Debra Holland (32 page)

“My sister,” Ant snapped. “If he returns, capture him.”

“Uh, that might be a problem,” Groening wouldn’t meet their eyes.

Nick snapped out, “Why is that?”
 

Groening scuffed his feet in the dirt, puffs of dust rose on the morning sunbeams. “Noticed I had an empty holster this morning. Think Smith might have taken my gun?”

Damned fool
.
Of course he took the gun. And no telling who’d see the business end of the weapon pointed right at them.
Made Ant’s blood run cold just thinking of it.

* * *

Sitting at the table in the kitchen, his slate in front of him, David wrote the letters of his name. Miss Stanton had printed
David Gordon
across the top of the slate, and he had traced the letters, and then started writing on his own. At first, his lines wobbled and he’d rub them out and try again, but soon his fingers caught on, as if dimly remembering performing this same task many times before.

Miss Stanton stood at the sink, drying dishes she’d washed earlier, looking out the window. She wore a long white apron over the gray dress that David liked because it made her eyes so pretty. She hummed, almost under her breath—a happy sound—that made him feel content.

As soon as his lesson was finished, Miss Stanton promised he could go out to the barn where Pepe worked. Uncle Ant had said in the note Miss Stanton read him that Pepe from the livery was making the barn nicer for the horses and that he’d show David how to groom Chester and muck out his stall.

David sat up straighter. Chester was his responsibility, Uncle Ant had said. A man always took care of his horse before himself, although Miss Stanton must not think like a man because she’d already made him wash his hands, face, and behind his ears, eat breakfast, and do some school work before he could attend to Chester.

He wrinkled his nose.
Didn’t have to wash when I lived with Pa. Probably the only good thing about that time
. But he wouldn’t trade his new life for anything.

Bending back to his task, David dredged up the letters from his memory and wrote them out.
David March.
He stared at the words for a long moment. Then with a resentful swipe of the rag, he wiped out the hateful name and began again.
David Gordon.
He made each letter as big and precise as he could.

I’m David Gordon now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ant rode Shadow home. His eyes burned from fatigue. He was hot, sweaty, sore, and frustrated. Hunger growled in his stomach and made him lightheaded. John and Nick had insisted on riding out with him to the Addison’s ranch and then to the shack in the mountains. Too eager to finish their search, they hadn’t taken provisions, nor rested at the Addison’s ranch. They’d talked to dozens of people—many had already heard the news and been on the watch—but the men had found no sign of Lewis.

Now with the sun heading to the west, Ant had given up the search.
For today
.

His gaze swept the house and barn, yard and outbuildings. All seemed peaceful. Already the place looked more like a home with the weeds gone and flowers bursting into bloom. The puppy bounded across the porch, down the steps and waddled over to him, barking like a miniature fiend, plumy tail thumping. Ant kept a firm hand on Shadow’s reins, but he sensed the horse was becoming used to the latest addition to their family.

Pepe stepped out of the barn, body tense, shotgun in hand, then relaxed when he saw who’d ridden up.

Ant felt a surge of relief. He’d done well in his choice of guardians to protect the two he loved. With the vigilance of the Mexican and the puppy, Lewis wouldn’t have had a chance to sneak near the house.

But the relief didn’t ease his frustration. He still needed to wrap his hands around Lewis’ neck and squeeze the life out of him. He needed to make sure the man was dead this time.

He rode to Pepe and dismounted. “All clear?” The pup frisked at his heels, and he crouched for a head rub, which had the dog wiggling in ecstasy.

“
Sí, Señor
,” Pepe said. “The boy, he came here to the barn. After we feed Chester, I tied the gelding outside. The boy, he groom the horse where I can watch the house too. Miss Stanton feed the chickens and the pigs and work in the garden. Then she call the boy back inside for more lessons. The dog’s been quiet till now.”

Ant straightened. “Thank you, Pepe. You’ve done well.”

The young man drew to his full, although short, height. A proud smile crossed his round, dark face. “You want I watch this night again?”

Ant almost dismissed the man, thinking he’d be able to protect the house by himself. But what about the barn? He wouldn’t put it past Lewis to steal Chester. Shadow wouldn’t let the man near him, but Chester might. And a bullet would take care of Shadow. The thought sickened him.
 

“I’d be obliged if you’d sleep in the barn tonight. Protect the livestock.”

“
Sí, Señor
. I will be here tonight.”

“I’ll bring some food out for you.”

“
Gracias, Señor
.” Pepe indicated a straw bale he’d hauled next to the entrance of the barn. The dusky shadows would hide his watchful figure.

Ant touched his hat in an acknowledgment.
 

Pepe propped the shotgun against the bale and collected Shadow’s reins. “I take care of him,
Señor
. You go inside.”

Too tired to argue, Ant thanked the man. He took his rifle, turned, and trudged toward the house, his back to the setting sun, thinking about what to do about Lewis. The pup followed him.

As the search had dragged on today, Ant had realized he’d made a mistake by planting himself in Sweetwater Springs. Now with his fortunes tied to the town, he couldn’t just pluck David from his surroundings and escape. He couldn’t leave Harriet vulnerable. Lewis might punish her for getting in his way, for taking David, for siding with Ant. He didn’t need another woman’s death on his conscience.

Harriet will just have to marry me. I’ll take her and David to Europe. Lewis won’t follow us there. I know she loves another, but he’s roped and tied. She’ll be safe with me. With so much of my capital invested here, we’ll be on tight rations but everyone will be safe. That’s what’s important.
 

As his boots clunked on the steps of the cabin, he prepared himself for the argument.
Can’t just launch into asking her to marry me. She doesn’t know Lewis is still alive. We will have to discuss everything after David’s gone to bed.

