Prairie Song (18 page)

“And I will be in your debt,” Margaret answered. She had no time to add more, for Holliday almost ran from the room.

Margaret lifted the covering on the food. “Mr. Tucker, if you’ll wash your hands, you may join me for supper.”

Wart glanced around to make sure she was talking to him and then ran to scrub his hands.

Grayson couldn’t have been more shocked when, just before sunset, Holliday appeared at the front door. There she was in all her painted glory with her fists on her hips and a mission in her eyes.

When he opened the door she marched in like Sherman’s army crossing Georgia. She removed her hat and jacket and hung them on the hall rack as if she’d done so every day of her life. “Where’s that useless housekeeper, Azile?”

Too stunned to protest, Grayson answered, “She never came back last night.”

“That means she’s drunk down around the shanties. She was never no good, but who else is going to want to live with a dying old woman.” Holliday marched up the stairs. “How’s old Hattie, anyway? It’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve seen her.”

“She’s been yelling all day, but if I even go near her door she threatens to shoot me with that cannon she keeps on her bed.”

Holliday nodded. “The old bag hasn’t changed much. I’ll see to her as soon as I look in on Cherish and the boy. Have they had supper?”

Grayson nodded, remembering how feeding Cherish had been harder than herding a hundred head of longhorns over the open country in a thunderstorm.

Within ten minutes, Holliday had checked on everyone and was reorganizing everything. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to run a house. Grayson had struggled all day to make Cherish comfortable and keep Bar from moving around too much, but he’d succeeded mostly in spilling soup on her bed and frightening old Hattie farther into insanity.

Now, with Holliday to help, it all seemed so simple. He lifted Cherish in his arms as the old woman changed her sheets. She was so small, like a child. He was almost afraid he might break her. When he laid her back on the bed he was sweating worse than if he’d lifted a ton and not a hundred-pound woman.

When he finally remembered to feed the barn animals it was dark. He hadn’t bothered to carry a lantern when he returned to the house. He knew his way across the yard and through the house without any need for light. As he passed each room, checking doors and windows, out of the corner of his eye he caught a shadow in the trees near the front road. It flickered and was gone.

Grayson climbed the stairs silently. “Holliday!” he whispered. “Stay with Cherish and Bar. We got company out front.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but crossed the dark sitting room for his rifle. As he reached for the weapon, a hand shot out to grip it just above his fingers.

“Don’t be alarmed.” A voice shattered the silence. “I’m here to help.”

Grayson pulled at the rifle and the man released his grip. “How did you get in here and who are you?” He moved so that the firelight shone on a tall, slender man in black, who wore his guns like an expert. For a moment Grayson was reminded of Father Daniel, but this man was harder, more powerful.

“Neither of those questions is important,” the stranger answered. “What is, is that I have the same goal as you and that is to keep the folks of this house safe.”

Grayson knew the man could have shot him from the darkness, but hadn’t. If he’d made it this far into the house he could have crossed the sitting room and frightened the others—or worse—while Grayson was in the barn. But he hadn’t, and for that one reason Grayson trusted him. “Let’s go. We’ve got company coming downstairs.”

“I know,” the stranger added, “and from the mixture of whiskey and gunpowder it could be deadly.”

Both men took the stairs at a run. From the wide hallway foyer, they could see both the front door and the kitchen entrance, but there were too many windows to cover.

Grayson watched the road while the unknown man never removed his gaze from the kitchen entrance. “Mind telling me your name? I’m not in the habit of turning my back to a stranger.”

“If you knew my name, you’d probably be less inclined to trust me.” The stranger laughed. “But believe this: I’d protect Cherish with my life.”

Glancing at Hattie’s door, Grayson added, “There’s an old woman …”

“I know,” the stranger interupted. “She’s safe enough. Besides, she’d probably kill both of us if we tried to move her upstairs.”

Agreeing, Grayson glared over his shoulder at the man. Whoever he was, he knew this house and its occupants and, strangely, that information made him more an ally than an enemy.

Grayson opened his mouth to ask a few questions, but the sound of shattering glass stopped him. Suddenly the trees across the road were alive with men.

“They think Cherish and the boy are alone,” the stranger whispered. “They’ve been drinking and building up the courage to come after the treasure some folks believe is buried in here.”

“Do you believe the rumor?”

The stranger’s face twisted into a mask of a man much older than his time on earth reflected. “I gave up believing in anything years ago.”

“Fire above their heads and maybe we’ll frighten them off.” Grayson watched as the drunken figures seemed to stretch across the road.

“I don’t believe in wasting bullets,” the stranger answered.

There was no time to argue. Men stormed the house in a flash flood of bullets and shouts. Grayson felt the stranger lean his back against his and they both began to fire. Suddenly, the night was bright with flashes and smoky with panic. The attackers yelled and scattered in cowards’ retreat. They had been all ready to charge at once but now none would take the lead. Before the gunfire stopped, several were limping or being helped back into the trees.

