by Patricia Burroughs
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels?
What wild ecstasy?”
— John Keats
“Ode on a Grecian Urn”
Clay County, Missouri—1872
“Murderers!” the preacher thundered. Torchlight illuminated his gaunt face, giving it a cadaverous quality both powerful and disturbing as he waved a tattered newspaper aloft. “You call them heroes! But they’re robbers and murderers!”
His sudden rage startled even his horses, though they were long accustomed to remaining still while he delivered his sermons from the back of the wagon at any roadside where a crowd gathered to listen. Seated in the wagon, his seventeen-year-old son strained to settle the horses down again.
A low rumbling of dissent rolled through the gathering of farmers and their families, huddled in clusters in the brisk night air. A crackling voice from the back of the crowd rose above the others. “Why don’t you stick to the Good Book, parson?”
The shout was echoed by a chorus of agreement.
“Leave politics to them that knows what they’re doin’,” cried someone else.
“Politics?” The circuit rider’s voice rang out in fury. “Was it politics when the James boys robbed the Kansas City fairgrounds last week?” He brandished a ragged newspaper, waving its masthead high, just as he had brandished it a dozen times before in a dozen other crowds that same week. “The Kansas City Times would have you think it’s politics! It calls the James gang highhanded, diabolically daring, knights of the round table that we should admire and revere!
“And why do you admire them? I’ll tell you why! Because these robbers attack the banks that hold your mortgages and charge interest rates you cannot pay! These murderers fan the embers of the Confederate cause that you know is dead! Yes, you admire them! You revere them! These are your heroes!”
He leaned forward, his heavy brows lowering over piercing eyes that seemed to see into the very souls of all who listened. “You want the Good Book, Brother Grier? I’ll give you the Good Book! Remember ye the words of Peter, the rock: ‘While they promise you liberty, they themselves are the servants of corruption.’”
“Where were your shining knights when a ten-year-old girl was shot and killed in the panic at the fairgrounds?”
The old man grasped the newspaper in his gnarled, work-worn hands and ripped it asunder, scattering the torn pages over the heads of his listeners.
“I’ll tell you where they were! They were holding the guns that killed her! They were riding the horses that trampled her under foot!”
A wave of shock washed over the congregation. Then, a coarse voice shouted, “You lie!”
The preacher’s son whirled round in his seat at the slanderous words, his jaw set with frustration and rage. He half-rose, his fists clenched, as if daring the speaker to repeat his words.
The preacher merely shook his weary head. Days of riding his circuit, delivering his message, were taking their toll. When he spoke his voice was tired, yet his conviction gave it a resonance that carried over the crowd. “No, Brother Reynolds, I don’t lie! And I can’t be silenced by threats, though I’ve received them.”
A heavy silence hung in the night, broken only by the uneasy stirrings of people forced to listen to words they did not want to believe. The preacher’s shoulders slumped beneath his frayed, black frock coat, his head lowering as if in pain. Then he raised his face to them, his hard, burning eyes boring into the crowd.
“It is written, ‘The innocent and righteous slay thou not: for I will not justify the wicked.’ Evil begets evil, and wickedness begets wickedness. How many of our youth are taking up arms to join these outlaw gangs? How many farmers in this county, alone, are providing them refuge? How many of you here in my own congregation? And why do you do it? Because they’re your heroes, your champions? Or because of your greed? How much do the outlaws pay you to hide in your caves, your cribs, your barns? To lie for them? To protect them?”
He raised one gnarled fist raised high in the air, then thundered his last, hoarse question. “At what price do you sell your souls?”
Hours later, the horses leaned into their leather harnesses, straining to pull the creaking wagon up a steep hill toward home. The preacher’s body was limp against the seat; his son fought to hold his eyes open as the plodding rhythm lulled them.
The horses nickered and grew restless, raising their quivering nostrils to the sky. Stirred from his drowsiness, the boy, too, raised his face to the air and caught a whiff of smoke.
“Pa, wake up.”
