Wyoming Woman (16 page)

“I'm going to stay away from him,” she said. “There's too much at stake here, too many people who could get hurt.”

“Have you told your parents?”

“My mother's no fool. I'm sure she's guessed. But my father acts as if he doesn't want to know. You won't tell him, will you?”

“You know me better than that.” He matched her shorter strides as they led the horses and mule to the corral gate, turned them in with the other animals, and headed back toward the house. “The last thing I want is to make more trouble for you.”

“And I for you,” Rachel said. “Stay out of this, Ryan. Molly needs you, and this isn't your fight.”

“Wrong. It's our family's fight, so that makes it mine. But it would help to know exactly who it is we're fighting, wouldn't it?” His eyes twinkled with sardonic humor.

Rachel did not return his smile. “Please, Ryan. If anything were to happen to you, especially now, with a baby on the way, I'd never forgive myself.”

They had reached the house and were mounting the porch steps. The aromas of bacon, eggs and fresh coffee floated out through the screen door. A mourning dove called from the roof of the chicken coop, its cry sweet and peaceful on the clear morning air.

“Please!” Rachel caught his arm as they reached the porch. “Promise me you won't get involved in this!”

He grinned and patted her hand. “I promised you I'd keep still. That will have to do. Now, smile for me, sweetheart. Let's make them think we've been talking about what you learned at that fancy eastern art school of yours.”

Arm in arm they entered the dining room, where Morgan, Cassandra and Molly were seated at the table. Rachel's parents, who had eaten earlier, were sipping coffee while Molly wolfed down a small mountain of Thomas Chang's scrambled eggs. She looked up, grinning, as Ryan and Rachel pulled out their chairs. “Forgive me for not waiting. I—
we
—were starved.”

“Excuses! You've talked about nothing but Thomas's cooking for the past three days.” Ryan grinned back at her, brushing his knuckles lightly along her cheek before he seated himself. The love in his eyes seemed to light the whole room. What she wouldn't give, Rachel thought, to have a man look at her that way, especially—

No, she could not let herself keep thinking about Luke, not now, not ever.

Molly's haunting violet eyes sparkled back at her husband. She looked radiant but was clearly exhausted from the long, arduous ride over mountain trails. The child she carried was a sweet miracle after so many barren years, but Rachel could understand
Ryan's concern, and she murmured a private prayer that all would go well for them.

“Molly's been telling us about John and Mary,” Cassandra said. “Mary has two years of medical school left. Then she wants to go back to the reservation and help her people.”

“Is she happy, Molly?” Rachel helped herself to three strips of bacon. Mary Bright Wing, Ryan and Molly's adopted Cheyenne daughter, had always been a serious child, hungry for knowledge and quick to learn, but who would have guessed she would choose such a difficult path?

“It's what she's always wanted,” Molly said. “But it's been a struggle for her, both as a Cheyenne and as a woman. My worst fear is that her own people won't accept her now that she's been trained in
ve hoe
medicine. After all she's been through, that would be a terrible blow.”

“Mary's a strong girl,” Ryan said. “She'll find her way.”

“What about John?” Rachel asked, thinking fondly of the younger boy, who had been her junior companion in mischief and misadventure through their growing-up years. Ryan had always claimed that trouble multiplied by a factor of ten when John Dark Eagle and Rachel were together.

“He's minding the ranch for us,” Ryan said. “John's very content in the mountains. He's never wanted any other life.”

“Especially since he met Little Swan,” Molly added, laughing. “She lives in the canyon with her
parents, who guard her like the treasure she is. Such a pretty thing, and so sweet. The two of them are counting the days until they're old enough to marry. Judging from the way they look at each other, I imagine we'll have grandchildren running all over the place before long.”

“And Mary?” Cassandra asked. “She was always such a beautiful girl, with those big, dark eyes. Does she have a young man?”

Molly sighed. “Not that she mentions in her letters. She's probably too busy with her studies for much of a social life.” She downed another forkful of scrambled eggs, savoring Thomas Chang's secret mélange of wild herbs and seasonings, then reached for her coffee cup. As Molly sipped thoughtfully, Rachel braced herself for what she knew was coming next.

“You were always surrounded by boys, Rachel,” Molly said. “Is there anyone special? Not that I'm trying to rush you, but I know your mother would love some grandchildren underfoot, and as for this little mischief—” She patted her swollen belly. “He, or she, is going to need some playmates when we come to visit, and your brothers are far too young and scatterbrained to provide them anytime soon.”

