Spirit of the Wolf Page 20

  Just as surging floodwaters slowly erode a dam, her careful control began to wear away. It started, a slight tremor in her fingertips that ebbed up and out, until every inch of her quivered with fright and dread. She was utterly helpless to bring Chance back, to prove him innocent, to make things right. Frustration pulsed inside her and flared from her heart, heating her cheeks and causing her ears to burn.

  Bess gripped her father’s shoulders, the scratchy wool of his jacket reminding her of Chance’s work-hardened hands. Would she ever feel his gentle touch, or hear his heartfelt proclamations, or see the lovelight glowing in his ice-blue eyes again?

  Habit, more than anything else, warned her to get hold of herself. Habit—and fear that once the floodgates opened—there’d be no stanching her tears. Hard as it was, she drew away from her father’s embrace. It would have been better if he hadn’t exhibited this moment of fatherly love and strength, for it only served to remind her of the man he’d been when her mother was alive. Self-pity had turned him weak and timid, blinding him to the needs of his children, whose loss had been every bit as painful as his own.

  Bess would not allow that kind of selfishness to do to her what it had done to her father. And so she grit her teeth and squinted, and reached into that now-shallow well of self-determination for one last ounce of control. “Let me have the letter,” she said, extending a trembling hand.

  “I’m sorry, Bess,” he said, giving it to her. “I wish there were something I could do to ease—“

  “There is,” she said matter-of-factly, folding the envelope in half and tucking it into her apron pocket.

  Micah stood near the door, waiting for Bess to spell it out.

  She rolled up her sleeves and drove both hands into the sudsy water to tackle the skillet again. “You can find Matt and Mark, and help them understand why Chance had to leave…us.” She hid the catch in her voice behind a tiny cough. She couldn’t bring herself to hurt Micah with the truth, so in place of ‘father’, Bess chose the word ‘brother’. “It won’t be easy for them, knowing he’s gone, because he’s been like an older brother to them.”

  “I expect I’ll find them in the barn.”

  She nodded. “Yesterday, he taught them the proper way to groom a horse. This morning, he told them to practice every chance they get.”

  One hand on the screen door, he said, “I’ll be in my study later, reading…in case you want to talk….”

  She dared not meet his eyes for fear she’d see evidence of pity there. It wouldn’t take much to bring down the last of her self-control. Bess continued to attack the frying pan as though the answers to all her problems were hidden beneath the layer of crisp, cooked-on chicken fat. “Enjoy your book, Pa,” was all she said as the back door closed with a muffled thud.

  An hour later, after she’d swept the porch and scoured the table and chairs, the cookstove, the pine-planked floor, Bess wearily climbed the stairs and locked herself in her room. Covering her shoulders with the cream-colored crocheted shawl that had been her mother’s, she took off her apron, settled into the nest of pillows Mary had long ago stuffed into the windowseat, and hugged it to her breast.

  The stiff envelope crinkled between her hands and her heart. Sighing, she removed it from the right-hand pocket. In the silvery, shadowy light of the moon, she slowly lifted the flap and withdrew the single sheet of paper that had been folded in thirds, from top to bottom, from bottom to top. Pressing it against her lap, she smoothed away the neat creases. Then, tilting the letter so that a shard of moonlight illuminated the bold, masculine handwriting, she read:

  September 28, 1850

  My dearest Bess,

  It might seem this is the coward’s way…leaving a note instead of facing you head-on. It isn’t that I’m yellow, it’s just I want your last memory of me to be a good one. You deserve a stronger man than me. (Maybe someday, the Good Lord will tell me what I did to deserve even a few months with you.)

  I told them in Lubbock I never killed Horace Pickett. Even folks who knew me all my life didn’t believe it. I don’t rightly care what the rest of the world believes. You believe me. Nothing else matters.

  You can believe this, too, Bess: There’s a hefty price on my head, and there are men out there who aim to collect it. If anybody gets in their way, they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. I won’t let my past bring any harm to you.

