Spirit of the Wolf (33 page)

"I'm sorry, Bess," he said,
giving
it to her. "I wish there were something I could do to
ease—“

"There
is
," she said matter-of-factly, folding the envelope in half and tucking it into her apron pocket.

Micah stood near the door, waiting for Bess to spell it out.

She rolled up her sleeves and drove both hands into the sudsy water to tackle the skillet again. "You can find Matt and Mark, and help them understand why
Chance
had to leave...us." She hid the catch in her voice behind a tiny cough. She couldn't bring herself to
hurt
Micah with the truth
, so
in place of 'father', Bess
chose the word ‘brother’.
"It won't be easy
for them, knowing he’s gone, because he’s
been like an older brother
to them.
"

"I expect I'll find th
em in the barn.”

She nodded.
"Yesterday, he taught them the proper way to groom a horse
. T
his morning, he told them to practice every chance they get."

One hand on the screen door, he said, "I'll be in my study later, reading...in case you want to talk...."

She dared not meet his eyes
for fear she'd see evidence of pity
there. It wouldn't take much to bring
down
the last of her self-control. Bess continued to attack
the
frying pan as though the answers to all her problems were hidden beneath the layer of crisp, cooked-on chicken fat. "Enjoy your book, Pa," was all she said as the
back
door closed with a muffled
thud
.

An hour later, after she'd swept the porch and scoured the table and chairs, the cookstove, the pine-planked floor, Bess wearily climbed the stairs and locked herself in
her room. Covering her shoulders with the cream-colored crocheted shawl that had been her mother's, she took off her apron, settled into the nest of pillows Mary had long ago stuffed into the windowseat, and hugged it to her breast.

The stiff envelope crinkled between her hands and her heart. Sighing, she removed it from the right-hand pocket. In the silvery, shadowy light of the moon, she slowly lifted the flap and withdrew the single sheet of paper that had been folded
in thirds,
from top to bottom, from bottom to top. Pressing it against her lap, she smoothed away the neat creases.
Then, tilting the letter so that a shard of moonlight illuminated the bold, masculine handwriting, she read:

September 28, 1850

My dearest
Bess
,

It might seem this is the coward's way...leaving a note instead of facing you head-on. It isn't that I'm yellow, it's just I want your last memory of me to be a good one. You deserve a stronger man than me. (Maybe someday, the Good Lord will tell me what I did to deserve even a few months with you.)

I told them in Lubbock I never killed Horace Pickett. Even folks who knew me all my life didn't believe it. I don't rightly
care
what the rest of the world believes. You believe me. Nothing else matters.

You can believe this, too, Bess: There's a hefty price on my head, and there are men out there who aim to collect it. If anybody gets in their way, they'll shoot first and ask questions later.
I won't let my past
bring any
harm
to
you.

So m
y plan is to head north, then double back to Texas. Who knows? I could get lucky, find Pickett's real killer. One thing's sure
,
I can't come back to Freeland
un
til I know it's safe for you to be around me. Could take a long while, darlin', so don't wait for me. If love comes knocking, you answer, you hear? I love you more than life itself, and
don't want you pining away over the likes of me.

Just don't forget me, Bess.

Yours truly,

Walker John Atwood

She read the letter three times before sliding it back into its envelope and tucking it into her desk drawer. She hesitated near the chair for a moment, uncertain whether or not to lift the blotter and withdraw the wanted poster. Biting her lower lip, she did, and carried it to the window seat.

The artist had not created a very good likeness of
Chance
. In the drawing, the wanted man's hair was mostly black, as was the mustache above the slanting, smirking grin. The chin was too narrow, the nose too broad, and the cheekbones too flat and far apart.

But the eyes...those piercing, crystalline eyes....

Even if all she'd seen on the billboard that day in Philadelphia had been the eyes, she'd have immediately recognized the man as
Chance
Walker.

Correction...W.C. Atwood.

WANTED FOR MURDER,
the blotchy black letters said,
DEAD OR ALIVE.

The bounty was high, encouraging lawmen and lawbreakers alike to
strike
out after him in the hopes of collecting it. What chance did he have against their greed?

Well, he’d managed to elude them for ten years. That, at least, gave her something to hope for.

Bess pressed her cheek to the wanted man's and closed her eyes. Of all the things
Chance
had told her his father taught him
as a boy
,
“T
he truth shall set you free
”
seemed to
echo loudest in his memory.

She didn't believe for an instant that
Chance
had killed anyone, and yet he was being hunted, just as surely as that white wolf.
Had
bounty hunters had bagged their prey and collected their prize money
? O
r had the beautiful creature managed to find a home with her
own…
dodg
ing
her two-legged predators?

Something told her the wolf still lived, wild and free. If the she-wolf could escape men armed with powerful rifles, perhaps
Chance
could outrun
his
enemies
this time, too
.

