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  Spirit of the Wolf

  Spirit of the Wolf

  by Loree Lough

  The Spirit of the Wolf

  Copyright © 2012 by Loree Lough. All rights reserved.

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the written permission of the author.

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  Persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Lubbock, Texas, 1840

  Between the prisoner’s shackled ankles, a beetle wriggled skinny black legs in a futile effort to get back on its feet. It wasn’t hard to empathize with the pitiful thing, struggling to survive in a world turned upside down. Reaching as far as the chain binding him to the wall would allow, he flipped it over and watched it disappear between the rough-hewn floorboards of the jailer’s wagon.

  If only his own miserable life could be righted as easily.

  His temporary, rolling cell was hot as an oven. He swallowed hard, trying not to think about his dry lips and parched throat. Earlier, he’d asked for a sip of water as the deputy shackled him to the jail wagon wall. “Do you good to suffer a bit,” Yonker had snarled, “like the widow Pickett is sufferin’ right now on account of you.”

  His thirst was forgotten as he recalled the way they’d hauled him from bed weeks earlier, shouting “How can you sleep after killin’ a man in cold blood!”

  Killing a man? his sleep-dulled mind had repeated.

  But he’d been unable to protest aloud, for one of his captors had stuffed a sweaty neckerchief into his mouth as another hog-tied him. Thoughts flit like wasps, each with its own stinging barb: Who’s been murdered? And why do they think I’m the killer; I don’t even like shootin’ rabbits for the soup pot!

  Later that night, alone in the dimly-lit, cramped compartment behind the Lubbock sheriff’s office, disjointed memories attacked all through the long, restless night. In one dream, he was four years old again, watching the cowhands brand cattle on the ranch his mama had inherited from her folks. Straddling the corral fence, he’d winced when the red-hot iron seared cowhide with a big, bold W. “Don’t it hurt ‘em, Pa?”

  “Nah….”

  “My name starts with a W, don’t it, Pa?”

  His father had scooped him up and said, “Yup. W for Walker, in memory of your mama’s daddy.” Then he’d scanned the horizon. “Someday,” he said, “this’ll all be yours, son. That’s why every one of them cows is gonna get a ‘W’ burnt to his rump, so’s folks’ll know they’re yours, too.”

  From that time on, whenever young Walker Atwood rode the range, holding tight to the saddle horn as he nestled safely between his father’s chaps, he’d point to the branded cattle and call out proudly, “Look, Pa, a ‘W’, see? Jus’ like me!” He’d said it so often that his father took to calling his little boy ‘W.C.’ The nickname caught on, and soon everyone, from the hired hands to his own mother called him W.C., too.

  His father had taught him many lessons. Among them, “Never lie or steal, and you’ll always do me proud.” Even at the tender age of four, W.C. wanted few things more than earning his pa’s trust. “Don’t worry,” he’d promised, “I’ll never take anything that ain’t rightly mine, and I’ll always tell the truth.”

  And that night, as he lay on the lumpy jail cell mattress, he’d hoped that when the ruffians came back to interrogate him in the morning, his pa’s advice would see him through.

  It had not.

  Like a ferocious thunderstorm, the days passed….

  “Guilty,” the jury foreman had droned.

  Then judge’s gavel fell with a sickening thump. W.C. believed he’d hear the hollow echo of the man’s monotone for the rest of his life: “I hereby decree that the prisoner, Walker Atwood, be remanded to custody until next Tuesday at two o’clock, when he shall be hanged by the neck until dead.”

  And so now, as the wagon rattled toward the high, treeless ridge on the outskirts of Lubbock known as Dead Man’s Hill, W.C. wondered if the townsfolk would gather at the gallows to watch him swing, or if he’d die with no one present but Smitty and Yonker, the two tobacco-spitting deputies in charge of his fate.

  Die….

  A shudder passed through him, and W.C. did something he hadn’t done in years:

  He hung his head and prayed.

