Massacre at Lonesome Ridge: A Zombie Western (3 page)

Then Little Bear rose and faced the older man. North Wind's hand went to his blade and his jaw dropped. The boy's eyes were gone, replaced by black pits of nothingness. Blood streamed down his face from the open holes, burning dark trails across his face, neck, and chest. His normally tan skin held the gray pallor of death. His teeth were stained with blood when he spoke. Even the air around the young shaman felt wrong, like a sickness had been cast upon him.

As Little Bear walked toward him, North Wind drew his knife and prepared for the worst.

Sheriff Connor McClane yawned as he leaned one shoulder against the post outside his jailhouse. His eyes felt gritty from a severe lack of good, solid sleep, but the rising sun refused to let him crawl back into bed. Not that he'd want to, anyway. His recurring dreams were not a place he wanted to revisit. Connor pushed himself away from the post and buried the heel of one hand in an eye as he stomped back into the jailhouse.

Ed Finch dozed on the floor near the bars of one of three small cells, sleeping off the excess drink from the night before. Connor was sure he spent more nights in the cell than out of it, but Finch was harmless otherwise. He was loud and obnoxious when he had a little too much whiskey, but he would never hurt anyone.

McClane glanced back out the door. It was still quiet that early in the morning. Only a couple people wandered the street. He watched as Lily Sacks shut the door to the newspaper office and then he walked over to his desk. Plopping down in the chair, he glanced at the door one more time before reaching for the bottom drawer. Several bottles clanked together as the drawer slid open. He picked one that was half empty and pulled it out.

"Eh! Give us a sip, would ya?"

Connor turned to glare at Finch. "Go back to sleep. You've had enough."

With a grumble and several insults slung at Connor's long-dead mother, Finch rolled over in the mess he had left on the floor. Connor waited until he heard the telltale snore before he propped his feet up on the table and leaned back in his chair. He pulled a long swig from the bottle, then tilted his hat down over his eyes.

"Might as well move his stuff in."

Connor jerked awake and nearly sent his chair flying backward. He just saved the bottle in his hand from tipping over and righted himself with several muttered curses. The bottle thudded heavily on the desk as he pushed his hat up away from his eyes. He squinted toward the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the bright sun as it streamed around the shadowy figure standing there.

"Cora," he mumbled as he took in the shape of flouncy skirts and the round face. Her dress was a bright cerulean blue and the sleeves hung off the shoulders seductively.

The dancing girl trounced into the room and propped a hip on the corner of his desk. "You sound so happy to see me," she teased. With a practiced deftness, she moved the bottle well out of his reach as she placed the basket she carried onto the desk. "I brought you breakfast. You look like you need it. Rough night?"

Connor grunted and yawned. Cora laughed as she pulled a metal cup and a carafe full of coffee from the basket. She poured a cup of hot black liquid into the mug and pushed it toward the sheriff. "Drink up, little brother."

As he sipped the coffee, Cora pulled out a tin plate and began arranging other items on it. Cornbread, a couple hard boiled eggs, some fried sausage. Connor picked up a piece of sausage and munched it between sips of coffee. Cora pulled out another package and unwrapped more cornbread as she walked over to the occupied cell.

"Finch," she called sweetly through the bars. "Wakey wakey."

The old man didn't move. She reached a booted foot through the bars and prodded him in the ribs. He grunted and rolled over, but didn't wake up. With an exasperated sigh, Cora walked to the bucket sitting next to the cells and drew out some water. She carefully maneuvered the dripping scoop over Finch's trousers and tipped it up. He sputtered and swore as he swatted at his crotch, but eventually pulled himself into a sitting position.

"Bah, it's just you." He glared at her with mock dislike, but he happily accepted the cornbread she tossed to him.

She propped a hand her hip and affected a mock pout. "What do you mean 'just me'? You seemed awful happy to see me last night, Mr. Finch."

