A Hard Ride Home (13 page)

Murmuring and wary of the wind that had a way of catching voices and whisking them off to the wrong ears, Emmett gave Ira and Charley their orders.

With no one to fight against but struggling settlers, it was likely that Willie and his gang had become lazy and slow. The bandits sat around a fire at their camp in front of a half-built house on the river bank, drinking and eating and only stumbling to stand when they realized the two riders bearing down on them hadn't come on a social call.

The first few moments were chaos. Emmett shot two men dead as the group scattered, bellowing warnings and diving for their firearms. Ira rode in from the opposite direction, catching one of the men in the back before he'd even gotten to his feet. They were outnumbered three to one, and it wasn't long before the ones who managed to scramble away from the fire holed up in the house, taking aim from the broken, shuttered windows.

There was no sense in taking aim from horseback, so Emmett and his deputies took cover and settled in for a dusty siege. Under a bold, full moon, it was reasonably easy to make out movement and the flashes of gunfire. Emmett sprawled on his stomach in the gravel beneath a thorny bush that tore at his hands as he steadied his aim. The volley remained steady, but slow enough that Emmett wondered if Willie's gang had been given access to the ammunition in the mine. Maybe they were as short on bullets as most of the folk around Silver Creek.

Charley wormed his way up to one of the tents near the dying fire and got close enough make a quick torch with a moonshine-soaked shirt and a jar. He launched it up onto the thatched roof of the house. The torch landed with a hollow clatter and rolled to a stop.

"Did it take?" Ira asked.

"I can't tell." Emmett scrambled up and crouched low behind a felled tree, trying to get a better view. "Come on," he whispered.

Then a scrawny man with facial hair that made him look like a well-groomed rat stumbled out, coughing and wiping his eyes. A cloud of dark smoke billowed out the door behind him. Charley dropped him with a shot from his rifle and crouched back on his heels, just waiting. A gust of dry night wind set the fire blazing in earnest, the flames licking out along the roof, roaring and crackling.

From his vantage point, it was a long shot, but Emmett hit another bandit who stumbled, smoke blind, from the burning house.

"We've almost got them," Ira said hurriedly as he reloaded.

The hair at the back of Emmett's neck gave a tight prickle and he whirled, barely managing to get a shot off before a blow to the head sent him reeling back. When he landed flat on his back, he was sure he'd been killed, his brains blasted right out. Then his ears kept ringing and he kept breathing. Blood streamed down his face, but he was still alive.

"Sheriff!" Ira yelled. Emmett fought a wave of nausea and pushed up onto his side just in time to see Ira leveling two pistols at Willie. The bastard must have been out in the woods the whole time, likely off taking a piss before they'd ridden in. There was no mistaking him. He was toothless and pock-marked, and his deeply scarred lower lip jutted at a strange angle.

Ira caught Willie in the leg, but Willie kept limping forward, swearing and firing wildly into the dirt.

Emmett braced one arm with the other, exhaling slowly as he took aim and fired, catching Willie in the throat. The man fell, blood spurting like a fountain, and made a pitiful whistling sound as he died.

Emmett pushed onto his knees and tried to stand.

"Hell of a shot!" Ira called out.

"Lucky," Emmett mumbled. He'd been aiming for Willie's chest. It was a wonder he hadn't missed the way he was seeing double.

Ira sank to the dirt beside him. "Stay down, Sheriff," he said, planting his hand against Emmett's chest and easing him back down into the gravel behind the fallen tree. "They'll be smoked out soon enough."

Emmett nodded, gritting his teeth and pulling the sweaty cloth from around his neck so he could press it to the throbbing heat at his skull. He watched Ira's face for signs of how Charley was faring, knowing by now that Ira wasn't the type who could hide what he was thinking. When Ira smiled and took off his glasses and wiped them down after a quick volley of gunfire, Emmett knew they'd won.

"How bad is it?" Charley asked as soon as he saw Emmett.

Ira grunted as he helped Emmett to his feet. "I didn't look too close, but I'd warrant it didn't quite split his thick skull."

Charley steadied Emmett, his face wavering in and out of focus. "Think you can ride?"

"Not for long," Emmett said, before he doubled over, dry-heaving. It took the efforts of both deputies to get him up onto his horse, but he hung on as best he could after that, trying to will his stomach to settle as it roiled at the blinding pain in his head.