Rachel had been dreading the question, but Molly's approach had been so innocent and well meant that she could not help smiling. “I confess I hadn't thought that far ahead,” she demurred. “But right now, the answer is no, there's no one—”

Her words were cut short by a sound that galvanized them all. They froze at the table, hearing the
ominous cadence of approaching hoofbeats—a lone horseman—thundering through the gate and up to the house, the scream of the horse as the bit jerked tight, pulling it to a sudden halt.

Morgan and Ryan scrambled to their feet, but before they could rush outside, Slade burst into the dining room, wild-eyed and out of breath.

“What is it, Slade?” Morgan had gone white around the mouth. Cassandra's hand was ice-cold where it gripped Rachel's arm.

“It's that damned sheep man!” Slade gasped, sagging against a corner of the table. “You should've let us go after him last night. The bastard just shot Josh.”

Morgan's face turned ashen. Cassandra groped blindly for her husband's hand and clasped it as if she'd fallen into a whirlpool and could not swim. Rachel felt strangely paralyzed, unable to breathe, speak, think or feel.
Not Josh! Please, God, not sweet, funny, gentle Josh!

It was Ryan who recovered enough to take charge. “Where's Jacob?” he demanded.

“He stayed with Josh,” Slade said. “They're down along the north fence, past that outcrop of red rocks—that's where the sheep man was hiding when he shot Josh. I saw the bastard ride away after he done it.”

Rachel stifled a cry.
You're wrong!
she wanted to scream at Slade.
It couldn't have been Luke! He would never do such a thing!
But she held her tongue. With Josh's life hanging in the balance, this was no time to argue blame.

“How badly is he hurt?” The question had to be asked, and Ryan chose to be the one to ask it.

“Bullet went in his chest and out his back,” Slade said. “He was still breathin' when I left to come here, but, Lord, I never seen so much blood!”

Cassandra looked as if she were about to faint. Molly moved to her side and slipped a supporting arm around her shoulders.

“We'll need you to take us to the boys,” Ryan told Slade. “Morgan, you can go with him. We'll need the wagon—I'll hitch up the team and bring Cassandra and Rachel with me.”

“No!” Cassandra had found her voice. “He's my boy, and I need to get there as fast as I can. I'll ride with Morgan and Slade. Saddle the horses while I get my medical kit.”

“I'll see to things here,” Molly volunteered softly. “He'll need a clean bed and plenty of hot water, and I brought along some of the good herbs I use for poultices…” Her words trailed off as the same thought struck her that had struck them all. By the time they got Josh back to the house he might not need anything except a clean suit of clothes and a pine box.

They moved like automatons, each of them gripped by a dread too awful to voice. Cassandra flew upstairs for her bag of medical supplies while Morgan and Slade sprinted for the corral. By the time she came back downstairs they had saddled two of the fastest horses. Seconds later the three of them were racing
for the north fence that separated the Tolliver ranch from Luke's property.

While Ryan hauled the wagon into the yard and brought out the harness for the draft horses, Rachel and Molly raided the bedrooms for quilts, blankets and pillows to soften the wagon bed. Rachel was back outside in time to help buckle the husky bays into their traces. They did not speak of what had happened. It was as if a single word might tip the balance of fate in the wrong direction and shatter all hope of denial.

Molly stood on the porch, watching with tragic eyes as the wagon lumbered toward the gate. She would alert Johnny Chang, who would inform his parents and send one of his sons galloping to Sheridan for the doctor, or even go himself. No one dared voice what they all feared—the possibility that the doctor might not be needed.

Ryan drove the bays hard over the rutted washboard road, slapping the reins like whips onto their broad, coppery backs. Rachel spread the quilts and blankets as best she could manage in the jouncing, slamming wagon bed. Then she clambered up onto the bench to sit beside him.

Ryan did not look at her. He was hunched over the reins, his lips pressed together in a grim line. Rachel clung to the seat, feeling the weight of his silence—a weight that grew heavier by the minute, until she could no longer bear it.

“Luke wouldn't do this, Ryan,” she said. “He's
not that kind of person—and my father's never raised a hand against him.”

“But at least one of your brothers did. You told me that yourself, Rachel.”

“But I didn't tell Luke!” Rachel shot off the bench as the wagon hit a rut and scrambled to regain her place. “He suspected I was shielding someone, but he never found out who that person might be.
I
don't even know which one of the twins I saw!”