  His prayer was interrupted by the frantic voice of one of the deputies. “Pull ‘em up, man!” Smitty hollered. “That there’s a rattler up ahead in the road!”

  W.C. had spent every one of his eighteen years around horses, and knew without a doubt that if the men had seen the snake, the animals had seen it, too.

  Quick as a blink, the wagon’s left side lifted. Higher, higher it rose as W.C. held on for dear life—what precious little was left of it—to the thick chain that tethered him to the coarse interior wall. Held his breath, too, as the wagon teetered, this time on its two right wheels.

  He felt the rig pitch forward, heading down…into what, he had no time to guess. Anything but the river, he hoped, because he’d never learned to swim. But then, did it matter how he met his end? Better to meet St. Peter by drownin’, he thought as his body slammed into hard wood, than at the end of the hangman’s noose!

  The wagon skidded on its side as the high-pitched sounds of nails, ripping from boards and splintering wood, mixed with the trumpeting of terrified horses and the shouts of the panicked drivers.

  When at last all was quiet, the chain that had tethered him to the iron ring bolted to the wagon wall dangled from his bruised and bloodied wrist.

  Slowly, he crawled from the wreckage and squinted into the bright Texas sunlight. The thunder of horse’s hooves made him look up in time to see all four stallions running full-out toward the flat, barren horizon, leaving nothing but a cloud of brown, sandy grit in their wake. Oh, how he envied their newfound freedom!

  But…why envy it, when he could take it…?

  Licking a droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth, he noticed the deputies, sprawled beside the wreckage. The steady rise and fall of their chests told him both survived the accident. From the look of things, they’d come to soon, compare their aches and pains, and cuss their bad luck as they headed back to Lubbock to round up the posse that would help them hunt down the notorious W.C. Atwood.

  For an instant, he considered sparing them the trouble, because if he lit out now, he’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his days. The shade of the overturned wagon looked mighty inviting. He could hunker down and take a short nap, if he’d a mind to, sipping cool water from one of their canteens until they woke up….

  But W.C. didn’t want to die. At least not at the end of a rope, and certainly not for a murder he didn’t commit. He’d seen a man hang once. Took a full fifteen minutes for the poor fool to give up the ghost as the gathering crowed watched him twist helplessly in the wind, kicking for a foothold on his quickly-ebbing life…

  …like a bug on its back….

  Smitty groaned softly, and W.C. knew he didn’t have much time. First order of business, get rid of the iron manacles on both wrists that branded him an inmate. He rummaged in Yonker’s pockets for the key, and with trembling hands, unlocked the prison bands.

  The blistering sun beat down hot on his head. He’d die of heatstroke by day’s end without his hat. They’d taken everything, right down to his longjohns on the night they’d arrested him, including the gold pocket watch handed down from father to son as his pa lay dying. He didn’t care that some said it looked peculiar for a twelve year-old boy to carry it ever
ywhere. Didn’t give a whit that his tormentors had labeled the timepiece as some sort of cockeyed proof that he’d committed the murder.

  Three water-filled canteens swung, pendulum-slow, from the wagon’s cracked brake stick. He shook all three, took the emptiest, and limped over to where the drivers lay unconscious. Yonker’s sweat-ringed hat looked mighty tempting right about now, more tempting, even, than the shade beside the wagon.

  Rifling quickly through the deputy’s pockets he found his watch, a wedding gift from his ma to his pa. For a moment, he cradled it in his open palm, then pressed the tiny knob and read “Till the end of time” on the underside of its lid. Curly-queue black hands pointed at twelve and three. Quarter past noon, he thought, snapping the lid shut.

  He hated to part with it. Hated the thought of breaking his promise to his pa even more. Closing his hand around the watch, he ground his molars together and slid it into his trousers pocket. I’d rather have the sun bake my brain like a biscuit than part with Pa’s watch!

  Slowly, he straightened to his full six-foot height, and winced. He’d broken a few ribs in his day. Once, at eight, when he’d fallen from the barn loft; again at ten, while branding ponies. The searing pain in his lungs told him that when the wagon hit bottom, he’d cracked them again. He looked at the swollen fingers of his left hand; in all likelihood, he’d broken a few of those bones, too.

