Spirit of the Wolf Page 18

  He should send her away, so he could finish writing the letter. So he could pack, and hit the road. The best way, he knew, was to admit he would leave. Today. But as long as she stood, boring into him with those big frightened eyes of hers, he’d never get the words out. She knew something awful was about to happen, yet there she stood, shoulders back, prepared to take it on the chin.

  “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  He heard the tremor in her voice, and felt like a heel for being the one who had put it there. “I’m—“

  “—not hungry,” she snapped. “So you said.”

  Chance drove a hand through his hair, nodded toward the plate. “Thanks for thinking of me, though. It was mighty sweet of you to—“

  With no warning, Bess threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Chance. It’s all right. Everything is going to be all right. Whatever it is, we can work it out, together.” She looked up at him. “Because…because I love you, you big galoot.”

  Groaning with frustration, he hid his face in her hair. Why oh why did she have to say it out loud! He had to find a way to make her understand. To make her see that he was no good for her, so she’d have no regrets, once he was gone. Chance closed his eyes. “Bess,” he began, “I—“

  “Shhh,” she whispered a forefinger against his lips. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “You don’t owe me any explanations.” She glanced away, but only briefly, as if searching for the courage to continue. When she met his eyes again, it was to say, “You don’t owe me anything.”

  Oh, but you’re wrong, my sweet Bess. I owe you everything.

  She had given him a reason to hope. Made him believe in himself by making him see W.C. Atwood, alias Chance Walker, through her loving eyes. But before he could put those thoughts into words, she was kissing him, hugging him, promising to love and stand beside him forever, no matter what. And by saying those things, she’d awakened that old longing he’d so carefully hidden deep in his soul.

  Bright light dappled through pinholes in the oilcloth window shade, peppering the left side of her face with sunny freckles, illuminating the soft curve of her cheek, highlighting her full lips, glinting from eyes that gleamed and glittered with unconditional love.

  This is how he would remember her, always.

  But he wasn’t alone yet….

  He would revel in the sweetness of her soft breaths and the satiny smoothness of her face. He would concentrate on every word that passed her lips, and memorize the music of her voice. This precious tick in time would become his treasured keepsake. When snow and rain and blustery winds chilled him to the marrow of his lonely bones, his time with Bess would remind him that perfect love does exist—at least for some folks—and the knowledge would warm him. No matter where he went from this day forward, her love would live inside him.

  “Ahhh, Bess,” he rasped, “you’re way too good for the likes of me….”

  She stood on tiptoe kissed him, then leaned back to say, “You’re full of stuff and nonsense, W.C. Atwood. But I love you anyway, and I always will.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Micah, head bowed and hands clasped at the small of his back, paced back and forth behind his desk. “Why all the secrecy, Chance?” Suddenly, he stopped and jabbed an arthritic finger into the air. “I don’t mind sayin’ it pains me that you feel I can’t be trusted with the truth.”

  The older man’s red-faced anger, Chance knew, was borne of frustration; he couldn’t condone what he didn’t understand, and he couldn’t understand what Chance wouldn’t tell him. “What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

  Nodding somberly, he asked, “Have you told Bess?”

  Chance cleared his throat, shrugged. “I’m not much for conversation, and if I know your daughter, she’ll want to talk this right into the ground. Frankly, I don’t have the time or the patience to tell her what she wants to hear, so it’ll be easier all-round if I just lit a shuck out as soon as—“

  Mouth set in grim determination, Micah walked past Chance and slid the pocket doors together, effectively shutting the rest of the world from his oak paneled office. “So what you’re telling me,” he said, sitting on the corner of his desk, “is that you already know she’ll react badly to news of your…of your sudden departure.”

  Chance ran his a hand through his hair and nodded. He’d given the matter a great deal of thought. There would be a fair amount of ranting and raving, and plenty of her ‘puppy to the root’ questioning. She’d give him a piece of her mind, all right. And why not? She’s given you her heart….