Reverend Bridges shifted and blinked into the darkness. “What is it, Wesley?”
“Do you smell somethin’, Pa?”
At that moment they crested the last hill before descending into the creek valley where their home lay, and saw the red glow of fire. And, coming toward them, riders, all masked. The boy fought to rein his team in as the approaching horses split and galloped on either side of the wagon—all plow horses spurred on to unaccustomed speed by desperate riders—save one magnificent beast.
One of the Dougherty’s finely-bred roans. It pulled up momentarily, and the hooded rider shouted, “Let this be a lesson to ya’ preacher! Mind your own business and let us mind our’n!”
And then they were gone.
“Hee-yah!” the boy shouted, a sudden fear filling his veins. He slapped the reins across the horses’ backs as they surged forward, bouncing down the rutted path. They pulled into the clearing moments later—moments that seemed like hours. Before the wagon came to a complete halt, the man and the boy bolted from it and raced toward the burning cabin.
“I’ll get your ma and Frankie, boy—you get Susannah!” The preacher ran through the door, his son close behind.
When the boy emerged from the smoking, blazing conflagration, young muscles straining under his older sister’s weight, his father was nowhere to be seen. Blood dripped from a cut on his cheek; his shoulder was seared where a timber had crashed on it, yet he didn’t feel pain. The boy hesitated, his tortured eyes darting from his sister’s charred, yet breathing body to the burning cabin. And then the roof collapsed with a groan, showering sparks and ashes upward as if to the heavens, trapping the cabin’s occupants in a fiery hell.
“No!” the boy cried. And again, his tormented scream, “No!”
Then his sister’s limp body stirred in his arms, and she began to cough, followed by harsh, wracking groans. Tears coursing down his smoke-blackened cheeks, he turned and ran, stumbling under her weight as he carried her toward the creek.
“Don’t die, Susannah,” he sobbed. “Don’t you die on me!” His words, a litany of fear and panic, of grief and hatred, continued as he cradled her body in the cold, flowing water of Boone Creek.
“We’re gonna make them pay, you hear me, Susannah?” He choked on his bitter tears. “We’re gonna make those bastards pay!”
Cavendish, Texas —1881
Elizabeth Dougherty stood alone at the kitchen window, staring into the distance. In that last, lonely moment before dawn, there was no beckoning world on the other side of the glass, no distinction between mountain and sky, only an all-encompassing blackness, void of moon or stars. Listening to the gentle crackle of the fire in the potbelly stove, she inhaled the rich aroma of coffee, soaking up the solitude and peace that were so precious in this hostile house.
Within minutes the peaks of the rugged mountains to the west appeared, bathed in pink and orange and magenta, honored by the sun’s first rays. With agonizing slowness, the colors washed down the slopes, creeping into the valley, yet Elizabeth remained alone in the semi-darkness, as if the lonely kitchen where she waited was unworthy of the sun’s attention.
A sudden movement in the rocky terrain beyond the barn caught her eye—a bobcat lurked beside a rabbit trail, its keen eyes and ears alert for the sound that would lead it to its last chance of feeding for the night.
Elizabeth shuddered and hurriedly lit the oil lamp hanging on the wall, no longer content to await the sun’s benevolence, then she filled her coffee cup. She spooned white sugar from the china sugar bowl that had been part of her hope chest. A dollop of heavy cream, a quick whirl with a sterling spoon, and she turned, heading for the door.
She gasped, finding it filled with the looming figure of her husband’s brother.
“Good morning, Clayton,” she murmured without meeting his eyes, hoping to pass him and retreat to her bedroom without further contact.
But he didn’t budge, only leaned against the door frame, his heavy-lidded eyes sweeping possessively over her, leaving her feeling defiled. His massive body, only a few short years away from corpulence, filled the door, and she squared her slender shoulders in a self-conscious effort to compensate for her own slight frame.
Five years older than Joel, Clayton’s features were an ugly mirror of her husband’s. How could the same dark eyes burn with passion in one brother, with hatred in the other, the same wide, full lips soften with almost poetic beauty in Joel’s face, yet twist with malicious anger in Clayton’s?