They rode slowly back up the river to Fairhaven, leaving Willie's camp flaming behind them, the sweet-charred scent of burning flesh carried away by the dusty, hot wind that kicks up on a storm front.

At the edge of Fairhaven, laundry hung on a line between two trees, the fabric snapping in the wind like the gunfire that still echoed in Emmett's ears. The slender woman who rushed out to meet them had dark hair swept into a neat bun. Her face was lined deeply, etched by sun and age, but she was still a beauty. She held a torch in one hand and a scythe in the other, and her grip didn't waver.

"Ma'am," Ira said, dismounting and taking his hat off. "We've come riding out of Silver Creek town. Sheriff Grady has dispatched a gang of outlaws down the river a ways, and we'd be much obliged if you could offer us shelter for the night."

When she smiled, her eyes bright with joy, Emmett realized who she was. It was the last thing that crossed his mind before he started to lurch out of the saddle and blacked out before he hit the ground.

*~*~*

"Sir," a woman said. "Sheriff Grady."

Emmett groaned, reaching for his head. A warm, small hand stopped him gently.

"If you can take some tea, it will help."

He opened his eyes and focused unsteadily on the pale face and blue eyes before him.

"Mrs. Taggart!"

She blinked and sat back sharply, tea splashing onto her fingers from the mug she held in one hand. "Ah—my. Have we met?"

Emmett shifted in the bed, sitting up slowly. His boots were still on, and they'd left caked dirt and dust on the bedding. "Forgive me for being so familiar, ma'am. I've become acquainted with your son, and you resemble him closely."

Mrs. Taggart set the mug down and reached to help him sit up. "With Jesse? That's lovely! I thought you must—he works on the mayor's ranch and you, well you must be the mayor's boy. Grady's not a common name. Oh, and do call me Lillian."

"Yes," Emmett said hurriedly, feeling like his lungs were being squeezed. "Ma'am, if you'll excuse me. How long have I been asleep?"

"All night. You nearly caught a bullet through your skull. It grazed you good."

Lillian pointed, and Emmett reached carefully to feel the bandage wrapped around his head. The wound throbbed, but the bandage was dry.

"I owe you for your care." Emmett took the bitter, warm tea and drank it quickly. There was no time to dawdle now.

"Please," she said, smiling. "We owe you for clearing out those thieves and scoundrels. It was only a matter of time before they raided again. Nice to know the law's noticed our little town."

"Have you always lived here? With your son?" Emmett looked around as he finished the tea. It was just one square room with a bed in the corner and a wood-burning stove. The air smelled like fresh bread.

"Yes. Until Mayor Grady rode out surveying the homestead boundaries some years back and offered my boy work. You must be nearly the same age," Lillian said fondly.

Emmett swallowed more tea and nodded, unable to trust his voice.

"He writes when he can, but—"

When a knock sounded at the door, Emmett exhaled hard, grateful. Charley peeked inside, too tall to make it through the frame without ducking. "Emmett! You're awake. Can you ride?"

"I can. Ma'am, we best be off."

"More trouble?" she asked, taking the empty mug from his fingers.

"Nothing serious." Emmett glanced at Charley, giving a quick headshake. "Charley, this is Jesse's mother."

"Lillian Taggart," she said, taking Charley's hand in a confident grasp.

"Charles Green."

"You boys are welcome back any time."

Emmett tried his best to dust the bedding off and fold up the blanket that had covered him as he slept. "Last I heard," he said. "Jesse had some packages to send your way. I'll—my father will likely send him off to deliver them himself now that we've cleared out Willie's gang."

Lillian grasped Emmett's arm and ducked into his line of vision. Her voice quavered faintly as she blinked back tears. "That would mean the world to me. He was but a boy when he left."

Emmett stared at her. "I'll pass the word on, ma'am. I'm sure it won't be long."

She let go of him and wiped at her eyes, her breath sniffling sharply. "Thank you."

Charley cleared his throat and handed Emmett his hat. "We're saddled up, Sheriff. Ira was worried we'd have to leave you, but I told him you were hardheaded."

Lillian smiled, watching Emmett like she was trying to see inside of his skin.

