Spirit of the Wolf Read online

  “Excuses. I’ve heard so many of your empty promises, I’m deaf to them. I’ve had it up to here,” he’d barked, slicing a hand across his throat, “with your whining and whimpering. You owe a debt, and it’s your responsibility to honor it.” He curled his lip in disgust. “It’s not my fault, is it, that your spineless husband didn’t plan better for your future before the fever took him.”

  Francine was crying hard by then. She’d heard it all before. Chance could tell that much by the way she nodded and mumbled “Yes, Mr. Pickett. I know. I’m so sorry, Mr. Pickett.”

  Other shopkeepers made allowances, knowing that eventually, she’d honor each and every debt, even if it meant that in addition to running the farm, Francine had to take in laundry and ironing, and clean the hotel and wait tables to earn a few extra dollars. Why couldn’t Horace cut her the same slack? Chance wondered. It wasn’t as though her measly payment would make or break his beloved bank.

  It had been during the finale to Horace’s tirade that Chance recalled a conversation he’d heard some weeks earlier. A Boston investor had come to town looking for suitable property on which to build a cannery. He’d visited Horace, knowing full well that the banker would have first-hand information regarding suitable properties for sale.

  The Miller spread, Chance reasoned, was perfect for the Bostonian’s business. Not only would it provide an ample water supply, it also had easy access to and from town by way of the main road. Rumor had it the investor had said, “Money is no object.”

  Suddenly, as he’d stood listening to Horace berate Francine, Chance realized that the banker’s ranting and raving had one purpose: To intimidate Francine so badly she’d crumble. If she lost hope and the will to work night and day, she wouldn’t make any payments, and the farm would revert to his control.

  “Why don’t you take this conversation to a more private place?” Chance had said, stepping between Francine and Horace.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business, boy?” the banker shot back.

  He may have only been eighteen at the time, but thanks to his Uncle Josh, it had been a long, long time since he’d felt or behaved like a boy. Chance had narrowed his eyes. “There’s nothin’ worse than a bully, Horace. Exceptin’ maybe a bully who’d attack a defenseless woman.”

  The man doubled both fists. “I won’t say it again, W.C.; mind your own business!”

  Chance crossed his arms over his chest. “Seems to me you’re makin’ it my business, makin’ it everybody’s business since you insist on bellowin’ like a bull.” He’d snickered. “Mooin’ like a cow, I shoulda said, ‘cause no real man would terrorize a helpless woman.”

  Horace shook a fist under Chance’s nose. “Back off, man, or….”

  Chance took a calculated and confrontational step forward. “Or what,” he’d demanded, his voice dangerously low.

  In anticipation of a brawl, the store emptied. Even Francine slipped away from what was threatening to become a full-fledged fistfight. Later, she testified at Chance’s trial that she’d left the store to fetch the sheriff. “I didn’t want Chance gettin’ on Mr. Pickett’s bad side on account of me. I been on his bad side long enough to know he kin make a body wanna lay down an’ die….”

  Though well-intended, Francine’s testimony hurt Chance more than it helped him, because in the end, the jury had focused on his anger and his threats instead of on Chance’s attempt to protect her from the shame and anxiety induced by Horace’s wrathful intimidation. Chance could only thank his lucky stars she hadn’t been present to witness the meanest part of his dispute with Horace:

  “Why, I’ve a mind to—“

  Chance’s harsh, angry laughter had interrupted Horace’s sentence. “You hardly have a mind at all, Horace. But I’ll tell you what you’d better remember in that pea brain of yours. If I ever hear-tell you’re threaten’ Francine again, it’ll be the last time you terrorize a woman!”

  Horace swallowed and took a step backward. “You threatening me, W.C.? ‘Cause if you are….”

  “No-sir. That wasn’t a threat.” A second ticked by before he added, “It was a promise.”

  “Who do you think you are, telling me how to run my business?”

  He’d followed the banker outside, onto the porch. “Maybe I didn’t say it plain enough: Pester Francine again, and I’ll break your fat red neck.”

  Horace grit his teeth, whirled around, and began stomping toward the bank. “You don’t scare me, W.C.,” he’d repeated. “Don’t sca—“

  “Boo!” Chance hollered, stomping his boot on the board walkway outside the store, laughing as Horace hot-footed it to the other side of the street, each step raising little clouds of dust.

  “That mean streak of yours is gonna get you in a heap of trouble some day, son.”

  Chance hadn’t known his uncle was in town, let alone there beside him on the steps of the general store. “Uncle Josh,” he’d said, forgetting about the joke he’d played on Horace, “I’m gonna have to put a bell around your neck.”

  “This is no laughing matter, W.C. You’ve got to learn to exercise some restraint. The Good Book says—“

  Chance held a hand up to silence the man. It had been years since he’d tolerated a whipping from him. He wasn’t about to listen to a lecture. “Spare me the sermon. You’ve been singin’ that same old tune since I was twelve. Well, I’m a man now.”

  “Threatening to kill someone doesn’t make a man of you. Praying for the wisdom to solve problems as Jesus would have solved them. That’s what a man…a Christian man would do.”

  Chance walked down the steps and hoisted himself onto his horse’s back. “You took me in when my Mama and Daddy died, put food in my mouth and a roof over my head, and I’m grateful for that, Uncle.” He made no mention of the scars he’d wear on his back for the rest of his life…scars inflicted by leather straps and tree branches when Josh believed Chance hadn’t behaved ‘right’. He’d heard enough fire-and-brimstone sermons, both at his uncle’s home and at the church, to last him a lifetime.

  “I know I’ve been a burden,” Chance had continued, “but I’ve always tried to earn my keep. I’ve got nearly a hundred dollars saved up. In a few weeks, I’ll be leavin’ for good. You’ll have one less mouth to feed, and one less worthless soul to try and save.” With that, he rode off.

  The next time he saw his uncle, Josh was in the witness chair beside the imposing figure of Judge Talbot. Chance had listened in stunned silence as Josh told a packed courtroom that, yes, he’d heard his nephew threaten to kill Horace Pickett, and yes, he believed the boy capable of such violence.

  Later, deputy Buddy Smith testified that he’d found Horace’s body in the alley between the bank and the post office. The banker’s pockets had been turned inside out, he’d been savagely beaten, and his neck was broken. And, whoever killed Horace had run off with the pocket watch his wife had given him on their wedding day.

  After the arrest, they’d shown Chance’s watch to the distraught widow. The watch that, after a week of polishing away soot and grit, he’d carried since the prairie fire. “That’s it. That’s Horace’s watch,” she’d accused, sobbing into her brother’s chest, turning the thing that had been such a comfort to Chance into the piece of evidence that marked him a killer and a thief.

  It was an ugly little story, and the decade that had passed since hadn’t made it any prettier. Since there wasn’t a blessed thing he could do to change the fact, he made a decision.

  He’d leave Foggy Bottom after the harvest.

  As always, he’d leave without a word to anyone, and he’d leave alone.

  Life on the run was no life for a woman. He loved Bess far too much to subject her to years of hiding, of looking over her shoulder, worrying that around every corner or the next bend, the hangman could be waiting.

  Chapter Nine

  Bess hadn’t seen Chance in hours.

  She’d looked for him as Pastor Higgins said a blessing on those gathered to celebrate
her birthday. Looked for him as her guests sampled the Widow Rennick’s apple butter. And an hour later, when the pastor’s wife dished up the peach pies she’d baked and brought to the party, Bess searched for him again.

  Halfway through the festivities, Micah announced they’d gather in the parlor in an hour to watch Bess unwrap the remainder of her presents. Overwhelmed by the surprise party and Micah’s extravagant gift, Bess found herself needing a moment to gather her thoughts.

  She headed for her favorite spot on Beckley property, her “thinking place,” she’d come to call it, where she went when the trials and tribulations of being mother and father and overseer threatened her sometimes precarious hold on calm. Without exception, she always left the rocky precipice overlooking Freeland’s wide valley feeling all was right with the world.

  She looked forward to that feeling now, as she neared the path that led to the huge boulder where she perched to ponder life’s difficulties. Already, the peace of the place began to embrace her.