Ed grumbled. " 'Cause o' you, I always end up with less money 'n I start out with. Yer a devil woman."

Cora leaned over and tweaked his cheek through the bars. "My dear Mr. Finch, you never complain about parting with your money when you're doing it."

She tossed him a wink and sauntered back over to the desk, her heels clicking soundly on the wooden floor the entire way.

"Why do you have to do that?" Connor sighed at his older sister and shook his head.

Cora's grin fell and she crossed her arms as she narrowed her eyes at Connor. "Do what, dear brother?" It was a challenge to start an argument they had had too many times before and he couldn't help but rise to the bait.

He waved a hand at her dress. "That. Wearin' that getup. It's too damn early in the morning to be doin' that whorin' stuff."

Cora's lips pulled into a snarl and her nostrils flared. Her hands balled into fists and shook as she fought the urge to slap him. "I am not a whore, Connor McClane, and you would do well to never call me that again."

Connor held up a hand in surrender. "Calm down. I wasn't calling you a whore. I just meant..." He sighed and changed tactics. "I just worry about you is all. You're my sister, Cora. I almost lost you once. I don't want to do it again."

She forced a smile onto her face and settled back onto the desk. "I know, and I appreciate all you've done for me. After Michael left for the war, I don't know what I would have done without your help. And when I got sick, and the kids, when I lost them... if you hadn't been there for me, I would have died. I'm sure of it." She reached out a hand and he gripped her fingers gently.

Silence fell over them for a moment as they both remembered the day Connor went to check on Cora. She lived miles outside of Lonesome Ridge on a ranch owned by her and her husband. Michael Monroe had left her to run it alone when he went off to fight for the South in the Civil War. She was six months pregnant at the time with her third child and had been against slavery since she was a child. She had begged him not to go, but he ignored her pleas.

Two years later, sickness came to the ranch fast and furious. When Connor finally came for his weekly checkin, two of her three children were already dead, taken by the fever, and she and her eldest daughter were not faring much better. He found them huddled together in a corner, shivering as sweat poured down their bodies. The sheriff brought them to town, but it was too late for the little girl. She died on the trip in. The animals had suffered greatly with Cora out of commission and the ranch fell into disrepair. When Cora was healthy again, she took up dancing at the saloon to make enough money to support herself until her husband came home. When he did, he was a different man, a broken man.

"I'm a grown woman," Cora said to break the sadness that threatened to overwhelm them. "And I can take care of myself, Connor. I need to take care of myself. I make good money at the saloon and Neil Avery takes good care of me. He makes sure nothing bad happens and I help him sell more drink."

"Ain't that the truth of it."

Cora shot a glare at Ed Finch to silence him before she continued. "Look, you're the only family I have left, and I know you worry about me, but I worry about you, too." She picked up the nearly empty bottle and wiggled it in front of his face.

The sheriff rolled his eyes in irritation, but refused to cave to Cora's taunting. He had his vices, just like everyone else. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself when he wasn't deep in the bottle.

"Amos and I are headin' over to the Gaines' place today," he said to change the subject as he tore his eyes away from the sloshing liquid in front of him.

Cora stiffened and set the bottle down. "Just the two of you? Are you sure that's a good idea? I don't trust those boys as far as I can throw 'em. Especially that darned Jedidiah."

Connor snorted a laugh. "I remember a day when you thought Jed was the greatest guy in the west."

His sister's lips tightened into a thin white line. "Yes, well, we all change. And he did not change for the better. As much as I hate to say it, it's a good thing we went to live with Aunt Ivy after Ma and Pa died, to get away from them. I can't imagine what would have happened to you had you boys stayed friends."

Connor bit his lip. Jed Gaines was yet another subject he didn't like discussing. The morning was not starting out very well for him. His eyes roved his desk until they found the bottle. It was on the other side of Cora, just out of his reach. He wouldn't be able to get to it before she did. He was contemplating the risk of pulling another bottle out of his desk when the door opened again.

