The Devil You Know (4 page)

Willa started to explain how that had come to pass, but her attention was caught by Cutter's shout from two hundred yards up the hillside. “What's he saying?” she asked Annalea. “And what has he got in his hand?”

Annalea had already jumped to her feet. “It's the shoe. He found the shoe.”

“Lot of fussing for a shoe, though I expect this fellow will be glad of it. Wave Cutter back here. We need to go.”

Annalea cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted for Cutter.

“Not what I asked,” Willa said dryly. “And here comes John Henry. I'm not sure the dog knows his name yet, but he does recognize that come-to-me cry of yours. Go on, Annalea. Walk him out to meet Cutter.” After Annalea and the dog hurried off, Willa spread one of the blankets on the wagon bed and another beside her patient.

“What about your name? It's the least of what we need to know, but we have to call you something.” She did not really expect a response, but she did not think she imagined a shift in his breathing. Could he hear her? She pressed on, regarding him more keenly. “On the other hand, Dr. Frankenstein's monster never had a name, and truth be told, you put me a little in mind of him.”

Willa waited for a twitch and was rewarded when she glimpsed his long fingers curling the merest fraction. It was something at least, although if she were being strictly honest, she had hoped that it would be his mouth that twitched. Because all things considered, it was rather a nice mouth. Not particularly amused by the odd thought, Willa reined herself in as she gathered the soiled cloths and went down to the run's gently sloping bank to rinse them. She had just finished wringing them out when Cutter and Annalea returned, John Henry quite literally dogging their footsteps.

Willa slung the damp cloths around her neck and stood. She absently brushed herself off as she approached the trio. “Did you find anything besides that shoe?”

“Bits and pieces of clothing. Evidence that there were four horses, but I think only three other men. Best as I could figure out, he rode with them for a ways, probably from town, before things took a turn. Could've been planned from the outset, and they surprised him, or maybe he had his suspicions and no choice in the matter. Plenty of good hanging trees back there, and we know they had a rope, but I
can't say if that was their intention and they had a change of mind.”

Willa nodded. “Lots of ways to kill a man, but if his death is less important than his suffering . . .” Her voice drifted off.

“Yep.”

Cutter's laconic response prompted Willa's rueful smile. “You think you can put that shoe on him without twisting the foot overmuch?”

“Sure.” Cutter immediately bent to the task.

“We are going to move him onto the blanket and carry him to the wagon. We will have to lift him over the side.”

“What can I do?” asked Annalea.

Willa did not have to think about it. “You have the naming of him. Choose carefully. It's his until he decides it isn't.”

Annalea straightened her shoulders and nodded gravely. She crooked a finger at John Henry and he dutifully followed her back to the wagon. She set him on the bed and climbed in, and the pair of them sat beside the stranger for the whole of the journey back. John Henry occasionally sniffed the man's privates as if they might hold the secret to his identity while Annalea teased out his name in more conventional ways, testing them one by one on the tip of her tongue. By the time they reach the ranch, she had it.

“He is Augustus Horatio Roundbottom,” she announced when the wagon stopped.

Cutter asked, “Are you certain?”

“I am. I reckon he won't cotton to being addressed with any variation of Augustus or the more formal Mr. Roundbottom, and we will have the truth out of him soon enough.”

Willa's smile was perfectly serene. She nudged Cutter with her elbow and whispered, “That's my girl.”

Willa directed Annalea to get help, which she once again did by using her lungs, not her feet. Zach came on a loping run, while Happy followed much less steadily, and the newly named Mr. Roundbottom was taken to the bunkhouse to be tended, which involved stripping away his tattered clothes, assessing the extent of his injuries, and then giving him a thorough scouring.

“Is he going to live?” Annalea asked from her position in the open doorway. She stood on tiptoes and craned her neck to see over her sister's bent shoulder, and when that gave her no view, she ducked her head to try to peek between Willa's elbow and Cutter's hip. Cutter stepped sideways, closed the gap, and Annalea's exasperation was audible.

Willa's attention to her task never wavered. “What were you told, Annalea?”

The thread of impatience in Willa's voice was not something one could miss; therefore, Annalea was simply ignoring it. “I want to see,” she said stubbornly. “I found him.”

“That doesn't make him yours.”

“I named him.”

Happy set his shoulder against the bunkhouse's log wall and crossed his arms in front of him. He almost accomplished the stance casually, but at the last moment, he lost his equilibrium and more or less tipped sideways.

“Annalea,” Willa said. “Escort your pa to the house.”

“But—”

“Go on. And mind that if he stumbles, you don't go down with him. I've got my hands full.”

Zach knuckled the underside of his salt-and-pepper chin
stubble and looked over at Happy. “How about we finish supper?” He cocked his head toward the door, where Annalea continued to hover. “She can set the table.”

Willa smiled to herself, appreciative of Zach quietly stepping into the breach.