  But that was the nub of it: She loved him enough to set aside her own hurt and rejection and concentrate on doing what was best for him. He could handle her anger, could handle the tears. But to watch her suffer in silence because of him? Chance would never be man enough for that.

  “As you know, I’ve hired dozens of foremen over the years. A few were worth every dollar I paid ‘em.” Micah shook his head. “But you?” A long sigh punctuated his comment. “There’s something different about the way you work. Has been from day one. You couldn’t convince me in a month of Sundays that you do what you do, just for the pay. This place means something to you.”

  He couldn’t deny the truth of the man’s words, so Chance didn’t try. He’d been standing there, hat in hand, staring sullenly at the toes of his boots. But Micah’s last words forced eye contact.

  “Son, I’ve learned the hard way that there are some things you just can’t outrun.” An expression of remembered pain flickered across his face. “This farm is what it is today, in part because I’m a better-than-average judge of a good horse. And in part to the fact that I’m pretty good at sizin’ up people, too. I pegged you for a good man, right from the get-go.” He pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, aimed a bent forefinger at Chance again. “You can’t seriously think I would have looked the other way while you courted my daughter if I didn’t believe you’re worth of her….”

  Chance’s heart hammered and his palms grew damp.

  “No need to look guilty, son. I’ve seen the way you two behave when you’re together.” He tucked in one corner of his mouth. “I’m not so old that I don’t remember a thing or two about love.”

  When he’d left other farms, other towns, no one had tried to stop him. No one had seemed to care one way or the other whether or stayed or went. Why couldn’t Micah be like that, Chance wondered, and accept that he had to go, and just leave it at that? “I’ve spelled it out as best I can,” Chance said, taking an envelope from his shirt pocket.

  Like smoke, the paternal smile vanished from Micah’s face, and he accepted the note with it a cursory glance. The look on his face was more disappointment than anything else, and it cut Chance to the quick. “I know it seems cowardly,” he said, nodding at the envelope, “saying goodbye that way.” He held Micah’s steady gaze. “It isn’t the telling that scares me…it’s what the telling will do to her.” Shaking his head, he frowned. “I’ve grown mighty fond of your daughter; I wouldn’t hurt her for all the world.”

  “You think this isn’t going to hurt?”

  Chance ground his molars together as Micah slipped the envelope into the breast pocket of his jacket. “So when are you headin’ out?”

  “Soon as I get my gear stowed.”

  “Today?”

  Chance nodded.

  Micah sighed heavily, then patted his pocket. “I suppose you want me to wait ‘til you’re gone to give this to Bess.”

  Another nod. “It’ll be easier that way.”

  There was a moment of profound silence, which Micah broke by saying, “For Bess…or for you?”

  He didn’t hesitate to admit, “Both.”

  “I’m not a rich man, Chance, but I’m far from poor. Let me help you.”

  Wasn’t it bad enough that he had to leave Foggy Bottom—and his beloved Bess—at all? Did the man have to pour salt into the wound this way? For a reason he couldn’t explain, the gesture riled Chance. Should’ve written two notes,
so you could ride out of here with some dignity…. “I don’t want your money.”

  “I have friends in high places. Maybe—“

  Exasperated, Chance blew a stream of air through his teeth. “I’m mindful of what you’re trying to do for me, and I’m properly grateful, but not even your rich and powerful friends can get me out of the mess I’m in.”

  Micah stood and resumed pacing, head down and fingers linked against his backside. After a moment, he stopped. “Then Godspeed, son,” he said, giving Chance’s shoulder a meaningful squeeze, “and take our prayers with you.”

  ***

  He’d just cinched the saddle when he heard the thundering hooves. Dust billowed all around the big Palomino, hiding its rider from view. He continued to watch as the man dismounted and tethered the beast to the hitching post near Micah’s front porch. It wasn’t until the stranger removed his hat that Chance recognized him: Sheriff Chuck Carter.

