Kate Wingo - Western Fire 01 (8 page)

“Why
, of all the conceit!”

“Now, don’t you worry, pretty lady. Like I said earlier, sundown will be here soon enough.”
Spencer returned his hat to his head, setting it at a jaunty angle. Raising two fingers to the brim, he gave her a mocking salute. Then, with a slight tug on the reins, he maneuvered his horse up the hillside.

Mercy stood motionless
, still breathless from their encounter. She prayed that her plan would succeed for she didn’t dare contemplate another night forced to share her bed with Spencer McCabe.

Soon enough he
would rue the day that he ever brought his rebel cohorts to the Hibbert farm. Once Gabriel delivered the message to Farmer Guernsey, the Federal troops would arrive. At which time, Spencer and all the other bushwhackers would be rounded up and shipped off to a Union prison camp.

As she made her way back to the stream, Mercy could not help but smile as she contemplated Spencer’s future.

Within moments of returning to the stream, she spied Gabriel running down the path, his face beet red, his chest heaving. Mercy rushed toward him, hope and fear mingled into one anxious ball of emotion.

“Were you able to find Farmer Guernsey?”

Unable to speak, the child reached into his pants’ pocket to retrieve a slip of paper, Mercy disheartened to see that it was her original note.

“Turn-it-over,” Gabriel panted, still trying to catch his breath.

Flipping the sheet of paper over, Mercy saw that there was a hastily scrawled message on the other side.
‘Gone for help.’

“Oh, praise be!” she cried, hugging Gabriel to her waist. Remembering the decoy, she quickly pulled away from him. “There’s no time to waste. You dismantle the dummy while I gather the laundry.”

Hurriedly, they went about their tasks. Within minutes, they were ready to return to the house, Mercy barely able to contain her joy.

After cautioning Gabriel to say nothing about their exploit, not even to their own family members, the two of them
trudged up the hill.

The rider galloped into the encampment at full speed, his face wind-burned, his horse lathered.
After tugging on the horse’s reins, his exhausted body fell from the saddle in an ungainly heap. Before he could stagger to his feet, a pistol was shoved against his temple.

“Bushwhackers!” he hissed at his would
-be assailant.

T
he pistol was immediately removed from his forehead as if, with that one word, the horseman had invoked a magical incantation.

Perhaps he did;
for within seconds, a dozen or more armed men swarmed around him, repeating the word, their voices getting louder and louder, creating a ferocious, primal din.

Just as suddenly, they quieted, their ranks opening wide as a white-haired man stormed
through the mob. The horseman took nervous note of the pair of loaded Navy revolvers strapped around the man’s waist, another pair protruding from his shirt pockets. Although clothed in civilian attire, the white-haired man wore a pair of fringed red leather leggings, a uniform of sorts.

Standing over top
of the spent rider, the white-haired gunman extended an accusing finger. “Who are you?” he queried, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

“S-Sam G-Guernsey,” the rider sputtered. Suddenly
realizing the identity of the man standing before him, his bowels threatened to liquefy from the fright of it.

“And where did you see these whore
-mongering bushwhackers?”

“I ain’t
set eyes on them myself,” he answered. Seeing the look of fury that flashed across the other man’s face, Guernsey quickly amended himself. “I got a message that they’re camped out at the Hibbert farmstead.”

“And the man
-child, Gabriel, does he still live with the Hibbert family?”

The rider nodded, not about to ask why such a th
ing would be of any importance.

“Thank you, brother.” The white-haired gunman held his hand over
Sam Guernsey’s head as though giving a benediction. “You have done good work this day.”

The leader of the group
then turned toward his hand-picked followers, his arms opened wide, his eyes gleaming with an evangelic light. More than one man present thought that he resembled a crusader of yore, one of those priestly warriors who had marched to far-flung Jerusalem to slay the infidels. As he spoke, the assembled crowd fell silent.

“The time has come for us to do the Lord’s work. And the Lord commands that we kill the southern-born heathens. Kill them, one and all!”