  So my plan is to head north, then double back to Texas. Who knows? I could get lucky, find Pickett’s real killer. One thing’s sure, I can’t come back to Freeland until I know it’s safe for you to be around me. Could take a long while, darlin’, so don’t wait for me. If love comes knocking, you answer, you hear? I love you more than life itself, and don’t want you pining away over the likes of me.

  Just don’t forget me, Bess.

  Yours truly,

  Walker John Atwood

  She read the letter three times before sliding it back into its envelope and tucking it into her desk drawer. She hesitated near the chair for a moment, uncertain whether or not to lift the blotter and withdraw the wanted poster. Biting her lower lip, she did, and carried it to the window seat.

  The artist had not created a very good likeness of Chance. In the drawing, the wanted man’s hair was mostly black, as was the mustache above the slanting, smirking grin. The chin was too narrow, the nose too broad, and the cheekbones too flat and far apart.

  But the eyes…those piercing, crystalline eyes….

  Even if all she’d seen on the billboard that day in Philadelphia had been the eyes, she’d have immediately recognized the man as Chance Walker.

  Correction…W.C. Atwood.

  WANTED FOR MURDER, the blotchy black letters said, DEAD OR ALIVE.

  The bounty was high, encouraging lawmen and lawbreakers alike to strike out after him in the hopes of collecting it. What chance did he have against their greed?

  Well, he’d managed to elude them for ten years. That, at least, gave her something to hope for.

  Bess pressed her cheek to the wanted man’s and closed her eyes. Of all the things Chance had told her his father taught him as a boy, “The truth shall set you free” seemed to echo loudest in his memory.

  She didn’t believe for an instant that Chance had killed anyone, and yet he was being hunted, just as surely as that white wolf. Had bounty hunters had bagged their prey and collected their prize money? Or had the beautiful creature managed to find a home with her own…dodging her two-legged predators?

  Something told her the wolf still lived, wild and free. If the she-wolf could escape men armed with powerful rifles, perhaps Chance could outrun his enemies this time, too.

  She told herself the Texas lawmen would not find him. He’d outwit them, and someday, he’d return to Foggy Bottom. If the wolf could survive, surely a man with as much spirit as Chance could, too.

  He’d written “Don’t forget me….”

  “As if that’s possible!” she whispered, gathering the poster to her bosom.

  Bess went to her window and looked out into the vast darkness. He was out there somewhere, with the good Lord watching over him. Bess had to believe that. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of night air, drawing his wandering wolf-like spirit into her.

  Immediately, Bess was filled with a sense of peace as she pictured Chance. His quest for safety may take him hundreds of miles from Foggy Bottom, but he’d never be more than a breath away.

  She made him a promise, right then and there:

  Every morning before her day began, and every night when it ended, no matter the weather, no matter her mood, she’d stand in this window and draw his wolfish spirit to her.

  One day, as she searched the horizon, she would see that familiar silhouette, and know that he’d come home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The best place to hide Chance had learned, was in the most obvious place. Yonker and Carter would expect him to continue heading north, following the Allegheny Mountain rivers and trails.

/>   For awhile, he allowed them to think just that, and thanks to Mamie’s stubborn determination, he managed to plug along, staying many miles ahead despite the fact that the ex-deputy and the sheriff were coming at him from opposite directions. Chance left markers along the trail—a bent twig here, ashes there—to fool them into thinking he was trying to disguise his campsites.

  Then, after more than a month of zig-zagging through the thick Pennsylvania forests, he did an abrupt about-face and headed south, skirting territory already covered. Another week or so of that, he figured, and it would be safe to move west, toward Texas. No telling how many years or how many jobs there’d be between here and Lubbock….

  For more than a decade now, he’d been what cowboys sometimes called a waddy, meandering from ranch to ranch, from farm to farm, filling in during the busy seasons, then moving on. At least his drifting had a purpose this time. He’d clear his name, and when he did, he’d go back to Maryland, to Foggy Bottom, to Bess.

  Boredom had seldom been a problem for this man on the run. He’d accepted his solitary status, for it fit well into his resolve to dodge the hangman. Oh, he had a gregarious side, to be sure. Everywhere he’d been, folks liked him. Chance wanted it that way, because being accepted made his plan to elude the noose that much easier. Still and all, it was a dangerous undertaking, walking that tightrope between being charming and friendly…without being too memorable….

