“Ain’t none of your business!”
“You got that right.” He didn’t want to hear anything