Ant took off his hat and rubbed his arm over his face.
How can I be so exhausted, yet so wound up?
He knew the answer. He’d experienced enough dangerous times when pursuing news stories.
But I didn’t care about the people around me, only about the story.
Now he cared. Cared deeply.

Ant opened the door and stepped inside. He hung the rifle on the rack next to the door. The pup sniffed his boots before trying to gnaw on the toe of one. He did a fancy shuffle to save the boot, unbuckled his gun belt, and hung it on a hook underneath the rack holding the rifle.

Harriet’s voice echoed from the kitchen. The cadence sounded as if she was reading out loud. The words seemed familiar.
 

With a flash of recognition, Ant realized that he was hearing one of Emily’s poems. Anger burst within him, ancient and bitter. Without stopping to think, he strode through the house and into the kitchen.

* * *

Harriet had discovered a book of poetry on the bookshelf. It stood next to Ant’s other books that looked as well-worn as hers. Delighted, she’d paged through the book, stopping here and there to read a poem. She sighed with envy.
These are much better than mine.
She turned the book over, looking for the author.
Emily March. Isn’t Emily the name of Ant’s sister?

Harriet had found David in the kitchen, hunched over the table in the dwindling shaft of sunlight from the window, brow furrowed with concentration, writing out his numbers. She held the book out to him. “Do you recognize this?”

He looked up, eyed the book and shook his head.

“The poems are by Emily March.”

His eyes widened.

“Your mother?”

He nodded, looking fearful and scrunching down in his chair.

She pulled up a chair next to him and put her arm around his shoulder. “Nothing to be afraid about, David. Let’s try reading them and see what happens.”

Harriet opened up the book, turning the pages until she came to one with a bookmark. She glanced at it, noting that the poem seemed different from the other work, not of the same caliber. More like a ditty really, about a boy playing with his boat. “David, I think this is for you.” She read the verses out loud, enjoying the catchy refrain:

Sail away down the pond, little boat.

How I love watching as you float.

Then you tack round about to me,

Returning even though you are free.

David sat up straighter, a dawning expression of recognition on his face. His brown eyes, usually so somber, sparked to life. Halfway through, David mouthed the words with her. By the end, he croaked a word aloud.

“David, you talked!” Filled with excitement, Harriet leaned over and hugged him. “You do remember this poem. Oh, David. I’m so pleased. I think your mother wrote this about you, didn’t she?”

He nodded.

“Let’s do it again. I’ll read a line, and you repeat it after me.”

Slowly they worked their way through the poem. David’s voice sounded low and rusty, his speech hesitant. But they were spoken words, nevertheless. Each one chimed a musical note in her heart.

When they finished, Harriet had to restrain herself from dancing around the room. Instead, she smoothed back his hair. “Well done, David. How does it feel to talk again?”

He gave her a faint smile and a shrug before ducking his head.

Harriet laughed. “Looks as if you’re still going to keep most of your words to yourself for a while. I can hardly wait to tell your Uncle Ant. Better yet, you tell him. Imagine how happy he’ll be. Think you can do that?” She tapped the open page of the book. “Let’s test your memory. I’ll read a whole verse, and you repeat it after me.”

“Alright,” he whispered.

She read the first verse. Her foot tapped to the cadence of the lines.

Rapid footsteps banged across on the wooden floor of the other room. Ant appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his face like a thundercloud about to shoot lightning bolts at her.
 

Harriet had never seen him looking that way. Fear tightened her stomach. “Ant, what is it?”

David slid down his chair and scooted under the table.

Ant didn’t answer. Instead, he strode over and grabbed the book out of her hands. He stomped to the stove, opened the door, thrust the book inside, and then slammed it shut.

“Ant,” she protested, feeling her heart thumping rapidly. “What in the world?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was rough with anger.

Reading?
Bewildered, Harriet struggled to grasp what he was so upset about. “You mean something written by his mother?”

“I mean poetry.”

“Poetry?” she echoed.
 

“A man has no business learning that kind of nonsense.”

She shoved to her feet, placing her hands on her hips and squaring off to him. “Nonsense! Poetry is one of the highest forms of literature.”

“You’re going to turn him into a sissy.”

David crawled out from under the table, slipped behind his uncle, and continued out the door.
Good. He shouldn’t be exposed to this.

“I’ve never heard such a ridiculous accusation. Through the ages, men were the ones who wrote poetry. Think of the psalms written by David—a
warrior
king. Knights who wrote chivalrous poems to their lady loves. Nothing
sissy
about them.”

Ant opened his mouth to argue, but Harriet rolled right over him, not letting him get a word in edgewise. “Very few women have achieved recognition from their poetry. Emily Dickenson is an exception. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I haven’t seen many of your sister’s poems, but those I’ve read are laudable. You should be proud of her, not acting like a mad man. Storming in here, destroying a precious book, frightening David.”

“We’ll talk about this later. Right now there’s something more important.” He slashed his hand through the air, cutting off the topic.

“More important than frightening your nephew, undoing all the work we’ve done to make him feel safe?”

Ant took off his hat and set it on the table. He ran his fingers through his hair, sighed. “He’s not safe, Harriet,” he said, sounding tired. “Neither are you. Mack told me last night that someone stole David’s mule.”

Harriet’s mind fumbled to keep up with him.

“I think Lewis might still be alive. And if that’s the case, David’s in danger...we’re all in danger.”

Harriet felt as if Ant had yanked the rug out from under her. “You didn’t tell me?”

“You were asleep while I was taking to Mack and barely woke up to get yourself into the house. I left Pepe here to keep watch until I returned.”