  He hadn’t had to play that game at Foggy Bottom. There, surrounded by Matt and Mark, Micah and the other hands, and his sweet Bess, he’d been free to be himself. He missed that. Missed them.

  Chance estimated the loneliness had set in at just about the same time Foggy Bottom was out of sight. Leaving when he had put a safe distance between the people he’d come to think of as family and the men hunting him, but that’s also when old, cold habits replaced the comfortable sociable mannerisms he’d adopted at the farm.

  Distractions of any kind could be deadly. Chance knew full well that he couldn’t afford to wallow in self-pity, so to put it out of his mind, he’d taken to whistling and humming, much to Mamie’s dismay. Her ears, it seemed, swiveled and twitched twice as much as usual. She was tired of his so-called music, and frankly, so was Chance.

  Horse and rider were tired of their diet of berries, bark, and wild grasses, too. Chance yearned for a hot, sit-me-down meal, and he knew that Mamie was panting to plow into a nosebag filled with of oats.

  In the next town, Chance pulled up. Beyond the narrow Main Street in a place was called Gettysburg, farmland stretched as the eye could see. He tethered Mamie and sauntered into the granary. “Howdy,” he said when the men who’d gathered at the counter turned to face him.

  “Howdy, yourself,” answered a small, wiry fellow. “Been on the move quite awhile, from the looks of you.”

  “That I have,” Chance said, dusting his hat against his thighs. He knew when to give just enough information, and when to give a lot; when to tell the truth…and when to lie. “Had me a farm down Richmond way. Drought’s been real bad this year. You northerners havin’ the same trouble?”

  “Nah,” said another man. “Good Lord blessed us with a good season.”

  “Praise God for that, Henry!” a third put in.

  He knew how to get in their good graces. “Well, to make a short story shorter,” Chance finished, “the bank up and foreclosed on my loan. Booted me off my own land.”

  “Tarnation!” the first man sympathized. “You got a wife and young’uns?”

  His thoughts turned immediately to Bess, and a knot formed in his heart when he said, “No. Never did take a wife.” Forcing a grin, he added, “Just as well, ‘cause what I know about women, you could put in one eye.”

  The men laughed heartily.

  “They are a puzzle,” Chance said, “ain’t they?”

  “So,” Henry said, “you lookin’ to settle down in these parts?”

  “Could be.” Chance shrugged. “For now, at least. That is…if you know of somebody who could use a hard-working hand….”

  The wiry man scratched his chin. “Heard-tell the Widow Parker was looking for a man to run her spread.”

  “When cows climb trees!” the biggest said. “All Beula’s lookin’ for is a man to keep her warm at night.”

  The laughter following this joke doubled the last in volume and duration. When it waned, Chance said, “Didn’t think old women liked such things.”

  “Old? Beulah might be a bit used up, but she ain’t old,” Henry explained. He wiggled his eyebrows. “She was a hurdy-gurdy girl up New York way.” And in a louder voice, “Tell him, Archer.”

  “That’s right. ‘Bout a year ago, that ceiling expert opened up her own house of ill repute, right here in good old Gettysburg!”

  Chance frowned. He couldn’t imagine what work a woman like that would have for him…. “Well, maybe you’ve heard-tell of a farmer in these parts who’s lookin’ to hire a—“

  “What’s the matter, boy?” Chuckling, Archer dropped a hearty slap on Chance’s back. “Y’ain’t bashful, are ya?”

  Chance reconsidered his options. He doubted the born-and-bred Texans on his heels could survive a cold, Pennsylvania winter. The minute Yonker and Carter could see their own breath, they’d likely turn-tail and head home, with a plan to take up the hunt again come spring. If they did stick with the hunt, what better place to hide out than Beula’s place!

  “So tell me, boys,” he said, smirking as he rubbed his palms together, “which way to Beula’s?”

  ***

  In the barn, along with six beautiful Palominos, Chance found everything he would need to groom Mamie. He hung her saddle over the stall wall, hooked her bridle and bit over the saddle horn. All her gear was in need of a good cleaning.