“Then maybe something happened this morning,” Ryan said in a leaden voice. “Maybe the boys were messing around, doing something he didn't like, and he—”

“No!” Rachel grabbed the side of the wagon as it lurched around the last bend. “He wouldn't! No matter what was happening, Luke wouldn't shoot an innocent boy, especially one of my own brothers. He—”

“There they are.” Ryan's head jerked to the left.

Following his gaze, Rachel saw the horses clustered along the distant barbed wire fence. Figures were huddled around something in the long grass. She recognized her mother, her father, and Slade, who was still sitting his horse. As the wagon rumbled closer, she caught sight of Jacob, kneeling on the ground, his hands balled over his eyes, his shoulders heaving spasmodically.

“Hurry,” she begged Ryan. But Ryan needed no urging. The horses had left the wagon road now, and were pounding their way across the open grassland. The wheels bumped and flew, flinging Rachel off the
seat. She clung to the side of the wagon until it had stopped. Then she dropped to the ground and raced across the remaining distance.

Was her brother alive or dead? Seconds from now, she would know.

A
s Rachel stumbled through the grass, she could see Josh lying on his back with his eyes closed. His shirt had been torn away, and his chest was packed and bound with strips of muslin. His face was as white and still as alabaster, and his body lay in a veritable lake of crimson. Rachel's heart lurched as she realized she was looking at her brother's blood.

Her throat moved. “Is he—”

“He's alive.” Cassandra's face and arms were smeared with red. Her voice was a strained whisper. “But he's lost so much blood…” She swallowed hard. “Bring a blanket, Rachel. We'll need it for a stretcher to get him into the wagon.”

Ryan backed the wagon in close. Rachel seized the topmost blanket and helped her mother work it beneath Josh's body. By the time they finished, her own hands and sleeves were streaked with blood.

“Help us, Slade. You, too, Jacob.” Morgan's face was a stoic mask as he directed the moving of his son to the wagon bed. Ryan, Slade and Rachel took one
side of the blanket, Morgan, Jacob and Cassandra the other, supporting the fragile body as best they could. Josh seemed as insubstantial as a bird as they carried him to the wagon. He moaned as they shifted him onto the planks, the sound as startling as a scream in the morning silence.

Cassandra scrambled in beside him. “I'll ride here,” she said, touching Josh's white face as if memorizing the colorless features. “Rachel, you take my horse.”

Morgan swung onto the wagon seat without a word and took the reins. He would be the one to take his boy home. This time the ride would be slow, with the urgency to get Josh home warring with the need to avoid bumping his fragile, wounded body.

Slade had remounted. “Reckon I'll go home,” he said. “Uncle Lem will want to know about this. But don't you worry. Whatever happens, we're gonna find that sheep man and see that he pays!” Flinging this last remark at Rachel, he spurred his horse. Iron shoes spat gravel as he wheeled away.

Rachel mounted her mother's gray mare, her limbs leaden and her stomach churning with the sickness of dread. Was this tragedy her fault? Could she have prevented it if she'd behaved differently last night?

Muttering something about helping Molly get things ready, Ryan galloped off on Morgan's tall buckskin. That left Rachel to ride behind the wagon with Jacob, trailing Josh's pinto alongside their horses.

Jacob rode with his shoulders hunched and his
black hair hanging down in his eyes. His bare arms and torso were smeared with blood. Rachel surmised that he had used his shirt in an effort to stanch his brother's wound. His face, what Rachel could see of it, was blotchy and swollen from weeping. From the moment of their conception, Jacob and Josh had been inseparable, like two halves of the same person. Rachel could only imagine what her brother must be going through now.

Reaching out, she laid a comforting hand on his back. At her touch, a shudder passed through his body. A strangled sob broke in his throat.

“What happened, Jacob?” she asked.

He exhaled brokenly, his shoulders quivering beneath her hand. “Lord, Rachel, I don't know. Josh was helping me mend a hole in the fence. I heard a shot, and the next thing I knew, he was lying there on the ground with blood…all that blood…” Jacob's body heaved with anguish. “I don't know! I've gone through it a hundred times in my mind, asking myself how I could have saved him. And I don't know—it all comes down to that!”

“You say Josh was helping you mend the fence. Where was Slade?”

“Slade had left the wire cutters a half mile back where we'd fixed the last bad spot. He rode back to get them. After Josh was shot, he came tearing up on his horse, said he'd seen the sheep man behind the rocks, with a rifle, said he'd seen him ride off.”

“And you believed him?” Rachel demanded.