  If he’d left last week, as originally planned, he’d be in Canada by now. Now, he realized, despite everything he’d done to prevent it, he’d drawn this wonderful family into his troubles. His miserable hide wasn’t worth putting them at risk. Hidden by Mamie’s generous rump, Chance watched as Mark answered Carter’s knock. A moment of chit-chat was all it took to inspire the boy to invite the stranger inside. As soon as the door closed behind them, Chance climbed into the saddle and rode quietly from the barn. If he could make it as far as the north fields without being spotted, maybe he could spare them from further involvement.

  Mamie loved a full-speed run and needed very little urging, once he’d gotten safely out of earshot of anyone in the house, to go full out. When horse and rider reached the crest in the hill beyond the field, Chance stopped and looked back. Without dismounting, he stared through the spyglass Matt and Mark had given him for Christmas and zeroed-in on the manor house.

  A painted pony now stood beside the Palomino….

  He swiveled the spyglass left, just as the front door opened. Chance wouldn’t have needed the visual aid to name the second man: Forrest Yonker.

  So they’d joined forces. Well, if Carter came all this way hoping to test the “Two heads are better than one” theory, he was in for a let-down, because in Chance’s estimation, Yonker hadn’t been born with even half a brain.

  Yonker and Carter faced off, making it clear they hadn’t come here as partners. Maybe he’d caught a sliver of luck, he thought.

  Movement just inside the door caught his attention, and he fixed the glass on it. Through its polished, curved lens, he saw Bess, looking directly at him. “Go!” she mouthed. The silent warning echoed in her wide, frightened eyes. Go, and don’t look back!

  He likened his fate to that of a longhorn sheep, soon to be mounted over some dogger’s cabin door, for the bounty had become the prize for whichever hunter was first to drag his trophy back to Texas. Chance would have to do some mighty fancy footwork if he hoped to escape this time….

  The sheriff saddled up, then turned and looked north. Had he followed Bess’s terrified gaze? Or was it pure instinct that he zeroed in on his prey?

  In one second, Chance and Carter sat, locked in an eerie, distant eye contact. In the next, the lawman whirled his horse around and urged it forward. And then Yonker joined the chase.

  He urged Mamie into a full gallop and headed for the cave where Mark and Matt had spent many boyhood days. It seemed ordinary enough on the outside as its mouth yawned big and black in the mound of dirt. But inside, dozens of deserted mine shafts aimed in all directions, like the spokes of an ancient wagon wheel.

  It would be a good place to hide.

  He’d take the tunnel that led east, toward the Gunpowder River. From there—if he was lucky—he could slip into the grove of pines that grew thick as wheat, then follow the B&O Railroad tracks along the river. If he made it that far without being spotted, he’d turn north, and disappear into the dense woodlands of Pennsylvania.

  Mamie seemed not to notice the thick lather that coated her withers as she obeyed Chance’s commands. Much as she enjoyed a fast run, she was a farmer’s horse, accustomed to carrying her master for long distances…at a leisurely pace. Her breathing became ragged and labored, and the usually sure-footed beast began to stumble. If he didn’t let her rest, she’d likely die.

  But Yonker and Carter were hot on his trail. If Chance allowed her that rest, he would die.

  Hunkering low in the saddle and hugging her neck, he said through clenched teeth, “Just get me to the edge of the woods, girl. To the edge of the woods….”

  ***

  Mamie served him well, and carried him far from Foggy Bottom. He rode her hard until they entered the woods, then slowed her to a tolt. Chance held her to the face-paced trot until it became impossible to maneuver between the close-growing pines. Though he could tell by the way her muscles tensed under his thighs that she didn’t like the feel of the bark scraping against her shoulders and thighs, Mamie, head bobbing and ears flicking, continued to obey. “Atta girl,” he urged, his voice raspy and low, “nice and easy.”

  Up ahead, he could see a break in the trees. “We’ll pull up soon,” he assured. And as though she understood his words, Mamie relaxed a bit. She needed food and water, and if the truth were told, Chance wouldn’t mind a good long rest, himself. That clearing up ahead was looking better and better.