"Morning, Amos," Cora sang as she rose from the desk. "How are you, darlin'?"

The young deputy blushed from the collar of his shirt all the way up to the tips of his ears. He doffed his hat and offered the dancing girl a little bow of the head. "Mornin', Miss Cora. I'm doing' all right. I hope you're well." He shuffled his feet like a school boy with a serious crush, but didn't step further into the office.

"I'm doing just fine. You're so sweet for askin'." She gave him a winning grin that upped the pink in his cheeks by several degrees.

Amos coughed. "I'll, uh, I'll wait for you outside, sheriff."

The sheriff fought back a grin. "I'll be out in a minute."

The deputy left and Cora clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle.

"You're so mean to him."

She scoffed. "How am I mean? He loves it."

Connor rose and adjusted his rumpled trousers. "He loves you, you mean. And you're never going to feel the same."

"I'm never going to feel that way about any man. Not after Michael. Not after what he did." She shrugged. "By the way, it's almost noon, not early morning. You were sleeping, so I waited awhile outside. You better get a move on if you want to hit up the Gaines' place before dark."

Connor strapped on his gun belt and grabbed the ring of keys off the hook on the desk. "Come on, Finch. Time to leave."

The old man grunted and groaned, but somehow managed to push himself to his feet and stumble out into the sunlight. "See ya tomorra," he mumbled as he left.

"I hope not," Connor called after him as he watched the man trip down the stairs into the street. The sheriff turned from the door just in time to see Cora stuff his bottle of whiskey into the basket. He gritted his teeth, but said nothing.

She turned around with a smile on her face. "I should be going," she said. She harbored no guilt over taking away his bottles. It wasn't the first time, and it would not be the last. She walked over to the door. "Be careful, little brother." She stood on her tiptoes for a moment to kiss him on the cheek. "And keep an eye on Amos, please. I want him to return in one piece."

Amos was leaning on a post near the door, within earshot, and his cheeks brightened to a deep rouge.

"Go on, get outta here," Connor said with a laugh.

Cora gave him a wink before sauntering off down the walk toward the hotel to return the breakfast basket to the cook who provided the sheriff's meals.

Connor walked up beside Amos and nudged him in the side. "Stop staring at my sister."

"Sorry," Amos stuttered in embarrassment.

The sheriff laughed. "I'm joking. If she wasn't family, I'd probably watch, too. Ready to go get in some trouble?"

Amos crammed his hat onto his head. "Yeah, boss. Let's ride."

Charity woke up early on the day of her wedding. She had slept little the night before and felt it in her eyes and face. She yawned wide as she walked down the stairs. Her mother was already up and about, putting the finishing touches on the dresses for the wedding she was in charge of.

She looked up from the intricate stitching and smiled at her daughter. "You better get going, dear. We don't want you to be late for your own wedding."

The young woman smiled and hugged her mother. "No, we don't. Try not to be too late either, please."

"I'll do my best, dear. Now, scoot."

Charity met the other women at Victoire's boutique. The attendant was waiting for her when she arrived and ushered her through the main room to a door on the left. A room she had never been in before was set up with chairs and mirrors. All of the chairs were filled except one. Several attendants fluttered about, applying makeup and hair before they slipped the bridal party into their dresses.

"Come, come here, darling." Victoire beckoned Charity over to the largest, most comfortable chair set in front of a beautiful vanity. "Sit, please."

Charity let herself be pulled about and prodded at while they curled her hair and turned her into a princess. As she watched herself in the mirror, she couldn't keep the smile off her face. Her dreams were finally coming true. She was going to be married to the greatest man in the world and she would be the happiest girl to ever live. Even Catherine's glaring countenance could do nothing to dampen her mood.

When she was finally ready, the whole group was shuffled out the back door into a string of waiting carriages. Whether it was bad luck or awful planning, Charity found herself alone in a carriage with Catherine, her soon-to-be wicked mother-in-law.