  The serenity was short-lived, however, interrupted by a deep, mournful sound. Quietly, she tiptoed closer, closer, until a silhouette came into view. There, between the leaning pines that flanked the big rock, sat Chance, his broad shoulders lurching with each agonizing sob.

  She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but once she’d made it that far, Bess couldn’t think of a way back down the incline without alerting him to her presence. She’d spent her whole life around men, and knew he’d sooner die than let anyone see him in such a state. So Bess stood stock-still, scarcely breathing, lest she give her position away, and listened:

  “Lord,” came the cracking, raspy voice, “it’s been a long time since you and I have talked.” Head in his hands, he continued. “I’m no saint, but I’m none of the things I’ve been accused of, either.”

  The burly shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped slumped with defeat and dejection. “You’re a harsh God. I’ve never done anything to deserve a life like the one I’ve lived, yet You’ve let me live it all these years. If I knew why, maybe—“

  He drove both hands through his hair, swiped angrily his tears, and then held his breath for a long, silent moment. “I suppose Uncle Josh would say You’re trying to teach me some kind of a lesson.” Chance punctuated the idea with a short, bitter laugh. “What am I to learn…that if I live life looking over my shoulder, I’ll be better company for You and the angels? That if I live out the rest of my days without Bess….”

  Without Bess? It was all she could do to keep from running up to him, wrapping him in a comforting hug, and promising he’d never have to live another day without her. But how could she do that and spare him the humiliation of having a witness to his grief?

  Still, Bess couldn’t bear to listen to another moment of his torment. Carefully and quietly, she picked her way back down to the roadside. Once both feet were on firm soil again, she made as much noise as possible going back up, chattering as she went. “Chance? Are you up here?” She took her time getting to the top, intentionally stepping on crisp leaves and unearthing as many rocks and pebbles as possible. “They’re going to cut my birthday cake soon,” she was saying as she reached the rim. “You don’t want to miss that, now do you?”

  Bess heard him clear his throat. He’d moved to the other side of the boulder, and now stood beside one of the huge pines.

  Very deliberately, she faced the wrong direction, to give him as much time as possible to get hold of himself. When she turned, she put on her brightest, happiest smile. “So there you are!” she said, forcing cheeriness into her voice that she didn’t feel. “I see you’ve found my secret place,” she added, heading toward him.

  He sat on the boulder again, elbows resting on his knees, staring straight ahead.

  Bess stared straight ahead, too. “Suffering from a summer cold?” she asked when he sniffed.

  “I reckon.”

  “Pity,” she said, “because they’re the dickens to shake….”

  Chance nodded. “That they are,” he said softly, still studying the horizon.

  “It’s an amazing view, isn’t it?” she asked, shrugging. “I’ve been coming here for years, when sanity eludes me.” She sighed. “So tell me, what do you think of the place?”

  He took a deep breath, let it out again. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

  “I was about six years old when first I found it.” Bess joined him on the rock. “Even then, before I was old enough to truly appreciate the magnificent view, I loved it up here.” She looked toward the Gunpowder River Valley beyond them. “I feel as if I can see…forever!”

  She took his hand in hers. “Back then,” she continued, “I did some of my most serious contemplating here. Funny, but I remember spending part of my eighth birthday here, too. I was sitting right where you are when I decided I would not marry Bobby Brown,” she said, giggling, “even if his daddy did own the only confectionary for miles and miles.”

  It did her heart good to hear his warm chuckle.

  “This is the perfect place for soul searching.” She squeezed his hand, content to keeping up the idle banter until Chance felt ready to join in. “After Mama died, I spent a whole lot of time up here, maybe because it seems so close to heaven….”

  Bess shook her head. This isn’t working…. And then it dawned on her: Maybe, she told herself, what he really needs is silence. Just the quiet assurance of a friend….

  Chance leaned down and scooped up a handful of pebbles, cast them, one by one, into the murky water far below. Side by side, the two listened to the rocks’ distant blips and plops. After awhile, Chance said, “Folks are probably wondering where you are.”