Zachary Englewood had been a young man, not much older than Cutter was now, when he came to work for the Pancakes. With his preternatural gift for knowing good horseflesh, he proved his worth to Obadiah early on. When the patriarch died, there was no question in anyone's mind that he would stay, even though times had turned hard with bad weather and plunging cattle prices. He was a good wrangler, a better than middlin' cook, and had a steady hand with the horses, but his real value to Willa had always been his ability to manage her father. He was not a peacekeeper or a confidant to either of them, but he had a way of knowing what needed to be done, and he did it.

Happy pursed his lips, moved them side to side as he thought. “I'm cogitating. Can't say that I care for the name ‘Roundbottom.'”

Annalea gave him a narrow-eyed look, one that she had seen Willa use to great effect. “Then you tell us his true name.”

“Can't say I know it, 'cause I don't.”

“You sure?” Annalea's gaze remained fixed. “Willa says you might have made his acquaintance in the saloon or maybe saw a poster of him hanging in the jail. Did you?”

Happy slowly scratched the back of his head as if the answer could be uncovered there. “No,” he said finally, lowering his hand. “Don't recollect that I've ever seen him, but you have to allow that he's not at his best.”

Cutter spoke under his breath. “He's not the only one.”

Happy frowned deeply, the totality of his expression aimed at Willa. “And, Miss Wilhelmina Pancake, you go on poisoning Annalea's mind against me with your talk about saloons and jail, and just see if you and I don't have words one day. Real words. You understand me?”

“All right,” said Zach. “That's enough.” Taking Happy by the arm, he tugged lightly and lent support when Happy listed heavily to one side. At the open door, Zach put a large hand
around the back of Annalea's neck and turned her around to face the yard. He ignored her protesting whimper and John Henry's low growl and set them all on a course for the supper table.

“Close the door,” Willa told Cutter. “I don't trust Annalea not to sneak back here. And then I need you to take down the lantern and hold it just here.” She pointed to a spot above Mr. Roundbottom's right thigh.

Cutter did as instructed. After several long moments in which the only sounds were the stranger's labored breathing and the crackle of the fire in the woodstove, he said, “Sure got quiet.”

Willa paused long enough to cut him a sharp look. For good measure, she added, “It
was
.”

“Oh.”

Cutter remained silent after that, and even later, when Willa straightened and studied the whole of her work, he did not offer a comment.

“You can put the lantern back,” she said, stretching her shoulders. She slowly twisted at the waist until her spine cracked and the relief she felt made her sigh.

Cutter held out his hand. “Give me the tweezers.” She did, and he returned them to the small box of rolled bandages and other sundries they had brought from the house. Mr. Roundbottom's extensive abrasions were liberally swabbed coppery red with Parson's Restorative, a medicinal tincture, which, according to the label, was efficacious on burns, blisters, cuts, scrapes, and punctures. It was Willa's opinion that there was enough alcohol in the bottle to tempt Happy when his stores were low, which was why she kept it hidden behind three books he never touched: Homer's
Odyssey
,
Pride and Prejudice
, and the
Holy Bible
.

“He's going to need a couple of blankets,” she said. “And tonight, you and Zach will have to keep the fire up.”

“That won't be a hardship,” Cutter said. “Cold's setting in. Zach gets stiff with it.”

Willa nodded. She'd noticed the same but never mentioned it. Zach might show off his swollen knuckles to get out of doing fine work, but that was on his terms. For Willa
to bring it up in conjunction with his regular duties would have been humiliating for him.

“How about some blankets?” asked Willa. “And what are we going to do for clothes?”

Cutter pulled woolen blankets from two empty bunks and snapped them over Mr. Roundbottom. “I guess if you're thinking about clothes, that means you're thinking he's going to live.”

“I don't know about that, but I know it doesn't set right if we have to plant him naked. I would also never hear the end of it from Annalea. Apparently she's already thought about it and says it wouldn't be Christian.”

“I suppose she has a point, but it seems wasteful of a good suit.”

Willa looked Cutter over, sizing him up. “Well, it wouldn't be your suit even if you had one. Best I can tell, what you and our guest have in common is height. He's filled it out while you have a ways to go. Happy's too short.”

“And Zach,” said Cutter, “is more suited to the Roundbottom name than this fellow.”

Willa's lips twitched. “Best if you keep that to yourself.”

“Don't I know it.” He returned his attention to Mr. Roundbottom. “We've got a trunk in here with some clothes, all of it left behind because someone didn't think it was worth mending or because it didn't fit any longer. I suppose there might be something for him.”

“Look through it after we eat. You're going into Jupiter tomorrow morning, and you can get whatever else he'll need there, but mostly you're going to find out what you can about him. No one needs to know he's here. You just need to listen to what folks are saying because it's a certainty someone is saying something.”

“I reckon that's true.”

Willa waved him off. “Go on to the house. Eat your supper. I want to sit with him awhile.”

It was also true that she did not want to sit with Happy, but it was not the sort of thing she could say to Cutter, even if he was thinking it. She always felt a little cowardly when she purposely set about avoiding her father, especially when
she did not give Annalea the same option, but right now cowardice seemed a better course than confrontation.

