Gabriel's Atonement (2 page)

Gabe pushed through the doors, glad to be out of the smelly building. He glanced up at the stars and breathed deeply, relishing the fresh air. Being outside at night reminded him of the days back on the farm when he rose before the sun to do the milking—before life had turned inside out.

He rolled his head, popping his neck, and headed toward his suite at the hotel. A smile crept to his lips at the thought of his ma scolding him for going to bed in the middle of the night and sleeping till noon. A day wasted, she'd have said.

Up ahead, a group of cowboys stood by their horses, preparing to return to the ranches where they worked. Gabe hesitated then ducked down the alley—a place he generally avoided. But right now, it provided a better alternative than being caught alone with a pocket of coins by a rowdy group who'd mostly lost their hard-earned money and had far too many drinks.

A full moon illuminated the path behind a doctor's dark office and one of Kansas City's many stores. Gabe's boots thumped out a soft thud in the dirt as he listened to the peaceful noises of the night. Crickets sang in the tall grass just past the edge of town, and the piano music and the saloon ruckus dimmed. A cool breeze swept past his sweaty neck, sending a chill down his back.

The crickets suddenly quieted, and a man stepped out of the shadows, his pistol pointed straight at Gabe.

Halting midstep, Gabe assessed the situation, his hand aching to draw his weapon. He'd known walking back here was risky, and now he wished he hadn't. Though he was a quick draw, he had no chance against a man whose gun was already drawn.

“You cheated me out of my money.”

Gabe recognized Tom Talbot's voice and lithe form. The hairs on his nape rose. Was the man alone? Were his cohorts hiding in the shadows as Talbot had?

“I never cheat.” Gabe growled out each word slowly as he attempted to gauge Talbot's soberness. Having concentrated on the card game, he hadn't noticed how much Talbot was drinking. A mistake he wouldn't make in the future.

If the man was inebriated and his reactions slowed, Gabe just might have a chance, even though the man's gun was already drawn. First, he needed to distract him. “I didn't force you to play. You knew the risk when you sat down at my table.”

“My wife and boy need that money.”

Gabe shrugged, tucking his jacket out of the way in case he needed to draw his weapon. He felt sorry for the man's family, but Talbot should have thought of them sooner. Gabe forced away the unwanted memory of a hungry, crying boy.

“Toss me my money, and I'll be on my way.” Talbot stepped closer, moonlight illuminating his body.

“Can't do that. I won it fair and square. I wouldn't be in business long if I returned every sad cowboy's money.”

“Talbot!” a voice in the distance called. “We're leavin'.”

In the split second that Tom Talbot cocked his head toward the voice, Gabe whipped out his gun. Talbot turned and fired. Gabe's hand jolted as his Colt 45 blasted.

His opponent jerked and stared at him with disbelief. The weapon fell from Talbot's hand. He grabbed his chest with one hand and sank to his knees.

Instant regret flooded Gabe as he lowered his gun. What had he done? Holstering his weapon, he rushed to Talbot's side, wishing he'd handed over the money.

“S–sorry, Lara…” Talbot tugged at something in his shirt pocket then wheezed his last breath.

Gabe hung his head, remorse weighing him down. Things had happened so fast. Too fast.

Moonlight reflected off the paper in Talbot's pocket. Gabe pulled it out. A photo. He cocked it toward the moonlight, and the picture of a pretty woman with sad eyes took shape. In her arms rested a baby. Lara—Talbot said her name was—and somehow it fit. Had Talbot loved his wife? The man sure hadn't been much of a provider from what Gabe had seen.

He squatted next to Talbot's body, once again gutted with guilt. He'd just made this woman a widow—and the baby, fatherless. Something he knew all about.

He flipped the photograph over and held it up to the moonlight.
Caldwell, Kansas. 1886
.

Guilt ate at him like a bad case of food poisoning. He shoved to his feet as people ran his way. The sheriff pushed through the crowd and studied the scene. Gabe could only hope the man would believe his story.

Caldwell, Kansas

April 2, 1889

Michael tugged on Lara Talbot's skirt. “Mama, somebody's followin' us.”

Lara glanced over her shoulder and her heart jolted. Sure enough, a man she'd seen in town was riding through the prairie grass toward them.

“Is it Pa?” A mixture of hope and yearning flashed across her four-year-old son's face.

“No, sweetie, it's not him.” They hadn't seen Tom in over a year. His creditors, however, frequently knocked on her door.

Michael stared at the rider again, her son's golden curls dancing on the light spring breeze. “Maybe he's comin' to see Grandpa.”

“Maybe.” Lara's stomach swirled as she searched for a hiding place among the waist-high grass. But surely the rider had already spotted them. She couldn't tell Michael that she'd noticed this same man watching her in town. She hadn't thought much about it then, since men tended to stare at women, but if he had business with her, why hadn't he approached her in Caldwell?

She tightened her grip on her son's hand and quickened her steps, wishing she weren't a whole mile from town and another half mile till home. The large bundle of mending she'd picked up from Mrs. Henry's house weighed her down. If she dropped her burden, she could whisk Michael up and maybe hide in a gully by the creek, but she'd never be able to replace the expensive clothing should something happen to it.

“Slow down, Mama.”

Michael's short legs pumped hard to keep up with hers. She slackened her pace and glanced back. The man was gaining ground.

Tom's debts were like a trail of bread crumbs leading to her door. Would this man be kind and compassionate or rude and demanding like most of the others?

Not that it mattered. She had nothing to give any of them.

The man must have realized she'd seen him, because he kicked his horse into a trot. Lara's heart stampeded. Most folks in the area were friendly, but there were always those unsavory scoundrels who yearned to catch a woman alone.

She shoved Michael behind one of the cottonwood trees that hugged the creek bank, dropped the load of mending, and grabbed the largest limb she could find on the ground.

“Stay there until I call.”

Her son looked up with wide blue-green eyes and nodded. His curly blond locks sprang up and down in spirals across his forehead.

Lara sucked in a breath, tightened her two-fisted grasp on the branch, and stepped to the middle of the trail. As the horse neared, the animal's eyes widened and its nostrils flared. The rider soothed his mount then hoisted his stout leg over the horse's rump and dropped to the trail with a huff. On the ground, the short, portly man wasn't nearly as intimidating. From the cut of his clothing she could tell he was a city fellow.

He offered a stiff smile, lifted his derby, and swiped the sweat from his wide forehead. The horse lowered its big head and plucked the top off some nearby buffalo grass.

Trembling, Lara glanced up and down the dirt path, hoping someone would arrive to help her, but this lone trail led only to her home—and unless someone was purposely going to visit them, there was little chance for rescue. She peeked at Michael, relieved to see him obeying and hiding behind the tree.

Determined to protect her son, she tightened her grip on the branch and faced the stranger. “Why are you following me?”

He raised his palm in the air. “Now don't be fearful, Mizz Talbot. I don't mean you no harm.”

Lara stiffened, and her heart galloped like a runaway horse. She lowered the branch and wiped each sweaty palm on her skirt. How was it this stranger knew her name?

“What do you want? If you're looking for Tom, I haven't seen him in over a year.”

The man dropped the reins, removed his dusty derby, and twisted the thin brim with his pudgy hands. “Truth is, I
have
come 'bout your man.”

Lara heaved a sigh and shook her head. This stranger would have to get in line to collect his debt.
Oh, Tom, what have you done now?

The stranger reached into his pants pocket. Lara tightened her grasp on the branch again, knowing how little help it would be if the man pulled out a gun. She swallowed the lump in her throat. If he did, she'd have to react fast.

Something crinkled in his fist, making Lara go weak in the knees with relief. Paper, not a pistol.

The stranger cleared his throat. “I have a letter for you from my employer and…uh, something else.”

Keeping hold of the club with one fist, she held out a shaky hand, retrieved the damp, wrinkled missives and shook them open. As she stepped back, her gaze darted from the man to the letter. She scanned the brief, hard-to-read note asking her to come to a Kansas City hotel to collect some cash Tom left behind. She couldn't make out the scrawled signature. It made no sense. If Tom had money, he'd never leave it anywhere—except at the gaming tables. Her heart clenched as if squeezed through a wringer, and then she glanced at the second paper—a death certificate.

Tom was dead.
Oh my… How…?

He was only twenty-six years old.

Shot, the certificate stated.

What was he doing to get himself shot? And who pulled the trigger?

She waited for grief to overwhelm her. That's what happened when a woman lost her husband, wasn't it? She remembered how inconsolable Grandpa had been when Gram died. Of course, he had
loved
her.

Numb and dry-eyed, Lara stared at the stranger. She carefully worded her question because of Michael. “Where is he now?”

The sun glinted off the man's shiny bald head as he studied the trail, fidgeting and wringing his hat half to death. “You'd have to talk to my boss 'bout all that, ma'am. My orders were to find you and fetch you back to Kansas City.”

“Kansas City! Why would I want to go there?” Lara blinked. Stunned at the news of her husband's death, she had dropped her guard. She raised the club up between her and the stranger again, the papers crumpling in one fist around the limb. “I'm not going anywhere with you, mister.”

Would he force her?

The man scratched his head. “But the boss said I was to bring ya.”

Swallowing back her fear, Lara stood her ground. “How did you know where to find me?”

Shuffling his feet, the man avoided her eyes. “There was a picture—of you and the boy.”

“Mama?” Michael sniffed and rubbed one eye as he peered around the tree.

“It's all right, sweetheart. Stay right there and guard the laundry for me.”

Michael nodded, looked around, and snatched up a little stick. She wanted to smile but returned her focus on the stranger.

“You don't understand, Mizz Talbot. Your husband left some cash behind, and my employer insists you come to Kansas City and collect it yerself.”

“Why didn't he send it with you?”

The man shrugged one beefy shoulder and grinned wryly. “Maybe he don't trust me.”

“Then why should I?”

He opened his mouth and slammed it shut, looking perplexed. His gaze took in her ragged dress and bare feet. She tucked her toes back under her skirt. It was none of his business if she wanted to save her only pair of shoes for cold weather.

“Looks to me like you and yours could use the money. Won't take long to ride the train to KC.”

Lara sighed. “I knew my husband well, Mister…uh…” She lifted her brows and peered at him.

“Jones. Homer Jones.”

“I am
not
going anywhere with you, Mr. Jones. My family needs me. Besides, Tom never had a pocket full of coins—ever. Much less enough to make it worth journeying to Kansas City.”

“The boss ain't gonna be happy about this.” The man slapped on his hat and snagged his horse's reins. The animal jerked its head and snorted. Mr. Jones muttered under his breath, “Nope, he won't like it one bit.”

“That isn't my problem. Good day, Mr. Jones.” As much as she wanted to hope Tom had left behind some money, she knew the truth. Her husband was a wastrel.

Lara tossed the heavy branch into a patch of the thick buffalo grass and wildflowers that battled the trees lining the creek for the precious liquid. “You can come out now.” She held her hand out to her son. The boy jumped up and ran to her, burying his face in her skirt. Had he understood that his father was dead? Or had he been frightened by the situation?

She smoothed Michael's white-blond curls, so much like Tom's, then gave him a hug. A boy shouldn't have to grow up without a father, but then Tom had been home so few times since his son's birth that she wasn't even sure if Michael would have recognized him.