Jacob groaned. “What was to believe? Josh was
shot. I thought he might be dead. The worst part was, if the sheep man had shot anybody, it should've been me!”

“What?” Rachel stared at him. Scalded by her gaze, Jacob hung his head.

“I—Slade and I—we've played some tricks on the sheep man. No harm, mind you. Just chasing the sheep, teasing the dogs, things like that. Josh, he wouldn't go along—said he wouldn't cause trouble for somebody who was only trying to make a living.” Jacob's voice broke. “Don't you see? If that sheep man was set on shooting somebody, it should've been me, not Josh… Lord, Rachel, it should be me lying in that wagon right now! I only wish to heaven it was!”

Rachel stared at the rear of the wagon, where it rolled ahead of them in the brutal sunlight. She gazed at her father's rigid, solitary back where he guided the team as carefully as if they were walking on eggshells. Then she glanced back at her brother. There was one question that remained to be asked. If she did not ask it now, she knew she might never get another chance.

“Jacob,” she said, speaking gently, “the night that sheep wagon was burned, and the old man was beaten, do you know about it?”

He nodded wretchedly. A fresh tear trickled down his salt-encrusted cheek.

“Were you there? Did you see it?”

The breath that rushed into his lungs was like the sound of something tearing apart. “No,” he whis
pered. “Slade wanted us to sneak out that night, and I was all for it, but Josh wouldn't let me. He said he had a feeling something bad was going to happen, and that if I tried to go, he was going to wake Pa and tell him. I was so mad I wouldn't speak to him all the next day.”

Rachel felt the lift of relief, in spite of all that had happened. Her brothers had not been involved in Miguel's death. They were innocent.

But they had not escaped punishment.

“Who else was with Slade that night?” she asked, her heart drumming a high-pitched tattoo in her ears.

Jacob shrugged. “We never knew for sure, but I'd guess it was Bart and some of the ranch hands. Slade did tell us they burned the sheep wagon and gave the herder a good scare. He called us chicken for not showing up. We didn't know until we heard it from the sheep man last night that the old man had died.” He sucked in his breath, the sound like the rasp of a claw in his tight chest. “And now Josh… Oh, Lord, he didn't do anything. Why'd he have to go and get shot? I was the bad one! It should've been me!”

He began to rock back and forth in the saddle, his arms holding his sides. Rachel edged her horse against his and slipped her arm around his bony young shoulders. They rode that way, leaning on each other, until they passed between the gateposts of the Tolliver ranch.

 

The hours that followed would always remain a blur in Rachel's memory. She would recall the crim
son-stained sheets and wrappings, the endless treks to fetch hot water, and the pungent aroma of Molly's poultices. She would remember her mother's stoic face and the sight of Josh's sweaty black hair clinging to his waxen skin. She would remember her father, reeling between rage and grief, alternately hovering over his son and staring out the window in helpless fury.

The bullet had passed at an angle through the right side of Josh's chest, a hand's breadth below the collarbone, and gone cleanly out the back just below the shoulder blade. Miraculously, it appeared to have missed his heart and lungs, but he had lost a staggering amount of blood.

He lay still now, his eyes closed, his breath barely strong enough to stir the bit of feather that Mei Li had placed beneath his nostrils. Chang's tiny, silver-haired wife had tottered in on her bound feet, bringing a pot of ginseng tea which Cassandra had carefully spooned between her son's bloodless lips. For all their ministrations, Josh had not opened his eyes or shown any other sign of gaining strength. But at least he was still alive.

Johnny Chang had ridden off like a madman that morning to fetch the doctor from Sheridan. Now the sun was getting low in the sky, and there was no sign of him or the doctor's high-topped buggy. Ryan had ushered the exhausted Molly to bed, but the rest of the family continued to keep watch, hovering around Josh's bed or standing on the porch, staring into the twilight and straining their ears for the sound of ap
proaching hoofbeats that could signal the doctor's arrival.

Darkness had fallen and the moon was rising when Jacob burst into the house. “Somebody's coming!” His bloodshot eyes burned with hope. “I can hear their horses! Maybe it's Johnny and the doctor!”

But it was neither the doctor nor Johnny Chang who clattered in the yard a few minutes later. It was Lem Carmody, with Slade trailing him like an obedient whippet. Rachel was relieved to see that Bart had not come with them.

Morgan and Rachel had come out onto the porch, leaving Jacob to sit with his mother. They waited as Lem climbed awkwardly out of the saddle and lumbered up the front steps with Slade at his heels.