Grayson and the stranger reloaded silently and prepared for the next assault. It came with less fanfare, for the jackals had become snakes, sneaking up to the house in the shadows. Grayson ran out of ammunition first and knelt to reload.

With one violent shove, the stranger pushed Grayson backward and stepped over him. With lightning swiftness, he aimed and fired. A man jumped back out of the window, his gun firing harmlessly at the stars. The attacker’s screams could be heard as one of his friends helped him crawl back into the blackness.

The realization that the stranger had saved his life shocked Grayson far more than the screams of pain. He shoved the remaining bullets into his Colt and stood beside the slender man. “Thanks. Stepping in front of me, you could have taken a shot meant for me.” Grayson thought he knew men, bad and good, but this one had him baffled. “Why take that kind of a chance?”

The stranger reloaded his rifle and answered, “I saw the way you lifted Cherish while Holliday changed her bed. You treated her like you cared.”

That was all he said—all he needed to say. Grayson knew what he needed to know about this man. He leaned his powerful shoulders against the stranger’s back and they waited for trouble to knock once more.

But not a sound came for several minutes. Then, a loud thud rumbled on the side of the porch like someone had thrown something heavy against the house. All was silent. The shadows of men disappeared. Drunks returned to the bottle for their comfort and dreams.

The two men in the hallway waited, shoulder to shoulder, for several long heartbeats. Finally, the sound of a horse galloping toward the house tightened their nerves.

“Kirkland!” the rider yelled. “Kirkland. It’s the sheriff.”

Grayson moved to the door and watched the sheriff climb the steps. He knelt beside the bundle that had been thrown on the porch.

“I heard the gunfire and …” The sheriff pulled at a blanket covering the bundle. His gasp seemed to suck the air from the night. “Hell’s thunder! You better get a light.”

Moments later, when Grayson returned with the lantern, he felt his stomach turn at the sight at the sheriff’s feet.

The body of a woman lay completely covered in blood as if she’d died an inch at a time. Her skin was swollen and bruised with cuts crisscrossing her flesh. The only clothing she wore was a brightly colored scarf of red and gold knotted about her neck. Her limbs were tangled where bones had been broken.

Grayson turned to talk to the stranger, but his partner in battle was gone.

The sheriff lifted a note that had been pinned to the blanket. He glanced at it and handed it to Grayson.

Grayson looked down at the message. His eyes turned to steel in the lantern light as he read the words written in a clear, sober hand:

“THE TWO WOMEN MUST LEAVE

OR THEY WILL BE NEXT!”

Brant slid his arm beneath Cherish’s legs and lifted her. “Come with me, baby,” he whispered into her golden hair.

Holliday laid a blanket over Cherish. “She’ll be safer with you than here. I’ll take Bar with me. The girls will keep an eye on him.”

Cherish opened her still-blackened eyes. “Brant?” There was no fear in her tone, only relief.

“I’m here, darling. I’m going to take you somewhere safe.”

The door creaked slightly and Grayson’s bulk suddenly blocked the path. “You’re not taking her anywhere, Brant Coulter. You must be mad to think she’d be safer with you.”

The corner of Brant’s lip twisted up, but the rest of his face was stone-hard. “I see you figured out who I am, Captain Kirkland.”

“You planning to add kidnapping to your list of hanging crimes? How many men have you gunned down in cold blood now, Brant, six … seven?”

“Enough that one more won’t matter much.”

“I never heard of you hurting a woman. But I guess one crime builds on another.” Grayson didn’t bother to pull his gun. He knew he could never get a clean shot with Cherish in Brant’s arms. Plus, from what he’d heard about Brant Coulter, he knew he wasn’t the type of man to use a woman as a shield. Coulter had been causing trouble in Texas for years, but oddly enough it had been directed at southern leaders or other outlaws and never toward the Union.

“I’m not kidnapping anyone. I think Cherish would be safer with me than in this house. She saved my life once and I owe her this one.”

“She’d be safer with one of the most wanted men in Texas? Where would you take her, into Indian territory? Or maybe to a hideout with other outlaws?” Grayson moved closer. He believed that Brant had only her welfare in mind and that one tool had to be his weapon.

“This house was built to withstand Indian raids. Between the two of us we can protect it. But if you take her out in the open, she might end up like the housekeeper.”

Holliday’s eyes widened. “What happened to the housekeeper?”

“Her body got dropped on the porch a few minutes ago. Whoever killed her must have been out of his mind from the looks of what was done to the body—even after she was dead.”

“Oh, Lordy, Lordy, save us!” Holliday had a way of getting religious when she felt the Grim Reaper knocking.