En masse, the men ran to their horses amid a cacophony of savage cries. Within moments, they were gone, leaving only a thick cloud of dust in their wake.

Sam Guernsey waited until they had completely
disappeared from sight before he slowly rose to his feet, still stunned that he’d actually come face-to-face with the infamous Dark Angel.

Bent
over a large brass kettle, Mercy diligently scrubbed it with vinegar and coarse salt. Pausing in her labors, she wiped her brow with her forearm, taking a moment to catch her breath.

“How much longer do you think they intend to stay?” Prudence
inquired, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

Mercy raised her head
, eyeing her sister and Gabriel. Both of them were seated at the kitchen table, industriously engaged in ripping strips of old clothing which would later be turned into braided door mats.

“I’m not certain,” Mercy answered, well aware that the question referred to Bloody Ned Sykes and his gang of cutthroats. Unwilling to place
Prudence in a dangerous or compromising predicament, Mercy had decided not to divulge the plan to her sister. Although she was now beginning to worry that something may have gone awry with her grand scheme – dusk had already fallen and help had yet to arrive.

A wistful smile flitted across Prudence’s lips as she tore an old petticoat in half. “Well, at least I’ve been able to spend time with Dewey.”

“Prudence! How can you even think, let alone say, such a thing.”

Her sister’s hands stilled, clearly bewildered. “But Dewey isn’t like the rest of them. And neither is his brother Spencer.”

“He most certainly is like the rest of them. Lest you forget, it was Spencer McCabe who brought these demons into our home.”

“Oh, but Dewey explained all that to me,” Prudence rebutted, quickly coming to her beau’s defense. “He told me that Spencer figured it was the only way he could keep us safe from
—”

“Thank you, I’ve heard all that I care to hear,” Mercy interjected, annoyed with Pru for being so b
esotted with Spencer’s brother.

Why Prudence would think that Spencer was any different from his fiendish cohorts was a mystery to her. True, he didn’t necessarily act like the other bushwhackers. Rather than wile away the afternoon drinking spirits and playing cards, his time had been spent chopping wood and mending fences. He was also conspicuous for being plainly attired
; his rebel comrades garmented in a jaunty array of elaborately embroidered hunting shirts and beplumed slouch hats. And she supposed there was something to be said for the deep, fraternal bond that he obviously shared with his younger brother. Any man who harbored such strong familial loyalty must have a deep sense of—

Belatedly realizing
that she’d been on the verge of praising the rogue, Mercy banished the treacherous thought to the far recesses of her mind.
Dear God in heaven. I’m no different than Prudence.
Mooning over the man simply because he had a handsome face, a broad pair of manly shoulders, and eyes the color of—

Flustered,
Mercy splashed more vinegar into the kettle, inwardly vowing not to waste another passing thought on Spencer McCabe.

Alas, i
t proved a short-lived vow, Spencer entering the kitchen several moments later with his brother in tow.

“Mercy, might I have a word with you?”

“I’m listening,” she said somewhat stiffly, applying herself to her pot scrubbing with renewed vigor.

Spencer put a restraining hand on her wrist, gently forcing her to cease her efforts. “In private,” he said
in a lowered voice.

Mercy debated the wisdom of obliging him,
thinking that whatever he had to say, he could surely divulge in front of Prudence and Gabriel. About to refuse his request, something in Spencer’s earnest expression caused her to change her mind.

“
As you wish.” Turning her back on him, she unrolled her dress sleeves and untied her apron, hanging it in its customary place.

To
Mercy’s ire, Spencer cuffed a hand around her elbow, guiding her through the open back door.

Once
they were in the yard, she jerked her arm free.

“What is it
that you wish to say to me?”

“Not here.” He reclaimed his hold on her elbow as he led
her away from the house.

When they reached the back of the barn, Spencer came to a halt. Slipping his hand inside his wool
en vest, he removed two small framed daguerreotypes which he handed to her. Overcome with emotion, Mercy stared at the well-loved pictures of her father and two uniformed brothers.

