Patricia Potter (47 page)

“I’ll take her inside,” Estelle said, tenderness written all over her face, a new strength in her voice.

Sullivan nodded, then he went back to Marisa and started to gather her in his arms.

“No,” Newton said. “I’ll take her home.”

Sullivan ignored him and picked Marisa up. “No, you won’t. I have two other patients here, and she needs medical attention. She stays here.” There was a hardness in his voice that no one had heard before, and even Alex faltered, his eyes looking to the ground.

Then the rancher seemed to summon his nerve. “Do you think Willow will let me stay here with her?”

Sullivan glared at him. “I wouldn’t.
She
probably will,” he said with disgust and, ignoring Newton, took Marisa inside to Estelle’s bedroom.

Willow watched as the men carrying Lobo carefully laid their burden down on one of the twins’ beds. They looked at her awkwardly, embarrassed they had not done something sooner to prevent this, and backed away toward the door as they saw her touch the wounded man tenderly.

She didn’t notice them leaving. All her attention was focused on Lobo. How many times had he risked his life for her and hers? And now he might die.

She heard the noise of Alex’s wheelchair entering the next room. She heard his words to his daughter. “I’m sorry, Marisa. I’m so sorry.”

“Is it over now?” was Marisa’s strangled reply.

“It’s over, Marisa,” Newton said. “It’s over.”

Willow swallowed as she looked down at Lobo. His lips were clenched tight against the pain, his lungs gasping for breath, his eyes closed. At what price was it over?

Dear God, at what price?

Willow bowed her head and saw her tears fall on his face, mixing and joining with the beads of blood and sweat suffered in her defense.

And she knew the true measure of agony.

T
HE WHOLE TOWN
attended the funeral five days later despite a pouring rain.

A drifter who had had to wait three hours to get supplies asked John MacIntyre why all the stores and saloons had been closed.

“Funeral,” came the short, clipped answer.

“Who in the hell is so important you close the saloon?”

“Ain’t every day you bury a notorious gunslinger,” MacIntyre said.

The man’s interest suddenly increased. “Who?”

“Lobo. Was involved in a range war. Died of gunshot wounds two days ago.”

“Lobo,” the stranger said with awe. “Who got him?”

MacIntyre sighed. “Man named Keller. But we just buried him too. Gunfighter by the handle of Canton killed him.”

“Gol dang,” the stranger said. “Canton, huh? I heard of him too. Must have been mighty excitin’ ’round here.”

“Well, they’re all gone now,” MacIntyre said. “Town’s getting back to normal. Real peaceful. Just like it used to be. Expect it to stay that way too, since we got us a real good sheriff again.”

The drifter wanted all the details. The story would make good conversation at the next stop, the next camp-fire. “Who’s that?”

“Brady Thomas. Used to sheriff here, but got sick. He’s doing real fine now. Real fine. Even thinkin’ of gettin’ hitched again.”

The man rubbed his chin. “I think I heard of him…. Didn’t he catch the Lassiter gang couple years back?”

MacIntyre nodded.

“Well, don’t that beat all. Think I might go visit that Lobo’s grave. Sure be something to talk about.”

John MacIntyre shrugged. “Sure would,” he agreed as he packaged the man’s meager purchases and gave him directions to the cemetery.

The drifter wrapped himself in his rain slicker and made his way to the cemetery several minutes later. There were two new graves, both covered with mud. One wooden cross read
Ed Keller,
the other simply
Lobo.
There was a sprig of flowers, looking lonely and beaten down by the rain, on the latter’s grave, and the drifter wondered briefly who mourned a gunslinger whose reputation was as bad as any he knew. He finally shrugged and turned his horse north. This tale was going to earn him some drinks as well as campfire dinners.

27

A
lex Newton and Gar Morrow, standing bareheaded in the pilling rain, attended the gunslinger’s funeral.

Gar was there because he thought it the least he could do. A woman and child were paying for his bullheaded-ness.

And the man named Lobo.

Alex was there because his daughter threatened never to speak with him again if he wasn’t.

They stood on opposite sides of the grave while Reverend Cecil Mooney dispatched Lobo to wherever he was heading. He did it in eloquent style, borrowing heavily from Corinthians.

“‘Behold I show you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.

“‘In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible and we shall all be changed.’”

Reverend Mooney’s eyes pierced the two enemies as the words rolled off his tongue.

Gar stood awkwardly. He knew much of the trouble during the past few days had been his fault as much as Alex’s. His pride, his honor, his friendship, had been attacked and he’d struck back blindly. Mary would have been appalled.

When the words were finally said, and the earth fell on the plain pine casket, Gar made his way over to Alex. “I have something that belongs to you. I would like to bring it to you this afternoon.”

Alex glared at him. He was about to say he wanted nothing from Gar Morrow, but a glance at his daughter’s face, as she sat in a carriage, her leg bandaged and splinted and resting on top of pillows, changed his mind. He nodded curtly.

Marisa had come home the day before. She had been at Willow’s four days, and had agreed to return only if her father ended his feud with Gar Morrow. It had been an easy promise to make then, for he had suffered, afraid that he’d lost Marisa forever.

Alex looked at Willow’s bowed head as she stood in the rain, her gaze fixed on the gravesite while the casket was lowered and dirt shoveled into the hole. He felt regret that he had been responsible for so much that had happened.

Hell, the least he could do was talk to Morrow.

S
ULLIVAN DROVE WILLOW
home in his buggy. Brady rode solemnly alongside.