She told herself the Texas lawmen would not find him.
He’d outwit them, and someday, he’d
return to Foggy Bottom. If the wolf could survive, surely a man with as much spirit as
Chance
could, too.

He'd written "Don't forget me...."

“As if that’s possible!” she whispered,
gathering the poster to her bosom
.

Bess went
to
her
window
and looked out into the vast
darkness
. He was out there somewhere
, with the good Lord watching over him
. Bess
had to believe that. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of night air,
drawing his wandering wolf-like spirit into her.

Immediately,
Bess
was filled with
a sense of peace as she p
ictured
Chance
.
H
is quest for safety may take him hundreds of miles from Foggy Bottom
, but he’d
never be more than a breath away.

She made him a promise, right then and there:

Every morning before her day began, and every night when it ended, no matter the weather, no matter her mood, she
’
d stand in this window and draw
his wolfish spirit
to her.

One day, as she
search
ed
the horizon,
she would
see th
at
familiar silhouette
, and know that he’d
come home.

The best place to hide
Chance
had learned, was in the most obvious place. Yonker and Carter would expect him to continue heading north, following the Allegheny Mountain rivers and trails.

For awhile, he allowed them to think just that, and thanks to Mamie's stubborn determination, he managed to plug along, staying
many miles ahead
despite the fact that the ex-deputy and the sheriff were coming at him from opposite directions.
Chance
left markers along the trail
—a
bent twig here, ashes there
—to f
ool them into thinking he was trying to disguise his campsites.

Then, after more than a month of zig-zagging through the thick Pennsylvania forests, he did an abrupt about-face and headed south, skirting territory already covered. Another week or so of that, he figured, and it would be safe to move west, toward Texas. No telling how many years or how many jobs there'd be between here and Lubbock....

For more than a decade now, he'd been what cowboys sometimes called a waddy, meandering from ranch to ranch, from farm to farm, filling in during the busy seasons
, then moving on
. At least his drifting had a purpose this time
.
He'd clear his name
, and when he did, he’d go back
to Maryland, to Foggy Bottom, to
Bess.

Boredom had seldom been a problem for this man on the run. He'd accepted his solitary status, for it fit well into his resolve to dodge the hangman. Oh, he had a gregarious side, to be sure. Everywhere he'd been, folks liked him.
Chance
wanted it that way, because being accepted made his plan to elude the noose that much easier. Still and all, it was a dangerous undertaking, walking that tightrope between being charming and friendly...without being too memorable....

He hadn't had to play that game at Foggy Bottom. There, surrounded by Matt and Mark, Micah and the other hands, and his sweet Bess, he'd been free to be
himself
.
He
missed that.
Missed
them.

Chance
estimated the loneliness had set in at just about the same time Foggy Bottom was out of sight. Leaving when he had put a safe distance between
the people he’d come to think of as family a
nd the men hunting him, but that's also when old, cold habits replaced the comfortable sociable mannerisms he'd adopted at the farm.

Distractions of any kind could be deadly.
Chance
knew full well that he couldn't afford to wallow in self-pity
,
so to put it out of his mind, he'd taken to whistling and humming, much to Mamie's dismay. Her ears, it seemed,
swiveled and
twitched twice as
much
as usual.
She was tired of his so-called music, and frankly, so was
Chance
.

H
orse and rider were tired of their diet of berries, bark, and wild grasses
, too
.
Chance
yearned for a hot, sit-me-down meal, and
he
knew
that
Mamie was panting to plow into a nose
bag filled with
of oats.

I
n the next town,
Chance
pulled up. Beyond the narrow Main Street in a place was called Gettysburg, farmland
stretched
as the eye could see. He tethered Mamie and sauntered into the granary. "Howdy," he said when the men who'd gathered at the counter turned to face him.

"Howdy, yourself," answered a small, wiry fellow. "Been on the move quite awhile, from the looks of you."

"That I have,"
Chance
said, dusting his hat against his thighs. He knew when to give just enough information, and when to give a lot; when to tell the truth...and when to lie
.
"Had me a farm down Richmond way. Drought's been real bad this year
. Yo
u
northerners
havin
’ the sa
me trouble?"

"Nah," said another man. “Good Lord blessed us with
a good season."

"Praise God for that, Henry!" a third put in.

He knew how to get in their good graces. "Well, to make a short story shorter,"
Chance
finished, "the bank up and foreclosed on my loan. Booted me off my own land."

"Tarnation!" the first man sympathized. "You got a wife and young'uns?"

His thoughts turned immediately to Bess, and a knot formed in his heart when he said, "No. Never did take a wife." Forcing a grin, he added, "Just as well, 'cause what I know about women, you could put in one eye."

The men laughed heartily.