  “Let them wonder,” she said, lifting her chin in challenge. “And speaking of ‘folks’…how long did you know about this shin-dig?”

  Chance shrugged. “Just about from the get-go, I reckon.”

  “You could have given me a hint, at least.”

  “And spoil your surprise? Now, why would I go and do a fool thing like that?”

  “Because if I’d suspected a party was afoot, I’d have worn my new dress, instead of this old thing.” She patted the blue gingham that covered her knees.

  “You’d look just as beautiful in a burlap sack.”

  “Stop,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder, “you’ll make me blush.” Bess made no mention of his red-rimmed eyes. Said nothing about the catch in his usually controlled voice. Instead, she simply sat, his hand sandwiched between hers.

  “Thanks, Bess.”

  It was the second time in as many weeks he’d said those same words. She faced him. “Thanks? For what?”

  Chance hesitated, as if unable just yet trust himself to speak. Then he gave her a crooked grin and draped an arm across her shoulders. “For being you,” he answered. “Just for being you.”

  She thought of the scene on the dock, the things he’d said about her at the party, and everything that had come before. Somehow, Bess knew the moments she’d treasure most were these, shared here, in this special place.

  She’d witnessed Micah, grieving for Mary. Had seen various farm hands cry at the loss of a friend or loved one. Matt and Mark had shed tears when a beloved pet breathed its last. But she’d never seen—or heard—a man as miserable as Chance had been moments ago.

  What kind of life had he lived before coming to Foggy Bottom? What tragedies had he survived, what losses had he suffered? He was an amazing mix of tough and tender, and she wondered what experiences had made him so….

  When he’d learned that she loved daisies, he picked them wherever and whenever he found them. Yet, when he saw one of his men haphazardly brushing a mare, Chance severely reprimanded him in plain sight of his co-workers.

  When he’d discovered she enjoyed guitar music, he taught Bess to play Micah’s beat-up old instrument. But when he caught a farm hand trying to steal a saddle blanket, Chance fired him without even asking why.

  When he’d heard that blue was her favorite color, he bought her
a whole bolt of cobalt satin, and told her that a dress made of the stuff would bring out the muted blue that ringed her dark brown irises.

  “You’re a harsh God,” she’d heard him say. She wanted to know about every harshness he’d suffered and survived. Wanted to know every detail, from the moment he was born to this very one, about the man she’d come to cherish so deeply.

  Her mama had been a woman of great faith, but since Mary’s death, Bess hadn’t done much praying. Still holding Chance’s hand, she bowed her head and closed her eyes. Yes, he’d stolen her heart, but he was no murderer. She would stake her own life on it, if it came to that.

  Lord, she prayed silently, show me the way to help heal his heart-wounds. Teach me how to love him as he deserves to be loved….

  ***

  At Foggy Bottom he felt, for the first time since losing his folks, that he belonged. In the years he’d been running from the law, he’d never called a place his own. But here, where towering pines shadowed grasslands that rolled like a wide, wind-rippled river, he felt home.

  Likewise, in the years he’d been dodging Texas Rangers and bounty hunters and U.S. Marshals, Chance had never allowed himself to become attached, not to a place, and certainly not to the people in it. Many folks for whom he’d worked had invited him to stay on, indefinitely. With genuine gratitude, he’d declined their kind offers and headed out, giving no explanation for his departure and no reason why he wouldn’t stay. Caring about a town—or anyone in it—was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not if he wanted to avoid the dreaded hangman’s noose.

  Often, as he traveled from one place to the next, Chance ruminated on those invitations, figuring they’d been extended because he’d given his employers their money’s worth and then some. Not once did he consider they might have asked him to stay because they liked him rather than the hard-work and dedication that made him worth his pay.

  Now, sitting here, in her private place, Chance glanced down at his thigh, where her tiny hand rested in his calloused palm. Now and then, she’d sigh, or tuck a wayward tendril of dark hair behind her ear, or incline her head toward a bird’s song. Time and again, she’d squeeze his hand, or point across the valley at a hawk or an eagle, soaring high on a sultry summer air current.