She fought the cold shudder that threatened to ripple down her back, fought to keep him from seeing the effect he had on her.
He straightened as if to let her pass, but when she stepped forward his hand shot out, blocking the door.
“What’s the matter, Miz Dougherty, havin’ trouble sleepin’?” His voice was deep and gravelly, and his head dipped closer, his eyes narrowed as his mouth curled in an ugly smile. He looked past her, his eyebrows knitting in a scowl when he saw the single plate at the table. “Where is he?”
“Joel isn’t well this morning.” Elizabeth made a sharp gesture toward the platter of thick-sliced ham and fried potatoes on top of the stove, leftovers from the night before. “There are rolls in the bread box. I’m afraid you’re going to have to fend for yourself this morning while I see to your brother.”
The sheriff finally moved, stepping toward the stove in movements surprisingly light and quiet for a man of his size. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do to help that husband of yours nurse one of his goddamn hangovers, woman.”
She stiffened, meeting his dark gaze with her cool, clear one. “That is none of your concern.”
The dog yapping in the yard drew their attention. Elizabeth walked to the window. A solitary figure was riding down into the shallow valley, his horse’s hooves plowing up dust in his wake. The lanky rider dug his spurs in, driving the beast harder, pushing it on to greater speed.
The young man slowed his mount as he rode into the yard. He swung down from the saddle, almost falling when his boot heel got caught in the stirrup. “Tar-nay-shun!” he spat savagely, limping on a twisted ankle as he trudged toward the sheriff’s house.
“It’s Wendell,” Elizabeth said. When Clayton shot her a dark look, she shook her head. “I’ll see to it.” He grunted and turned his attention back to loading his plate.
Elizabeth smoothed a stray wisp of pale hair into the tight coil on the back of her head as she moved across the kitchen. She opened the door and the cold morning air blew in, swirling her skirt’s full folds. She pulled the door closed behind her and stepped onto the porch.
“Wendell, what brings you out so early? The sheriff’s still at breakfast, and I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m here on official business. It’s important, beggin’ your pardon for interruptin’.”
“I’ll tell him.” Elizabeth stifled a smile as she turned away from the eighteen-year-old deputy. These bouts of self-importance weren’t unusual. The poor boy was earnest enough; he did so strive to be a good lawman. Yet he was blind to his sheriff’s shortcomings, hanging on the older man’s every word in his eagerness to please, so that his efforts to imitate Clayton were often pathetically inadequate.
Inside the kitchen, her smile faded as she met Clayton’s impatient gaze. “He says he’s here on ‘official’ matters.”
“Damned impertinent fool,” the sheriff growled low.
Guiltily relieved that Wendell would now absorb the sheriff’s ire, Elizabeth stepped aside as he stomped to the door, his plate still balanced in one beefy hand.
“What the hell are you doin’, botherin’ me this time of mornin’?” Clayton challenged, his deep voice booming.
“I figgered you’d want to know, Sheriff Dougherty,” the young man burst out. “Late last night, a stranger come to town. He’s holed up in the hotel right now.”
Elizabeth had her cup in her hand, grateful for an excuse to leave the kitchen to the two men. But something in the boy’s voice stopped her.
“Stranger? What in the hell does that mean? That’s nothin’ to drag your ass out here at the crack o’ dawn over.”
“But, Sheriff, this ain’t just any stranger. They’re sayin’ it’s Boone Coulter.”
Dougherty swung around and faced the deputy, his body suddenly stiffening. “Couldn’t be,” he growled. “Coulter ain’t been seen for years. Hell—he could be dead for all we know.” He brushed Wendell impatiently aside. “Somebody’s just lettin’ their imagination go wild, and I’m aimin’ to think that somebody’s you.”
“Just a minute, Sheriff. This ain’t anybody’s imagination. It’s all over town.” Wendell followed Clayton as the older man snatched a fistful of cold rolls from the breadbox and tossed them onto the pile of potatoes on his plate.