  When at last they reached it, Chance dismounted and stroked Mamie’s neck. “Good girl,” he whispered appreciatively. He’d pushed her hard, harder than she’d ever been pushed, and yet she’d gone full-out without once breaking stride. She’d earned a leisurely meal, but he couldn’t risk letting her stand out in the open to graze her fill. So, while the horse nibbled absently on the leaves of the blackberry bush he’d tethered her to, Chance set about the business of gathering an armload of the knee-high field grass that grew aplenty on the outskirts of the woods.

  In the years he’d been ‘heading for sundown’, Chance had been forced to hole up and hide more times than he could count. Blending into the landscape was, by now, second nature to him. Being a fugitive all these years had taught him two things: Never stray far from water and, if you’re lucky enough to have a horse, treat her like a best friend, ‘cause that’s exactly what she is. He was ever more grateful for Micah’s generous Christmas gift….

  He moved slowly and carefully, never stepping too far from the protective shadows of the trees, always scanning the high rim that ran alongside the woods, whacking at the grass with his big bowie knife…one of the few things Chance had managed to keep with him over the years.

  He’d come by the weapon passing through Arkansas during his first year on the dodge. He’d stumbled onto the campsite of a hide rustler who’d been on the run even longer than Chance. Equally startled by the surprise meeting, the high-strung men unholstered their weapons in a heartbeat. The two of them had stood in frozen fear for half a minute before Chance said, using the six-shooter he’d taken from the Lubbock deputy as a pointer, “I got five beans in the wheel…how ‘bout you?”

  “Same,” the rustler answered.

  “Don’t rightly know which chamber’s empty,” Chance admitted.

  “Me neither.” Shrugging, the man reholstered his gun. “You look a might stoved up.” Nodding toward the campfire, he added, “Ain’t much, but you’re welcome to a bite of that rabbit on the spit….”

  It had been the scent of roasting meat that had drawn Chance toward the cookfire in the first place. Licking his lips, he put his weapon away, too. “I’m down to my last chip,” he’d admitted, tearing a thigh from the carcass above the fire. Seated now, he said around a mouthful of the tender meat, “Much obliged.”

  The stranger shrugged and tore off the other thigh. “What you doin’ prowlin’ about in the dark?”

  Chances were fair to middlin’ that his host and Chance were in the same fix, so he told the truth: “Had me a run-in with the law back in Lubbock.”

  Nodding, the man said, “Abilene for me.
” Grinning a bit, he added, “Little matter of whose cows those was that I took to market.” He inspected the bone for last shreds of meat. “How ‘bout you?”

  “They say I killed a man.” He’d made the mistake soon after his escape of telling a gang that he’d been wrongly accused of murder. They’d called him everything but a human being, and threatened to string him up by his short hairs for whining like a woman. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that, if he got any help along the trail, it would come by way of men who, like himself, were just one step ahead of the law; men who, unlike Chance, were guilty murder, robbery, rape….

  Without looking up, the stranger continued to gnaw on the small bone. “What’d you kill him for?”

  “They say I did it for his pocket watch.”

  His narrow, glinting dark eyes met Chance’s. “You kilt a feller for his timepiece?” Clucking his tongue, he licked grease from his fingers, wiped them on his shirt. Flapping his saddle blanket over his dusty trousers, he lay back and rested his grizzled head on his bedroll. “Maybe I’ll just sleep with one eye open tonight,” he said chuckling. Grunting, he turned his back on Chance. “He’p yourself to what’s left of the huckeydummies….”

  Chance would have a sweetened biscuit, maybe two. But he had no intention of hanging around long enough to fall asleep in this old man’s camp. With his bad luck of late, the fire and the scent of rabbit had also alerted whatever lawmen were hot on the rustler’s trail. He didn’t wish the man any bad luck, but he didn’t care to become a souvenir of the lawmen’s hunt, either. So once he’d eaten his fill of rabbit and raisin biscuits, Chance would head out, find someplace else to slumber.

  He’d almost downed his second cup of coffee when the first soft notes filled the air: