the Quinter family. Then again, she'd known that ever since
Jonas had died in her arms—the day July Austin had killed
him.
"You coming?"
Summer, brought back to earth by Stephanie's question,
glanced up.
"Someone just rode in. You coming to see who it is?"
Stephanie moved to the door.
Summer snapped the bean in her hand, throwing the ends
in the scrap pile and the center in the bowl as she stood.
Wiping both hands on the long apron covering her green
striped dress, both gifts from Stephanie, she followed the
other woman out the door and onto the small porch.
August and September ran around the corner of the house
and bounded onto the porch to stand behind her. The children
were wary of strangers, rightfully so given the life they'd lived
the past few years. She stretched her hands behind her and
drew them to her sides like a mother hen does her chicks in a
rain storm. Arms draped around their thin shoulders, she held
them as three men dismounted near the water trough.
The children, who looked healthier than she'd ever seen
them before—due to the fact they now had plenty of food and
were able to sleep, feeling safe and sound—glanced up. She
offered them each a smile.
Their gazes, cautious and questioning, settled on her face.
"It's all right," she assured, though her insides swelled with
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heavy doom. The metal badges pinned on two of the men's
vests were impossible to overlook.
"Mrs. Quinter," one said as all three walked toward the
porch.
"Malcolm," Stephanie nodded. "What brings you out here?"
He tilted his head toward the men on either side of him.
Summer knew both of them. One was Pat Sughrue, the
sheriff of Dodge City, and the other was George Hinkle, the
past sheriff who acted as a deputy every now and again. The
one who'd spoken was the sheriff of the small town a few
miles from the Quinter place, Scott City, formerly known as
Nixon. The town had recently renamed itself after an army
man of some sorts.
"We're on official business," Malcolm Turley said. His gaze
then settled on Summer. "Miss Austin, we need to speak to
you."
"What for?" Stephanie asked, none to friendly.
"Perhaps we could speak to you," Malcolm said, his gaze
briefly touching on August and September, "alone for a
moment."
Summer trembled so hard she had to plant her heels on
the floor to keep her knees from knocking.
Stephanie Quinter huffed and folded her arms across her
amble bosoms. "Her name ain't Miss Austin. It's Mrs. Quinter.
Mrs. Scott Quinter."
Malcolm looked surprised. "Snake's all right? He's
recovered? I thought Doc said he was still unconscious."
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"Of course he's still unconscious." Stephanie threw her
arms in the air. "He was shot up worse than a rabid coyote.
Bullet holes all over him."
Malcolm frowned. "If he's still unconscious how are he and
Miss Austin married?"
Stephanie propped her hands on her hips. "The usual way,
by a preacher."
The sheriff took off his hat and ran a hand over his
thinning hair. "Stephanie," he said, shaking his head. "You
can't marry off an unconscious man."
"I didn't," she said. "He agreed to it. Ask Reverend
Kirkpatrick if'n you don't believe me."
"How—" the lawman shook his head, stopping his own
question. "Stephanie," he said a moment later. "You can't
keep marrying your sons off in the middle of the night. One
day one of those boys is gonna shoot you with that old
cannon you got. And there isn't a thing anyone's gonna do
about it."
"Malcolm Turley!" Stephanie screeched. "You little
whipper-snap! I oughta—" she took a step toward the man,
"I'm gonna smack—"
George Hinkle stepped between Sheriff Turley and
Stephanie Quinter. "Break it up." His sad eyes looked at her.
"Summer," he said, "maybe August and September could go
in the house for a few minutes?"
Summer let out the breath she'd been holding. "Children,"
she tried to sound calm, and assuring, "there's a basket of
beans on the table that need to be snapped. Please see to it."
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August and September, used to minding when strangers
came around, scampered into the house without a hint of
disappointment. George Hinkle lifted a hand. Summer took it,
letting him lead her down the steps and across the dirt.
Stephanie, as well as the other two men followed. When
George stopped in the shade of a large cottonwood, the rest
gathered around.
"What you need to talk to her about?" Stephanie asked,
placing an arm around Summer's shoulders.
"I'm afraid we have some news," George said, removing
his hat.
"What is it, Mr. Hinkle?" Summer asked. A thousand
thoughts raced through her mind. Snake had never made it to
Dodge. Had never been able to claim the win. Were they here
to take her and the children back, give September to
Wainwright? Her throat burned. She wouldn't let it happen.
Couldn't let it happen.
"I'm afraid Miss A—" George paused when Stephanie
cleared her throat and then continued, "Mrs. Quinter, that
your father, July Austin, was found dead earlier this week."
Her legs went weak, would have collapsed beneath her if
Sheriff Sughrue hadn't stepped forward and took her elbow. It
was news she'd known would someday be delivered, but still,
like a wagon wheel one knew would eventually let loose, it
shocked her beyond belief now that it had happened.
A thump sounded behind her. "Here set her down."
She glanced over her shoulder. Malcolm Turley had set a
bucket upside down and gestured to Sheriff Sughrue to let
her rest on it. The sheriff on one side and Stephanie on the
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other eased her until she sat on the bucket. It wobbled as her
weight settled.
Summer lowered her head, squeezing her temples with
one hand. "What happened?" she asked.
George crouched down in front of her. The man had always
been nice to her, especially over the last couple of years when
she took to cleaning at the Long Branch. He'd watched out for
her, kept an eye out as she made her way home after work.
His wife was the school teacher, and Summer had no doubt
the couple knew the hard life August and September had. It
was bad enough to have the town drunk as your father, but a
half-breed for an older sister caused many more problems for
the children.
"He was shot," George said sympathetically. "Most likely
by the same men that shot Snake. The card game was never
settled. Snake never made it to Dodge."
"I know," she said, nodding. "It was Wainwright, wasn't
it?"
"We think so," Pat Sughrue said.
"I told them you didn't see who shot Snake," Malcolm
Turley offered.
Sheriff Turley had questioned her after she brought Snake
home. Summer covered her face with both hands, attempting
to rid the images of Snake's blood encrusted body. She'd
been afraid he was dead by the time she'd led his big horse
into the yard. Terrified the men would catch up to them, she'd
barely covered his wounds before she'd forced their mounts
to the limits racing back toward Stephanie's house. When
Jonas had assured no one followed, she'd slowed their pace,
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but never once had she allowed the animals to completely
stop until they'd arrived at the barn late that night.
"You didn't see anything?" George asked.
She took a breath and wiped at her eyes and nose before
lifting her face. "They were too far away. All I saw were two
men on horseback. I couldn't even make out the color of their
animals."
"No one's seen hide or hair of Wainwright. We're assuming
he headed back down to Texas, but we can't be sure," Sheriff
Sughrue said.
"What's going to happen now? Do I need to go back to
Dodge to bury—" Choking on her words, she couldn't
continue.
"No, that's already been taken care of," George said.
Thankful she didn't have to attend to the task, she realized
something else. "The undertaker will want money."
"July had some, enough to bury him." Sheriff Sughrue then
asked, "Is there anything at the house you need, want? The
landlord wants to rent it to someone else."
"No. No, I took everything the children need when we left."
George patted her shoulder. "You're safe here. The
children are safe here, and we'll put out some posters for
Wainwright. We just had to come and tell you the news. I
know it doesn't sound like much, but I'm sorry Summer. So
very sorry."
"Thank you," she said. "All of you, for riding out, for telling
me." She squared her shoulders, and her gaze went to the
house. "I best go talk to the children now."
"Do you want me to come with you?" Stephanie asked.
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Summer stood and let out a shaky breath. "No, thank you.
This is something I have to do myself."
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This time when he woke up his mind wasn't quite as fuzzy,
at least that's what Snake thought when he first opened his
eyes. Moments later, the nagging suspicion of being watched
made him twist his neck. Two bright blue eyes gazed at him.
The child—a boy—knelt beside the bed with his chin on the
edge of the mattress.
"Hi," the kid said with a grin that showed his front two
teeth were surprisingly large.
"Hi," Snake responded, somewhat cautiously. He glanced
around the room, taking a double check that it was in fact his
bedroom. The curtains, the dresser, the bed, all were familiar.
It was his room, but who was the kid?
"You awake?" the kid asked.
Snake took a moment to contemplate, making sure he was
indeed a wake. "Yes." His voice crackled like a bullfrog's.
"'Cause I'm supposed to holler for Sissy if'n you wake up."
A thick blanket of blond hair hung around the kid's round
face. It was somewhat disheveled and reminded Snake of his
own hair when he was growing up. Ma had forever been
greasing it down. He could still remember the stench of the oil
she used.
The kid spoke again, and Snake turned to him. "What?"
"Should I holler for Sissy, or are you gonna go back to
sleep?"
"Sissy?" Snake asked. "Who's that?"
"My sister. September."
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Memories hit Snake like a spring flood. The card game.
Summer Austin and her little sister and brother. The ride to
Dodge. He glanced down. A thick, white bandage held his left
arm across his chest. With his other hand, he lifted the sheet.
His left leg had a bandage wrapped around it. The glance also
let him know he was as naked as a newly hatched bird.
He laid the sheet back down and scowled at the boy who'd
been peering underneath the covering as well.
The boy grinned. "So, you awake?"
"Yes, I'm awake." He tried to swallow, but his mouth was
drier than straw. He pointed to the glass sitting on the table.
The boy handed it to him. Snake downed the water in one
swallow. "Thanks." He handed the glass back.
The boy set it down. "I'll go holler."
Snake snatched his arm. "Not so quick there fella. Where's
my mother?"
"She and Summer are out in your garden."
He stretched to see out the window on the far side of the
room. The movement hurt, but he strained harder. Little
more than the tops of far off trees could be seen through the
glass. "The vegetable garden out back?"
The boy shook his head.
He plopped back down, flinching with pain. "The flower
garden out front?"
"No, your big garden. The one that's got all the wheat
growing in it."
"What are they doing out there?"
"Thrashing."
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"Thrashing?" He breathed past the pain his new
movements caused. "How long have I been asleep?"
The kid shrugged.
He pointed across the room. "Get me some britches out of
that dresser over there."
The boy frowned. "I don't think I'm supposed to do that.
Summer said if'n you woke up I was supposed to holler at
September, and she'd take Maisy and go get Summer."
Snake used his good arm to scoot into a sitting position.
Pain poured down his arm and leg, and though he imagined,
it had lessened some since the shooting, it hurt like hell. He
clenched his teeth until the knife-stabbing throbs eased a
mite.
"August?" he asked, "You're name's August, isn't it?"
"Yup."