  But he’d faced pain—the physical and the mental kind—plenty of times before. And he’d beat it. W.C. poked his chin out in grim determination, and started walking.

  He wondered, as he limped along, how long it would take them to find his trail. An hour? Two? More’n likely, they’ll call in the Texas Rangers. The U.S. Marshals, even….

  He hitched the canteen’s leather strap higher on his aching shoulder. They were a determined lot, those U.S. Marshals, and few things riled them more than losing a prisoner. He’d heard-tell of one bank robber who’d been on the run for eight years before they managed to wrap a noose around his neck. The thought made his own neck hairs bristle, and he cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.

  Better get used to doin’ that, he told himself, stepping up his pace.

  The way his life had been going lately, he believed he’d earned a kiss from Lady Luck. Seems that li’l gal is always puckerin’ up for somebody else. Why not me for a change?

  Maybe, with her on his side, he’d be south of the Rio Grande by this time tomorrow….

  Chapter One

  Freeland, Maryland, 1850….

  The distant sound of wagon wheels, crunching down the gritty drive, was swallowed up in a fog of memory as thick as the dust from the work horses’ hooves. Sometimes, it seemed an eternity since the Beckley clan had buried their beloved Mary. Other times—like this—Bess missed her mama so much it felt like only yesterday that she’d placed wild roses atop the burnished mahogany coffin.

  The wagon and its passengers came into full view, waking Bess from her daydream. She waved as it rounded the last bend in the long, narrow lane that ribboned from the main road to the house, and returned her father’s weary smile.

  This year, as every other, she watched the newcomers’ gazes flit from the two-story stone house, to the big red barn, to the acres of green, hilly fields beyond. Later, as the hired hands devoured their first meal at Foggy Bottom Farm, they’d ask the questions that churned in their minds, and her father would, as always, let his own food grow cold to answer each in turn.

  And this year, like every other, one of the unmarried hands would no doubt try to woo the farmer’s daughter. He’d pretend to love her, listing her beauty, her sweetness, her intelligence as reasons for his ardor. But in reality, he’d see marriage to Bess as the quickest cut to a slice of Foggy Bottom.

  And maybe, he’d love her truly.

  Either way, it didn’t matter: There’d never be wedding bells in Bess Beckley’s future. She’d vowed the day they lowered the fancy brass-trimmed casket into the ground that she’d never marry, because she didn’t possess the strength to withstand the demands of such a union. She’d seen how marriage had changed the boys and girls she’d gone to school with, how it had worn her poor ma to a frazzle; if a husband and young’uns meant giving up her self, Bess would just as soon live out her life alone.

  Besides, her father had been a fun-loving, high-spirited male while his dear Mary lived. Since her death, Micah rarely spoke, and smiled even less. If losing a beloved spouse could so drastically alter the character of a man as strong as Micah had been, well, how could she—a woman with so few years of living behind her—even hope to endure pain like that?

  So this year, like every other, Bess would see to it that her so-called suitors returned home after the fall harvest, untethered, but with their male egos firmly intact. “I’m too busy taking care of Pa and the boys and the house and the books,” she’d gently explain, “to be a proper wife to any man.” And that much, at least, was true.

  Bess sighed. Maybe, this year she’d get lucky, and every man on the wagon would already have a wife and children back home. And, if there was a bachelor among them, he’d have a lovely fiancé waiting for him.

  The wagon stopped in the shade of the giant oak beside the drive, halfway between the house and the barn. Micah climbed down from the driver’s seat and took her in his arms. “Bess, darlin’,” he said, “you’re sure a sight for my sore ol’ eyes.”

  “Welcome back, Pa.” She’d never grow tired of their now-routine greetings. But it would be wonderful, Bess thought, to see Micah’s wide practiced smile reach his eyes for a change.