“That settles it.” Brant moved toward the door. “I’m taking Cherish with me. Those men tonight only wanted the house. They’d heard the rumors like everyone else in town that there was a stash of gold hidden in here. Times are hard for some of the men. They lost everything in the war and they’re looking for a quick gold mine. Desperate men do desperate things.”

Grayson crossed his arms and didn’t move. “Maybe they were the Knights of the Golden Circle looking to find some old records on their organization? Uncle Sam would give a great deal to see such a list.”

Both Brant and Holliday laughed. Holliday waved her hands in the air as if erasing his words. “Those boys haven’t been around in years. They were all talk and brag anyway. They spent hours talking their noble talk, then they spent all their money down at my place on drink and girls.”

Grayson’s sharp eyes didn’t miss Brant’s silence. He’d bet a month’s pay that Brant knew a great deal more about the Knights. Who knew, maybe he even was one. If Grayson could find one man, it would be all he needed to find out who the others were and if they were still active. But right now they had two women’s lives at stake and that list of men, if it existed, would have to wait.

Brant finally broke the silence. “I’m taking Cherish, be it around or over your body, Yank.”

Grayson wasn’t in the habit of killing a man who had just saved his life. There was no mistaking the way Cherish clung to him that she wanted to be with Brant.
Hell
, Grayson thought,
she whispered his name half the night
. Grayson stepped aside. “Give me a week to clear this mess up, then bring her back. You’re a man every lawman in Texas would like to get his gun sights on. She won’t be safe with you for long.”

“One week.” Brant maneuvered through the door. His dark eyes left no doubt that he’d planned to fight and was surprised at Grayson’s agreement. “Don’t worry, Captain, I’ll take care of her.”

Grayson laughed. “Oh, if you even frighten her, I’m not the only one you’ll have to deal with. Wait till you face Maggie.”

Margaret Alexander was pacing the cell floor faster than a Baptist preacher paces the hallway during a “love offering.”

She’d give Wart just enough time to settle back in his chair before snapping at him. The deputy was growing more nervous every minute. He’d resorted to the habit of running his fingers through his thinning hair. Margaret was sure she could see more scalp with each passing.

“You’ve got to let me out of here, this minute.” She jabbed her finger at him. “Do you really believe I’m safer in here, where anyone in town could walk in and shoot me, than I would be in my own house?”

Wart almost dropped the gun he was cleaning. “Sheriff said to keep you here until they investigate the murder of your housekeeper.”

Margaret softened her voice. “Look, I’ve been with you all day so it’s a sure bet that I didn’t kill her. I should be the one person in town
out
of jail, Mr. Tucker.”

Wart thought that over. Her logic made sense and when she called him Mr. Tucker, like no one in his life ever had, he wanted to believe everything she said. She was a hard handful of a woman, but she sort of grew on a person.

The sheriff saved him from having to answer by coming through the door with his usual haste. Two men carrying a cot came just behind him. The sheriff opened the door to Margaret’s cell and waved the men inside. They dropped their charge, none too gently, on the cot in her cell and hurried out.

Margaret stared in shock at the pale face of Westley Alexander. “What is the meaning of this!” she screamed.

The sheriff stepped past the barred door and locked it behind him. “Doc said your husband ain’t going to make it unless he’s got somebody to look after him through this fever. I took him over to Holliday’s but her girls wouldn’t touch him. A couple even said they wished they’d been the ones who put the knife into him. Father Daniel at the mission said he had his hands full.”

The sheriff smiled as if he’d just solved a great mystery. “So, I figure, you’re a nurse and you got a stake in his living.”

“But I’m in jail because you believe I’m the one who attacked him!” Male logic had often eluded Margaret but this time it flabbergasted her.

The sheriff scratched his chin and considered the point. “I couldn’t think of no one else to nurse him. I was hoping maybe you had a taste of jail and would be willing to help him live.”

“I’d rather watch him die!”

“If he does, you’ll be hung before the week’s out.”

Wart jumped from his desk chair and added, “Look at it this way, Miss Margaret. If he lives you’ll have another chance to try and kill him.”

To Margaret’s amazement, the sheriff nodded as if Wart’s suggestion was rational. The whole world was on a train to insanity and these two philosophers were the engineers.

She forced herself to look at Westley. Whoever had doctored him hadn’t even bothered to button his shirt and vest when he’d finished. The bandage that had been laid over him now drooped to the side as if the doctor had considered it a waste of time to secure it properly. He was, in truth, near death. His fever was high and the wound was seeping. The area around the stitches was already showing signs of being infected.

Standing back a foot, she stared down at this man she hardly knew. She had carried his name proudly all through the war and he had dishonored her. If that had not been enough to make her hate him, he’d beaten Cherish. Margaret wished him dead from the very depths of her soul, but if she was ever going to get out of jail and help protect Cherish from the terror going on at Hattie’s Parlor, she had to save Westley’s life.