“You sure?” asked Cutter. “I don't mind sitting a spell.” He placed a hand over his abdomen when his insides rumbled.

“Your stomach disagrees.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Go. And shut the door on your way out.”

As soon as Cutter was gone, Willa pulled up a stool and sat. “Perhaps a more appropriate name for you would be Mr. Possum. Would you prefer that to Augustus Horatio Roundbottom?” Her question was followed by a long silence, so long that Willa began to wonder if she was in the wrong, but as she reasoned that she was not all that often in the wrong, it seemed there was nothing to lose by holding out longer. So she did.

His sigh was short but clearly communicated his annoyance.

“You are not the only one annoyed here,” Willa said. “And I have considerably more cause to feel that way.”

“I don't doubt that you think so.”

She ignored that. “I'm not sure that you were ever unconscious, at least not as long as you pretended to be, but I am reasonably sure that you won't give me a straight answer. I am going to assume that you heard that Cutter will be going to Jupiter tomorrow. I can't say what he will learn, but if your trouble started in or around there, he will hear about it. If you heard that, then you know about the clothes in the trunk, and you are probably thinking about getting dressed and getting on. I stayed behind to make sure you know that I am not prepared to allow you to leave. Pancake Valley is not a sanctuary, but I won't turn you over to the sheriff without knowing your story. I'd like to hear what you have to say if you're up to it. That's your way out. You can always say you're not.”

He opened the only eye he could and stared at her. “Why do you care?”

Willa's brow creased as she frowned. “I don't care. I'm curious.”

“Well, so am I. I think I'd like to hear what the good citizens of Jupiter are saying.”

“That's it? You still want me to believe you don't remember any of the particulars that landed you here?”

“I remember particulars,” he said. “Just not the ones you want to hear. What I recall happened after that girl and her dog found me.”

“Annalea and John Henry.”

He nodded, winced, but did not lift a hand to cradle his head. The blistering pain reminded him he was alive. “Your sister?”

“Depends if you're referring to Annalea or John Henry.” Willa spied the faintest of dimples crease the right corner of his mouth. It faded quickly, but she knew she had not imagined it. That he could raise even the slightest smile in these circumstances was interesting, but she acknowledged the fleeting dimple intrigued her more. “What about your name, Mr. Roundbottom? Any recollection there?”

“Roundbottom. That was diabolical.”

“Only if it works. Will it?”

“Israel McKenna.”

“Middle name?”

“Court. My mother's maiden name.”

Although he had answered without hesitation, Willa wondered if she could believe him.

“You don't know if you can trust my answer.”

Willa supposed he only needed one good eye to read her doubt. “If it's your name, why keep it to yourself for so long? We asked you before.”

“I didn't recall it before. I told the girl that I'd come to it directly.”

“Annalea. Her name is Annalea.”

“It doesn't matter if you believe me.”

“I suppose not, not from your side of things. But from where I'm sitting, it matters to me that I
can
believe you. I could have left you lying by Potrock Run, where you would have been carrion in a day or so and picked clean a day or so after that, but instead I brought you to the valley, invited you into the midst of my family, and I would rather not regret what I've done. Tell me more.”

Israel Court McKenna shifted under the blankets and
drew them up around his shoulders. His bare feet were exposed. He shivered.

Willa did not wait for him to ask for another blanket. She took one from Cutter's bed and tucked it around Mr. Roundbottom's feet. He was not Israel McKenna yet, not to her. She returned to the stool and said nothing. He knew what she wanted, and he had to know that she would sit there until she heard it from him.

He spoke carefully, as if every word required effort and pain was the consequence of saying any one of them. “Herring, Illinois. Outside Chicago. Father was—is—a minister. Mother is a minister's daughter and a minister's wife. Little brother is a saint. I am not.”

Willa's eyebrows lifted. “That's all? Father is a minister and you are not a saint?”

“Believe it?”

She did. “As a matter of fact, I do, but I would like to hear more. The name of the first girl you asked to dance.”

“Beatrice Winslow.”

“Why is your brother a saint?”

“He does the right thing. Always.”

“You?”

“Hardly ever.”

She believed that, too. He had been trussed tight and dragged over hard ground. That probably was not something that happened to his brother. It was difficult to imagine that he did not bear some responsibility for what was done to him. “All right, Mr. McKenna, why were you in Jupiter?”

“I never said I was.”

“But you were.”

“I expect so.”

Willa snorted. “Something else you'll remember directly?”

“Can't say.”

“Convenient.”

“Not really.”

Suspicion made her eyes narrow. She regarded him darkly. “What do you do?”

“Do?”

“How do you make your living?”

A hand snaked out from under the blanket. There was a slight but observable tremor in his fingers as he plowed them through his hair.

The gesture drew Willa's gaze to silver threads at his temple. There were only a few, but his sifting fingers had exposed them, and the contrast was startling, slender filaments of light against the sooty blackness of his hair. She wondered how old he was but did not ask. She still needed an answer to her more important questions.

“We searched your pockets,” she said. “You had no money.”