For several uncomfortable minutes, the only sound was the clop-clop of the horses' hooves and the roar of the wheels on the cobblestone. Charity looked intently out the window at nothing in particular, trying her damnedest to avoid the deadly glare she was receiving from the bench across the way. Finally, Charity could take no more.

"What?" she snapped as she glared at Catherine.

The aging woman's hard face broke into a grin, a deceptively sweet smile. "I just wanted to tell you that you look lovely, my dear."

Charity stared at her and waited for the other shoe to fall.

Catherine looked her up and down. Her lip pulled up into a sneer as she spoke. "But you are still not good enough for my son, you know. You never have been and you never will be."

Charity clenched her teeth and flared her nostrils. Her small hands balled into fists. "David seems to think I am all he needs."

The older woman laughed. "David is stupid. He is a darling boy, but he is several eggs short of a full dozen."

Charity kept quiet and avoided Catherine's stare. She couldn't dispute that. He definitely wasn't the smartest man she had ever known. But he was the sweetest, and he loved her, and for her, that was enough.

Catherine leaned over and placed a hand on the bench next to Charity. "You think you've won, little girl, but you have no idea what kind of game you are playing. And you're going to lose."

"I--"

Catherine held up a hand. "No, I don't want to hear it. I know your type." She laughed. "I
am
your type. But I was smart enough to find a husband of my caliber. I didn't prey on the weak-minded. Be careful, Charity. Your deviousness will come back to haunt you. I'll make sure of it."

The carriage pulled up in front of the church and the door was opened by a footman. Catherine's smile grew as she turned away from Charity's baffled face and stepped out into the sun.

The door closed behind her. Charity was to wait until the others were out and in the church before she exited the carriage. It gave her plenty of time to fret. The woman had something planned. She was sure of it. The tone of the woman's voice was enough to tell her that.

The door opened as Charity fretted. "Ma'am, it's time to go." The footman held out his hand. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She slipped her gloved hand into his and stepped out into the sun. A red carpet was laid from the carriage all the way across the sidewalk and into the church. A photographer was set up at the end with a camera at the ready. Several men in black suits lined the carpet, blocking pedestrians from crossing. The trilling sounds of the piano echoed out from the open doorway.

The oohs and aahs from the women standing along the carpet waiting to pass were music to Charity's ears. Two young girls in matching lilac dresses came down the steps and swept around behind her to pick up her train. They followed her up the carpet to the stairs where two dapper young men were holding the doors open. They bowed to her and she beamed at them.

The wedding coordinator stopped her just inside, before she walked through the large doors into the nave. "Two minutes, miss."

Charity watched as the last of her bridesmaids, Melody, disappeared through the door. Catherine had talked her out of having her own sister in the wedding and she started fuming, but she pushed aside the anger as she caught a brief glimpse of the crowd inside. The pews were packed and there were people standing in the space behind them and along the walls. David was a favorite amongst the young ladies of New York City's high society, and their nuptials had drawn quite the crowd. Charity bit back a grin. She was the envy of women everywhere for the moment. She was dressed in the finest gown she would ever wear, and she was about to marry the man of her dreams. It was the best feeling in the world, and Catherine couldn't ruin her good mood no matter how hard she tried.

The rest of the day swept by in a blur. Charity said her vows and became Mrs. David Banks. Then together they were bundled into a white open-topped carriage for the ride to Central Park. It was drawn by six snow white horses and roses lined the bridles and carriage. Dozens of tables had been arranged in the park around a central wooden dance floor laid over the grass in an open area. Charity danced until her feet hurt and drank champagne until her head swam, all with the biggest grin her aching cheeks could manage. By the time she and David entered the carriage that would take them to the hotel where they would spend their first night as a married couple, the moon had risen and a hundred lanterns were lit so the rest of the party-goers could keep dancing long into the night.