“Slade brought me the news,” he said, laying a thick hand on Morgan's shoulder. “I'm right sorry about your boy, Morgan. I rode over here to see if there was anything I could do.”

Morgan gazed past him into the darkness, his mouth a bitter line. “Are you a saint who can save my son with your prayers, or a doctor who can save him with your medicine?”

“No,” Lem said. “But I can round up enough of the boys to go after that murderin' sheep man and get rid of him once and for all. Are you with us now, Morgan, after what he done to your boy?”

Morgan's eyes flashed in the darkness. Rachel's heart seemed to stop beating as she waited for her father's reply.

“You're asking me now, Lem, when all I can think
about is Josh, lying in that bed?” Morgan asked indignantly. “If the sheep man did what Slade claims, I'll see him turned over to the law and I'll gladly watch him hang. But I have another son to think of, and I won't see Jacob grow up thinking that mob violence is the way to see justice done.”

Startled by Morgan's vehemence, Lem took a step backward, then cleared his throat and spat over the porch rail. “Do you know what I think?” he growled. “I think you're yellow. You're sitting pretty here, with your land and your money and your fine family, and you don't have the guts to risk any trouble, not even to avenge your son's death!”

The silence that followed this outburst was so absolute and so terrible that Rachel felt her knees go weak beneath her. Morgan had always been slow to anger, but Lem had clearly pushed him over the brink.

Holding her breath, she waited for the explosion. When it came, Morgan's words were as soft as the step of a stalking panther and cold enough to freeze the sun to a crackling ball of ice.

“I'll thank you to remember that my son is still alive, Lem,” he said. “And I'll also thank you to take that sniveling little weasel you call your nephew and get off my property before I get a shotgun and run you off.”

Lem's pudgy face had paled to the color of bread dough. He took another step backward. Then his eyes flickered toward Slade, and he nodded. The younger man tossed his cigarette to the ground, peeled his lean
body away from the rail and followed his uncle off the porch.

Lem made a beeline for the horses, but Slade paused, turning back at the foot of the porch steps. His acid gaze fixed on Rachel where she stood in the shadow of the doorway.

“This is all your fault!” he hissed at her. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you sheep man's whore!”

Rachel stood frozen in place as he stalked away, feeling as if someone had just drenched her in blood. She knew her father had heard Slade's parting shot, and that there would be a reckoning. Quivering, she braced herself for what was bound to come next.

Morgan gazed after the vanishing riders for what seemed like an eternity before he turned toward her. His face was impassive in the moonlight, revealing nothing. “Is it true?” he asked in a tightly controlled voice.

Rachel's gaze dropped to her own clenched hands. She forced herself to lift her head and meet his anthracite eyes. “No,” she whispered, knowing the time for lies was over. “Not the way Slade put it. I've done nothing to shame our family. But I've spent enough time with Luke Vincente to know that I love him…and to know that he couldn't have done this terrible thing to Josh. He would never do anything to hurt me or my family. I'd stake my life on that!”

He studied her sadly, and the flicker of heartbreak in his eyes told her how much she had hurt him. “Rachel, I won't condemn you for anything you might
have done,” he said. “But a woman in love is no judge of a man's character or his motives. Know that I meant every word I said to Lem. I mean to get to the bottom of what happened this morning, and if guilt points to Vincente, I'll see the man behind bars or dangling from the end of—”

“Morgan!” Cassandra's cry echoed down the stairs from Josh's bedroom. “Come here! Hurry!”

Morgan and Rachel raced inside, to be met by an elated Jacob. “It's Josh!” His tearstained face was shining with relief. “His eyes are open! He's awake!”

 

By the time the doctor arrived twenty minutes later, Josh had closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep. He was not strong enough to speak, but his face showed a hint of color now, and his breathing had become more regular. The doctor's careful inspection confirmed that Josh had passed the crisis. Barring unforeseen complications, he would live.

“The boy's had good treatment,” the old man observed as he wiped his instruments and laid them in his black leather bag. “I've heard city doctors say that heathen medicine—Indian, Chinese, or what have you—is nothing but superstitious hogwash, but I've seen enough cures in this country to know better. You and your friends did right by this lad.”

Jacob was sobbing openly. Rachel wrapped her arms around him, holding him in a long, hard hug that needed no words. As she hurried downstairs to give Chang the good news and ask him to prepare a
quick supper for the doctor, she discovered that her knees had gone watery beneath her. Only now did she realize how terrified she had been.