“First, this here maid from over to the hotel comes to the jail like her tail’s afire, jabberin’ a blue streak about outlaws ’n such. Well, I ain’t payin’ no mind to the likes o’ her. Reckon she wouldn’t know a desperado if he tipped his hat, raised her skirt and said ‘howdy’? But then one of them gals from over at the saloon decides to see if she can—well, maybe do a little pleasurin’ on a real outlaw, so she moseys on over there and goes up to his room.”
“Which gal?” Clayton demanded, dropping his plate on the table with a loud rattle.
“Doralee—who else? Anyways, she stays over to the hotel for quite a spell. That’s when I heard about it ag’in. Folks was gettin’ worried that maybe she’d got herself in a fix, and they wanted me to go over there and rescue her. I would’ve done it, too, you know. I ain’t afraid of no outlaws—not Boone Coulter, or anybody else. But about the time I got my pistol loaded, out she came, spittin’ mad. Said it was Boone Coulter all right. She wouldn’t say much more, just cussed a lot. So anyways, I went down to the livery stable and looked his horses over. One of them fit the description to a ‘t’. There ain’t no two mustangs anywheres with striped scars on their haunches like that one. Odell said that horse won’t let nobody near it—said the stranger tended it hisself afore he took off for the hotel.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the fork and knife scraping over the plate as Clayton finished his breakfast.
Elizabeth realized she was holding her breath. Visions filled her head—visions of gunfire, of a vicious gunslinger taking aim, of Clayton Dougherty hitting the dirt with blood spreading around him. Grasping the back of the chair, she steadied herself against the shock of truth that slammed through her: the visions brought her pleasure. With a shudder, she sank heavily into the chair.
“Did you wire Fort Davis, boy? Last I heard, the cavalry was still after him.”
“Them range-riders must’ve been usin’ the telegraph poles for firewood again. Couldn’t get through.”
The sheriff growled low, shoving away from the table with a violent movement. He tossed his crumpled linen napkin onto his plate, heedless of the wild plum jelly that would stain it, then strode into the hallway to the hall tree where his gunbelt and hat hung.
Wendell followed close on his heels. “What are we gonna do, Sheriff? Think we should rush the hotel and flush him out?”
Elizabeth’s motions scraping the plates slowed as she listened.
“Hell, no, you idiot! Boone Coulter ain’t done nuthin’ to me. If the government wants him, they can catch him. I just aim to see that no trigger happy citizens or deputies stir up trouble.”
His words didn’t ring true. Elizabeth raised her head and listened intently.
“But, Sheriff, there’s a bounty on his head—two thousand dollars!”
“Hell, Wendell, I know that.” His voice sounded thoughtful, tempted.
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened at the thought of Clayton going after Coulter. They said the outlaw had already killed five, six men, two of them lawmen. There were those who said he hid out like an animal in the mountains, that there was no catching him… that those who tried didn’t live to regret it.
“Boy, you just steer clear of that hotel, and everybody else’d better do the same. I don’t want trouble in my town.”
Elizabeth rose shakily to her feet and was crossing to the sink when Clayton reentered the room. With no attempt at courtesy, he pushed past her and grabbed his mug, tossing the lukewarm coffee down his throat. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he eyed her speculatively.
“Stay away from town today.” He buckled his gun-belt low on his hips and left.
Peering through the kitchen curtains, Elizabeth watched their departure, the sheriff swinging his large body onto his horse with a lithe agility that belied his massive form, the deputy attempting to match his authority with little success.
Elizabeth let the starched fabric fall back into place and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t in the habit of taking orders from anyone.
Especially not Clayton Dougherty.
Coulter stood at the narrow window, his tense shoulders hunched slightly as he leaned forward, peering into the distance, watching. One long, lean finger rubbed slowly over his cheekbone, idly tracing the shape of a small, dimple-like scar. The wound had healed, the memory faded, yet the scar remained.
Boone Creek… Clay County, Missouri…
He pulled the limp, worn letter from his hip pocket and pored over its cryptic message for the thousandth time. Who was this Dan P. Jennings who had written him? What did he know?
He leaned back against the yellowed wallpaper that was speckled with tobacco juice and God only knew what else. Contemplating the sweltering, close quarters that constituted a fifty-cent room—the best in the house—he massaged the back of his neck and grimaced. Strange that he should feel so calm. The vendetta was coming to an end now. Long years of deadly purpose would cease, replaced with a life unfettered by debts, and yet, he wondered… would the scars remain?
His hand dropped to the old, weathered gun butt protruding from his low-slung holster, and even though he hated what it stood for, the polished wood was a comfort to his palm. Stretching his long body out on the narrow bed, he slept.
From deep in the shadows under the overhanging roof of the jail, Clayton Dougherty studied the hotel across the street. His inquiries had revealed which room housed the gunslinger, and now he stared with fierce intensity, his breathing shallow beneath the soft rise and fall of his barrel chest.
What did Coulter want? Why the hell was he in Cavendish? Dougherty pondered the question irritably, coming up with no answers. If the outlaw only wanted a resting place, Dougherty’d provide him a place to hide—for a price. He’d padded his pockets for years that way, and felt perfectly justified. That kind of word traveled fast. Those in need of a few days respite knew Dougherty would provide it.
For a price.
But Coulter had exacted his own price from two lawmen—their lives. Dougherty was no coward, but he was no fool, either. So he stared at the window across the way and waited.
What did Coulter want?
Elizabeth paced through the lower floor of her house, her fingers trailing across the light film of dust that coated every surface. Regardless how often she cleaned, how diligently she kept the windows shut and draperies pulled, the dust seeped in. And today, just as she had found herself unwilling to prepare an adequate breakfast, she was also too restless to spend an hour wiping and polishing, removing then replacing the knick-knacks that covered every tabletop. And so, instead, she paced.
What grandeur this house represented. Not by Philadelphia standards perhaps, but it was quite unlike anything west Texas had seen.
And all designed specifically for her.
She had waited long months before following Joel to Texas, months when she had endured the choking rigidity of her family in Philadelphia for the last time. The waiting to put Philadelphia behind her had seemed to last forever, but she had endured it willingly for Joel.
Older sisters and younger, already married, had been astounded when an obligatory visit of a distant cousin from the Missouri branch of the family had become the first of many. When Cousin Joel turned out unlike the intolerable ruffian they had expected, but instead charming, refined, with a sad haunting behind his dark, penetrating eyes, they had been surprised. When Joel Dougherty’s subsequent calls had become more and more centered on Elizabeth—plain Elizabeth—they had been astounded. Poor Elizabeth? On the shelf, undowered? She was a spinster, for pity’s sake, destined to be shuttled from one sister to another, caring for their sick children, accepting their grudging largesse.
Until Joel Dougherty.
Even now, she could close her eyes and remember her family’s reactions. They ranged from barely contained jealousy to outright relief when Elizabeth had not only become betrothed, but had landed a handsome and wealthy man as well.
When Joel had returned to Texas to prepare for their marriage, there had been an emptiness she couldn’t fill. Lost in the middle of a large family of chattering sisters, Elizabeth was accustomed to being ignored. But then she had suddenly become the center of all attention, and she hated it. She had written a tentative letter to Joel, asking if perhaps the bride should not have the pleasure of influencing the plans for her new home.
He had responded quickly, smoothly, delightfully… “No.”
Of all his letters, it stood out in her mind, in her heart. His first letter, his words so warm and natural she could almost feel his breath tickling against her ear as he teased her for her impatience. His first letter, so unlike the others that gradually grew more withdrawn, more infrequent with the passing of time, until her heart was chilled with apprehension.
Joel had insisted upon more and more time to prepare for her arrival. And what preparations. This house had traversed a nation, crated and bundled, piece by piece, first by train, then by wagon for the last few hundred miles. For almost a year, she had waited for him to tell her all was finished; every month, mounting with tension as she found herself the center of elaborate preparations for a Texas wedding that none of her family would witness.
Her apprehensions were never voiced. Even if there had been someone to listen, she would have kept them to herself, for with each passing day it had become more apparent to her—there was more joy in leaving Philadelphia and her family, in achieving the independence she so longed for, than there was in anticipating her marriage.
So she had quietly suppressed her misgivings, choosing instead to stoke the flames of her childish infatuation. Childish? Yes, though she had been almost twenty-three years old, Joel, her first true suitor, had inspired emotions in her that she had witnessed in her sisters many years before.
She paused before a small, oval photograph hanging in the dark, green wallpapered hallway, taken moments after her marriage to Joel. It was a picture that still stunned her when she saw it, for framed within that oval of silver was a new Elizabeth. Beneath the dignity, beneath the poise, there was beauty. Not classical features, perhaps, but the aristocratic bone structure that would be enhanced by age. A few loose tendrils wisped gently from her immaculate coils of hair, softening the angles of her face. The camera revealed a strong woman, a graceful woman, a woman perched on the edge of her wicker chair as if on the brink of some untold excitement.
Leaning against the wall, with her gray eyes closed to the reality of her life and her senses opened to the dreams, she could feel it again… the fluttering hope in her breast, the belief that things could be different. If only she could persuade Joel to abandon this godforsaken place. Thirteen months she had spent here, Joel’s promises to leave growing more infrequent. What had happened to those plans they had made in a faraway Philadelphia garden, of starting anew in Denver?
She heard him even before he spoke; her eyes flew open to see Joel at the top of the stairs, his white shirt carelessly unbuttoned, exposing the dark whorls of hair across his chest. His black trousers were mussed, and a bottle of whiskey dangled loosely from one hand.
Joel descended the stairs easily, his mouth curled in a softly mocking smile. “Don’t tell me. My brother left in disgust, and I am supposed to be properly chastised and remorseful.”
Elizabeth moved forward without thought, ready to receive his careless kiss when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Then, his arm slung casually around her shoulders, she led him to the kitchen. “Let me fix you some eggs and biscuits,” she urged.
But Joel only winced and dropped into a chair at the table, holding one pale hand up to shield his eyes from the sunshine now pouring through the window.
“God, no. Coffee, that’s all.”
Elizabeth held a hand against the coffee pot, finding it still hot to the touch. She poured the strong brew into a cup and placed it in Joel’s hand, stifling the urge to argue. Similar experiences had taught her it would be useless.
“And shut those blasted curtains—my head is splitting.”
She had snatched the bows loose and was about to smooth the curtains shut, but the mountains in the distance made her hesitate. “I don’t quite understand it,” she began slowly, “but they always seem to be luring me. Offering me something, though I can’t imagine what.”
Joel shook his head and laughed wryly. “It’s your Anglican upbringing. Too many psalms muddling up your head. ‘I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence comes my—’”
“That’s quite enough,” she replied crisply, but even as she spoke she felt a stab of pain from his words. He had never taunted her in Philadelphia, no matter what fanciful turn her thoughts had taken. She shook herself and turned to refill her own cup.
He shrugged, apparently bored with the conversation. After draining his cup by half, he splashed in whiskey to top it off.
“And tell me, what did my dear brother have to say about me this morning?”
She dropped the pot back on the stove top with a clatter. “Nothing. He was too distracted with Wendell. I’m surprised you didn’t hear all the noise the dog was making.”
“Wendell was here this morning?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth set her cup on the table, then dropped nervously into the chair adjacent to his. “The town’s in an uproar over some outlaw who came into town last night.”
Joel pulled upright, suddenly intent. His hand shot across the table and closed tightly over hers. “What outlaw?” He was hurting her, but when she tried to pull her hand away, his grip only tightened. “What outlaw?”
“I don’t remember,” she lied without understanding why. “What’s gotten into you, Joel?” This time when she pulled, he released her.
“Think hard, Elizabeth. Surely you remember,” he coaxed, seeming to relax. But beneath his velvet cajolery lurked a menace that confused her.
“Colt,” she stumbled, evading him. “Coulton. Something like that.”
Joel sank back, his eyes dark, unreadable, his breath coming in quick pants. “It worked,” he whispered.
“What are you talking—”
And then he was standing, pulling her up with him, his hands closing hard over her shoulders. His face dipped closer, and his eyes burned with a fire that was frightening in its intensity.
“Justice, Elizabeth. It’s all coming to pass. Justice…”
Elizabeth flinched away, her heart pounding. Once she had longed for his touch, but not like this. Something was wrong, and she was too confused and frightened to understand.
“Do you know this outlaw?” she asked, folding her arms across her middle, her fingers closed in tight fists.
“Know him?” Joel seemed to ponder her question, his eyes never leaving her. “What a strange question, Elizabeth. Why would I know a cold-blooded murderer?” That thought seemed to amuse him, and his mirth grew to full laughter. “Other than the esteemed sheriff, my brother, of course.”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her throat, and she found it difficult to swallow. “Clayton, a murderer?”
“This isn’t civilization as you know it, love. Out here, whether a man is viewed as a murderer or not is determined by which side of the law he’s on. Clayton, of course, is on the right side of the law.” Joel tilted the whiskey bottle to his lips and drank deeply, leaning against the doorjamb. When he lowered the bottle, he pushed away from the wall and stepped closer to her. “At least, he is now that he’s sheriff.” Seeing the confusion flickering across her features, he laughed again. “Surely the fact that my brother has killed doesn’t surprise you.”
She didn’t want to ask. Yet, the words came anyway. Barely audible, but laced with fear. “And you, Joel? Have you… killed?”
His eyes flickered with a strange emotion as he raised his hands slowly in front of her. Fine, long-fingered hands. Soft, poet’s hands. “Do these look like hands that could close over the butt of a pistol and pull the trigger? These eyes…” He stepped still closer. “Do they look capable of sighting a prey and marking it for the kill?”
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. And then he sought her embrace, shivering. Her hands stroked his back in an attempt to comfort. “No, Joel. Please forgive me.”
“Out here,” he groaned, his dark head close to hers, “it makes me less a man.”
“All the more reason we should leave,” she pleaded. “This is no place for us, Joel. You know that as surely as I do.”
He pulled away, his face lit with wild desperation. “Of course I do. And we will leave, I promise. Don’t you see? It’s all going to happen, now. I’ll be able to put everything behind me. We can be happy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, and you never will,” he responded. “Be thankful that you never will.”
He swayed, then slumped against her. It was all she could do to guide him up the stairs and back to his bed. She swept his assorted newspapers onto the floor a split-second before he collapsed on the rumpled counterpane. When she would have stepped away, he reached for her, his hand grazing hers.
“Yes, Joel darling,” she sighed, and stooped to pick up some of the newspapers. One, a Harper’s Weekly, had slid under the edge of the bed. She was reaching for it when his hand closed gently over her shoulder.
“Hand that one to me, darling.”
Her fingers closed over the yellowed paper and she handed it up to him. He cradled it against his breast.
“Justice,” he murmured, stroking it almost lovingly. And then, “You’re too good to me, Libby.”
She could only look into his ravaged face and shake her head. There were no words for answer. He drifted back into his own nightmare world, the world she would rescue him from if only he would let her. Yet, how? The demons he drank to forget were his own. He refused to share them.
And for the first time, she admitted she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be dragged into his hell. Her head spun with confusion. What was happening?
Joel’s voice echoed in her mind: Justice… It’s all going to happen now… it worked. Then the sheriff’s words: Stay away from town, today.
Blind frustration coiled and writhed within her, then hardened into hatred for the man who seemed to hold her husband’s will in his powerful palm. Her restless spirit was no longer content to stay put in the dark, confining walls of the house. Her house. Her prison.
The sheriff’s wishes be damned. She was going into town.
by Patricia Burroughs
$3.99 (Novel) ISBN 978-1-61138-141-2