Whatever the tea was made from, it eased the thump and ache in Emmett's head. But it was past dawn and far later than he'd wanted to set off, and all he could think was that they might not be back by noon, like he'd promised Jesse.

And every minute they were gone gave Warren more time to discover the missing map.

It was hot—the kind of hot that made great thunderheads build on the horizon, higher than the mountains. No one had been by the Weeping Willow all day, and they were all uneasy for it. On an afternoon like this, one or two cowboys usually wandered in.

Delia sat at the old piano against the wall in the saloon, tapping the dusty keys. The notes rang out sharp and off-key, until Jesse felt like the bones in his fingers might snap with agitation and he yelled, "God damn it, Delia! Quit that."

She startled and slammed the cover down over the keys, the hinges giving a prolonged, sharp creak. "S-sorry."

"Hell. Don't cry." He finished arranging the empty chairs in the room for the third time.

"I don't mean to," she said, sniffling and wiping her face on her skirt. She'd been weepy since the sheriff had ridden off, and Jesse considered asking Miss Elsie to give her something to help her sleep. Before he could say anything more, she rustled out of the room for the kitchen, her face ducked low.

Jesse picked at a sliver of chipped paint on the handrail and looked up the stairs to where Rose and Josephine sat side by side, moping like a couple of straw-haired dolls with matching frowns.

"Why don't you go change the linens if you got nothin' to do?" Jesse said.

"You're not in charge just 'cause you sent every decent man in town riding off to get themselves killed," Josephine said, pushing up to storm down the stairs at him.

Roscoe pounded his fist at the bar. "Hush yourself, Jo. You know it's bad luck talking like that."

"Ain't true, neither," Rose said, soft and hesitant. She frowned at Josephine, who cast a wicked glare at her.

Jesse pushed past Josephine, careful not to touch. His skin prickled all over, guilt making him sick. "I'm going upstairs." It didn't matter what Emmett had said about it being the law, and the right thing, and not for him. The girls thought this was his fault, and that would never change.

"Jesse." Rose grabbed his wrist as he passed. She'd always been strong, as strong as a boy.

"Let go."

"She don't mean it."

He had to sink his weight and wrench his arm to get it free and stomp the rest of the way up the stairs. His blood itched.

"Stay out of the bottle," Roscoe called up to him, making his face burn.

Jesse knew better. Didn't matter how scared he was, how worried he was about Emmett and Charley and Ira. He wasn't going to dull it away. He just wanted to hide up in his room for a while where he didn't have to see Roscoe looking so serious and the girls looking so afraid.

As he climbed up the stairs and scowled at his feet, he bumped into Beatrice.

It wasn't like her to lurk in the hall like a ghost. She was the first one to point out who'd gone about their business wrong or worn her hat at the wrong angle or made eyes at the wrong man. Today ought to be like a holiday for her, as much as everyone was on edge and ripe to get riled up.

He expected her to shriek at him for wrinkling the paper fan in her fingers.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

He shrugged. "I wasn't looking."

Beatrice eyed the floor and wrung her fingers at the ruined fan.

A shadow fell over them both as Evelyn approached, standing in her doorway and staring at Beatrice. Jesse'd never seen her look so sharp, every pretty part of her face gone too narrow.

His heart started beating like a bird trapped at a window.

"Oh, no," he breathed. "Beatrice. No."

"Tell me what you did, girl," Evelyn said, rushing at Beatrice so quick the girl didn't have a chance to twist away before Evelyn had her pushed up against the faded wallpaper.

Jesse couldn't feel his legs or his hands. He couldn't do anything but stand there watching the two of them breathe at each other like poison.

"I had to, Miss Devaux. I ain't getting any younger, and I'm meant to go out west, to the ocean. I ain't supposed to be here. I don't want to be here anymore," Beatrice said, her voice going shrill.

"Jesse," Evelyn said without looking at him. "Go downstairs and tell Roscoe to get the girls and Elsie out of here."

When he didn't move, she snapped her gaze at him. "Hurry!"

"What's gonna happen?" he asked, watching the way Evelyn's fingers dug into the pale skin at Beatrice's collarbones like she was fit to rip her throat out.

"That's no concern of yours. Go!"

Gunshots sounded outside before he could turn away. One of the girls screamed downstairs. Jesse could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.