She sat tall, her shoulders back, her eyes only slightly teary. Mrs. MacIntyre had given her flowers to lay on Lobo’s grave, and as she’d bent over the mound of dirt, Willow had said good-bye forever to the renegade.

She was grateful to the town. After showing up the day of the raid, they made Alex Newton very aware that Willow and all her charges were under their protection.

Not that it was needed. Alex was a changed man. He had come too close to losing Marisa because of his own hatred. He had stayed at Willow’s house the day of the shootout, sitting beside his daughter’s bed. He left the following morning, only after being assured that Marisa was recovering but could not yet be moved. The bullet had broken a bone, and a jolting wagon ride would bring not only pain but the possibility of further injury.

Alex had returned later that day and said he’d dismissed all the gun hands. He also said that he no longer objected to Gar Morrow’s benefitting from the river. Willow hoped, and so did Marisa, that the two men would heal the bitter wounds between them. But that was yet to come. They were still separated by pride and distrust, but at least they would keep the quarrel between them now, and not drag others into it.

And Brady? After all the confusion, Brady had promptly taken charge. He had mediated between Alex and the townspeople and had ordered Canton out of town. Since the town sheriff had decided he wanted no part of the affair and had declined to accompany the trek to the ranch, August Stillwater took one look at the new Brady, conversed quickly with the town council, and offered him his old job back, on probation, of course. Brady had said he would think about it. Two days later he told August that he might consider the position if the town would accept his fiancee, Estelle.

The citizens of Newton had received so many shocks recently that this condition didn’t seem particularly odious. Their values in the past few days had changed radically. Actions rather than appearances had suddenly become very important. After all, hadn’t they all seen the once most respected man in town attack a woman? Hadn’t they seen a notorious gunfighter offer his life for that of a child? Hadn’t they seen the town drunk, together with one other man, fight off an army? Hadn’t they seen the eccentric Miss Willow bring together the town in a way no one else had?

Even the womenfolk held their tongues when they’d seen Brady and Estelle emerge from the barn the day of the shootout, and watched as Estelle ran to the wounded on the ground. There’d been more than one tear in a few eyes.

So, Willow thought sadly, everything was turning out well for nearly everyone. Even Marisa and Sullivan seemed to have come to an understanding.

She’d walked in on their conversation on the day Marisa left for home. Marisa was glaring at Sullivan. “You must hate taking care of me,” she said. “Watching me lie here.”

Sullivan had looked confused. “Of course not.” His hand had touched her gently. “I wish—” He’d stopped abruptly.

“You wish what?”

“That I could always take care of you.”

“It’s not that terrible, then?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you must think I’m a much lesser person than you are.”

There was a silence, then protest. “How can you possibly think that? You’re the bravest, most loyal—”

“But you don’t think I love you enough, or am strong enough to take care of you the few times you get malaria.”

“Marisa…”

“Well, you don’t, do you?”

“Of course I do.”

“But you don’t love me?”

“I do,” he protested.

“Good,” she said. “Then it’s settled.”

Willow had to swallow a chuckle before backing out of the room.

And, sure enough, it had been settled. Marisa and Sullivan planned to get married in a month.

That left Willow.

Her hands clenched as they drove up to the ranch house. A strange horse was hitched in front, and Willow wondered idly whom it belonged to, and then she remembered!

Brady, who had been riding alongside the buggy, dismounted and strode over to the buggy. He offered his hand to Willow and helped her down. Estelle came out, a soft smile on her face for Brady.

“How are the patients?” Sullivan’s question was gentle.

“Sallie Sue’s as good as gold. The other, intolerable,” she said. “As bad-tempered as a wounded bear.”

Brady’s face hardened as he continued to study the horse. He recognized it. “Canton?”

Estelle nodded.

“Dammit to hell. I told him to leave town.”

“He says he’s on his way,” Estelle said.

“Christ, he could ruin everything.”

“I don’t think so,” Estelle said, her voice soothing. “He says he was sent for.”

Brady’s gaze turned to Willow, who suddenly looked sheepish as she nodded.

Brady grimaced. “Why?”

“I don’t know, but he was almost desperate to see him.”

Brady glowered and moved quickly inside the house.

The door to the twins’ room was open. They could hear Canton’s lazy voice from within. “Never thought I’d be accepting a job from you. I’ll take care of it, just like you said.” There was a short silence, then a cold chuckle. “Won’t do any harm to my reputation, killing the man who killed Lobo.”

There was a grunt from within.

“I’ll miss Lobo though. Always thought I would eventually face him. I’ll always wonder who was the fastest.”

There was another grunt, something like a guttural oath.

Canton emerged from the room, stopping when he saw Brady. He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m on my way, sheriff.” He smiled pleasantly.

“Canton…?”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Sheriff,” Canton said. “I’m just as glad to have Lobo dead and buried. Less competition for top dollar, you understand.” He nodded to each of the women and left.

Willow was the first to move. She went to the bedroom door and looked in. Jess was sitting up, his face in a deep scowl as he stared at his bandaged right hand.

“The whole town attended Lobo’s funeral,” Willow said.

Ice was in his eyes as he glared at her. He had not liked the idea. He had fought it desperately. It was like killing himself, like denying a vital part of who and what he was.

It was not until Sullivan made it very clear what his options were that he’d finally agreed. “You will never be able to use that hand as you have,” he said. “With time and effort you’ll have some use, but you’ll never again have the dexterity or speed you once did.”

He had glowered at the doctor, as if doing so would cancel the words. Gunfighting was all he knew, his one talent.