  But first things first.

  Gently, Chance cooled and massaged her tired legs with a good, wet brushing. The coarse-bristled brush rid her coat of the dirt and sweat of the trail, and the softer hair-brush cleaned her mane and tail. Last, he used the hoof pick to scratch dirt and grit from her hooves. He spent a good hour massaging her big body with the tools, with his hands, speaking softly to her has he worked. Then he backed her into an empty stall and forked a mound of fresh hay onto the floor. After hanging a bucket of mixed grain from a peg in the wall, he latched the stall door.

  Chance was about to head on over to Calico House when he realized he’d ridden the same trails Mamie had. No tellin’ what you smell like, he thought, frowning as he dug through his pack for a change of clothes and a bar of soap. “You’re a lucky bunch,” he said to the horses. “Old Beulah’s even put a pump in the barn for y’all!”

  He worked the handle until a coarse stream of water issued from the spout and filled the gray metal tub beneath it. Tossing his soiled outfit in a heap near Mamie’s saddle blanket, he washed up and changed into the dungarees and flannel shirt Bess had laundered for him. He’d go on up to the house in a bit, have himself something to eat. For now, all he wanted was a couple minutes of shuteye in a place where he didn’t have to worry about a cougar…or a bounty hunter…rousting him out….

  Old Beulah had given him a stack of linens, and he hurriedly made up the cot in the back of the barn, then lay atop the black-and-red plaid wool blanket. In minutes, he was fast asleep, and dreaming of Bess.

  ***

  “You have a kitchen in this place?” he asked in response to her invitation to join her for supper, grinning as Beulah hung his hat on a rack near the door.

  “Sweet thing, anything you can dream is possible in this place.” Beulah squinted around the smoke of a hand-rolled cigarette. “So tell me, honey, what’s the law want with a handsome cuss like you?”

  His heartbeat doubled as he seated himself on the edge of the chaise opposite hers.

  “Oh, now don’t get your neck hairs a-bristlin’, sugar. Seems kinda funny—in a coincidental kind of way—that not two days ago, big ugly fella stopped by here askin’ if I ever met a man name of….” She narro
wed one eye and tapped a stubby fingertip against her chin. “W.C. Atwood, I believe was the name he said.”

  Beulah took a long pull from the cigarette. “And the day before that, a good-lookin’ fella wearin’ a six-star badge come struttin’ up my steps, askin’ the same question.” She exhaled, watched the wispy grey-white smoke curl toward the ceiling, then fixed that icy stare on him again. “They say you killed a man. Broke his neck to get his watch.” Beulah raised a brow, but not her voice. “Is that true?”

  Chance shook his head. “No. It ain’t.”

  “Why did you kill him, then?”

  By now, Mamie would have eaten her fill of the oats and barley in the stall. She’d been watered and brushed, had rested for over an hour. There was no reason he couldn’t saddle up and head for parts farther north. Pity he’d miss whatever was cooking in this calico queen’s kitchen.

  Chance had three choices, as he saw it: Lie outright, come clean and hope she’d let him leave here with a full belly, or come clean and appeal to her mercies…and hope she’d tell him which way Carter and Yonker had gone.

  “Look, Miss Beulah,” he began, resting both elbows on his knees, “I won’t insult your intelligence by feedin’ you a row of manure.” He linked his fingers together. “You’ve likely heard every lie in the book, so I’m gonna tell it to you straight:

  “More’n ten years ago, a fella got himself killed in Lubbock, Texas. That much is true.” He lifted both shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “The evidence pointed straight at me.”

  Ice blue eyes met ice blue eyes as Chance continued. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ I’m guilty, and I ain’t sayin’ I ain’t. I’ll just say this much: No self-respecting Texan would do a man in for his pocket watch.”

  She broke the intense eye contact to study the glowing tip of her cigarette before the cold blue stare fixed on his face. “So the question of the hour is…are you a self-respecting Texan?”

  Chance let the slight narrowing of his eyes serve as his answer.

  “Been on the run, all this time?”