“You don’t know how much this means to me
,” she said, clasping the cherished keepsakes to her bosom. “Whatever can I do to thank you?”

“How about slipping those pretty lil’ arms around my neck and giving me a nice big kiss?”

“I’d sooner kiss the devil!” Mercy retorted, realizing, too late, that his kind gesture had been a ploy to win her affections.

“Hey, now.
I was only funning with you.”

“And is that what you were doing when you forced that . . . that horrible kiss upon me last night in front of your hoodlum friends? And this morning when I woke up
and you . . . you. . . .” Mercy’s voice faltered, unable to think of a word to describe what he’d done to her.
Caress? Fondle?
She was uncertain, the correct terminology escaping her.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, Spencer urged her to step closer to him.

Mercy’s heartbeat instantly quickened, her breath catching in her throat.

Dear God above
. That’s why he brought her behind the barn, so that he could have his way with her. So that no one would hear her cries for help.

Terrified,
Mercy clutched the framed daguerreotypes to her chest. Unable to meet Spencer’s gaze, she looked heavenward, silently pleading for some sort of divine intervention.

“Will you at least
look
at me?”

“No! Never!” she cried, yanki
ng herself free from Spencer’s grasp.

Realizing that there would be no heavenly assistance
coming her way, Mercy lifted her skirts and took off running, ignoring Spencer’s order to stop. When she reached the end of the barn, she came to a grinding halt – a crowd of bushwhackers had gathered in the farmyard. Desperate, she turned her head from side-to-side, searching for some other means of escape. Spying a pitchfork stuck into a nearby haystack, she tossed the pictures to the ground and rushed forward, snatching hold of the pitchfork just as Spencer caught up to her.

With weapon in hand, Mercy turned on her heel and lunged. Cursing aloud, Spencer jumped backward, only narrowing escaping being stabbed in the belly.

“You stay away from me, you lecherous fiend! There is nothing,
nothing
, that you can say that will induce me to engage in—”

“Will you just stop and listen to me?
” Spencer interrupted. “I’m not asking you to, um, fornicate with me, if that’s what you were thinking.”

Mercy gasped aloud, his indelicate utterance causing her to take another jab at him.

“How dare you speak to me in such a vile manner!” Shaking with righteous indignation, she now realized how gravely mistaken she’d been to think that Spencer McCabe might be different from the other bushwhackers.

“You’ve got this all wrong, Mercy.”

“Yes, but I now intend to make it right.” Once again she thrust the pitchfork at his midsection.

As Spencer jumped backward, Mercy speculatively eyed the pair of revolvers belted around his waist.
If he so much as made a move to unholster them, she’d run him through.

Slowly Spencer raised his hands to waist height, his palms held outward. “Whoa, now. Easy does it. I’m sorry if I offended you, all right?” His measured voice and posture
was similar to those of a man trying to tame a wild horse. “Maybe I could have been more gentlemanly in my phrasing.”

“Gentlemanly! Humph! After what happened last night, and again this morning, I doubt you even know the meaning of the word.”

“Do you always have to be so damned churlish?” Spencer shot back. “I admit that what happened this morning when we were in bed together wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s just that, well, one thing led to another and. . . .things got a little out of hand. It’s not like I planned it that way.”

Perhaps it was because of
Spencer’s earnest expression; whatever the reason, Mercy relaxed her grip on the pitchfork. “And what about last night? What’s your excuse for that horrible kiss that you inflicted upon me in front of your hoodlum friends?”

Spencer smiled sheepishly. “Aw, come on, now. It wasn’t all that bad, was it?”

“Many a time I have dreamt of my first kiss,” she told him, her body quivering with repressed anger. “But I never envisioned it happening in front of a crowd of leering, drunken bushwhackers.”

Almost immediately, an incredulous look came over Spencer
. “That was your first kiss? No wonder you’re mad as hell at me.” He ran his hand back and forth along his jaw, clearly surprised by her revelation. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You’re actually
apologizing
to me?”