  Forcing the wish from her mind, she stuffed one hand into her apron pocket. “Why don’t you gents get washed up over there,” she suggested, pointing to the pump beside the house. “I’m sure you’re hot and tired after your long ride.”

  All five of them quickly climbed down from the wagon. As her twin brothers took turns introducing each field hand to their sister, Bess nodded politely. Her hope that they’d be married or engaged died, as it always did during this initial inspection.

  They were drifters, every last one of them. Their eyes, dulled by years of hard luck, brightened slightly at the prospect of having a cot and three squares a day, if only for a few months. And their smiles, dimmed by a lifetime of misfortune, widened a bit as they reckoned with the fact that, in exchange for their hard work, they’d earn a fair wage. Where her father found these ragamuffins had always been a mystery to Bess. But each and every year, he managed to round up half a dozen or so misplaced wanderers, all so different, yet so much alike.

  All but one, that is.

  For one thing, he’d ridden in on a horse of his own. For another, while the others loudly introduced themselves, he didn’t say a word. His clothes, unlike theirs, had been recently laundered, and he stood head and shoulders above the rest. More than anything else, it was his eyes that captured Bess’s full attention. Pale blue and darkly-lashed, they bored into hers with such fierce intensity that despite the heat, a chill snaked up her spine.

  Unconsciously, she took a small step backward, remembering the day when, for her tenth birthday, her father had taken her to Baltimore. She’d been sitting on the bench outside the bank, waiting for Micah to complete his business when a commotion down the street caught her attention. She’d raced to the corner to see what had caused all the fuss and bother. Peering around men twice her size, she spied a huge, iron-barred cage. What had Amos Parker captured for his Traveling Wild Animal Show this time? she’d wondered, wending her way to the front of the crowd. Almost immediately, the pacing, panting wolf came into view. She got close enough to run a hand through its shaggy grey coat—had she been able to summon the courage to poke that trembling hand through the bars.

  Instead, Bess stared into the creature’s round, golden gaze. The moment hung like a spider web, durable, yet delicate. And like a fly in that web, she felt trapped and transfixed, because it seemed as though the beast was trying to send her a message on the invisible thread that
connected their eyes and hearts and souls.

  This handsome man before her now wore the same wary, insightful expression as that beautiful, wild creature. And, just as she had during her youthful encounter with the wolf, Bess shivered.

  “There’s the water pump, right over there beside the porch,” Micah said. His reminder, thankfully, rescued his daughter. “Feel free to freshen up whilst Bess, here, gets our grub on the table.”

  Her brothers headed up the short, orderly line of men who waited their turn at clean, clear water, chatting quietly, nodding, smiling.

  Except for him….

  “This here’s Chance Walker,” her father said, a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  Chance Walker. Even his name sounded powerful. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, fidgeting with the ruffled hem of her apron. Difficult as it was, she tore her eyes from his and looked at her father. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, Pa.”

  She got an eerie ‘somebody’s watching’ feeling as she walked toward the back porch and climbed the steps. One glance over her shoulder confirmed it. He grinned when she reached out and missed the door handle, and despite herself, Bess grinned back. Then, feeling suddenly silly and clumsy, she hurried inside, letting the screen door bang shut behind her.

  But nothing…not pouring cool water into tumblers, nor dipping hot stew into deep crocks, not even setting steaming bowls of butter beans and corn in the center of the long trestle table blocked the memory of his penetrating stare. Something burned behind those ice-blue orbs. Something mysterious and (dare she even think it!) something dangerous.

  Again, Bess pictured the wolf.

  Again, she shivered.

  Deep voices and masculine laughter interrupted her thoughts. “Pull yourselves up a chair, boys,” Micah was saying as he took his seat at the head of the table. “Don’t be shy, now. Help yourselves. Dig in and eat up.”

  While the others got situated, her brothers joined her in the kitchen. “Hey, there, Bessie-girl. Did you bake me a cherry pie, like you promised?” Matthew asked, kissing her cheek. “Why, I’ve been dreamin’ ‘bout it for miles.”