“Mr. Tucker! Fetch my bag from the house and put on a pot of water to boil. I’ll need whiskey, soap, and plenty of clean bandages.”

The sheriff smiled. He knew most folks didn’t like Westley Alexander and could care less who killed him, but Westley and the sheriff had downed an ocean of drinks together and he reckoned he owed him one. He watched as Margaret worked and laughed to himself. Wouldn’t they have a joke telling old Westley that his wife was the one that saved his life? After talking to her five minutes, he’d known she wasn’t the one who’d stabbed Westley. But a man had to take some action when he was sheriff, before the town started thinking about how he might need replacing.

Wart returned with the bag. Margaret worked fast, not wanting to touch Westley any more than she had to. In a matter of minutes she’d cleaned the wound and applied a smelly black salve. As her hands slid along his flabby abdomen, she thought of how she’d touched Grayson the night they’d spent together under the stars. His stomach had been hard and tight.

Margaret forced herself to continue. She drew strength from Wart’s logic. Westley had to recover so that she could make him pay for what he’d done to Cherish.

With the skill of a professional, she wrapped the wound. Her actions were ordered by reflex as her mind tried not to think. Finally, she placed a cool towel across his forehead and asked to be excused from the cell.

The sheriff motioned for Wart to follow her outside and keep an eye on her, but the deputy allowed her privacy once they were out back.

Margaret walked to the washstand several feet away and began pouring water into a tin basin. As the water splashed silver in the moonlight, her hands began to shake. Water spilled everywhere and she had no control. Suddenly her entire body was shaking. Her fingers released the tin pitcher and it clattered noisily to the ground. She gripped the side of the stand for support, for the world was turning, flying upside down.

“Margaret!” A voice shouted from what seemed like a long way away. “Margaret!”

The earth was moving like a swing through the air. All she could see before her was Cherish’s face all bruised and bloody. The description of Azile’s body materialized in her mind. The feel of Westley’s flesh crawled across her skin as the smell of his wound filled her lungs. They blended with all the bodies she’d seen over the four years of war … all the blood … all the pain.

“Margaret!”

Someone was pulling her to him … pulling her into the strong wall of his chest … pulling her back to reality.

Maggie held tightly, afraid that if she let go she’d release all the sanity left in her mind. She clung to him with the last hope in her life, burying her face against his chest so she could no longer smell the blood.

Grayson pulled her against him. He’d known something was wrong the moment he’d seen her. “Margaret,” he kept whispering as his hands pressed her closer to him. He wanted his warmth to flow into her. He’d seen strong men snap after battle and knew he had to get through to her without delay. She had to find her axis before she was thrown off center forever.

Slowly, he felt her strength returning. He made no effort to kiss her, for now was not the time. She needed his friendship, not his passion. She needed an anchor to hold to for a moment.

When her hand was steady on his shoulder and her breathing had slowed, she pulled away from him. He let her go and dropped his arms, knowing that she wouldn’t want to be reminded of her weak moment. He didn’t ask if she was all right, for he knew the concern would not be appreciated.

Without a word, Margaret walked to the back door of the jail. When she reached the steps, she turned and asked in a voice as cold and calm as ever, “Why aren’t you watching Cherish?”

“She’s safe.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he’d sent Cherish off with one of the most wanted outlaws in Texas. If she found out, there would be hell to pay. Brant Coulter would probably turn himself in just to avoid her wrath.

“And what about Bar and Hattie?”

Grayson opened the door for her, hoping to end the discussion. “Bar’s with Holliday and she sent a couple of her girls over to sit with Hattie.”

Her next question hit him square between the eyes. “Then why are you here?”

“I …” Grayson wasn’t sure how much she knew about Azile’s killing. If she didn’t know about it, he wasn’t about to be the one to frighten her. “I thought I’d check on you and see if you needed anything.”

Margaret marched through the door ahead of him into the office. “If I needed anything, I would have asked Mr. Tucker.”

Grayson glanced around but all he saw in the room was the sheriff and Deputy Wart. “Well, maybe I thought I’d stay around and make sure you’re safe.”

Margaret didn’t look at Grayson. “Mr. Tucker will make sure of that. He’s even volunteered to walk Holliday up to the house to check on Hattie.”

“Hattie will never know. She’s too far gone,” Grayson mumbled as he glanced around the room for some guard he hadn’t seen, but again all he saw was the aging sheriff and the dim-witted deputy. “Maggie, you don’t know what kind of trouble is out there. I’m sleeping here tonight to keep an eye on you.”

Margaret turned her back to the men. “I trust Mr. Tucker will be willing to do that.”

Grayson lost all control of his already loud voice. “Who in the hell is Mr. Tucker?”

The clatter of a chair falling backward and a box of bullets flying all over the floor answered his question.