Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection (10 page)

I might be too late.
Her stomach squeezed, remembering the time she’d arrived at a remote cabin to find … K.C. twisted her thoughts from that memory and forced herself to study the trail. She caught sight of another footprint heading straight ahead, and not, thank goodness,
toward
the smoke.

She rode into the clearing and saw a snug cabin with open land toward the back, a garden and small field, iced in white. Snow had drifted against the sides of a mid-size barn not far from the house. Only a few clumps of snow from last week’s storm clung to the ground around the house.

A man stepped out of the barn. Bundled as he was in a heavy coat, knit cap and scarf, his features were hard to make out. But from his stocky build, she could tell he wasn’t Holmes, who stood pole-tall. A youth followed, nearly matching the man’s stride.

The front door opened, and a woman stepped out, a rifle in her hands. A teenage girl peered around her mother’s shoulder. The woman didn’t raise the rifle, but her ready stance let K.C. know she would if she saw signs of hostile intent.
Good for her.

K.C. paused at the edge of the dirt yard—close enough for them to see her, but far enough not to threaten them. She touched the metal star pinned to her coat. “I’m K.C. McNamara, sheriff of Grant Hills, Wyoming,” she said to the man in her normally gruff voice.
 

His wary gaze widened in amazement. “You’re a far piece from home, Sheriff. I’m Frank Gentry. What can I do for you?”

“I’m following a criminal. Wanted for…” She almost spoke quietly to spare the women, but coddling them might cause far worse things to happen. “Murder.”

Mrs. Gentry, who’d taken a few steps outside, cast a frantic glance around. “Where’s Kayleigh?” she said in a panicked voice. “Kayleigh,” she called, her voice shrill. “Kayleigh!”

Gentry added his shouts to hers, swinging around to give the area a wide visual sweep. “Check the barn,” he ordered his son. “Maybe she’s in the hayloft.” Frank waved his wife and daughter into the house. “Get inside and stay there. Lock the door. You know how to use the rifle, Matilda.”

The woman nodded, her brown eyes wide with fear. “Find my baby. Please find her, Sheriff.”

“How old is she?” K.C. asked.

“Ten.”

Ten. Too young. Too vulnerable.

The young man rushed back out. “She’s not there. The gander’s gone too.”

The mother gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord!”

Goose?

“She loves that gander more than is good for her,” Mrs. Gentry told K.C. “But we’re going to need Christmas dinner for the relatives.”

K.C. nodded her understanding. “Think she’s run away?”

The son nodded. “She’d do that … to save the gander.”

God help the girl if she crosses Holmes’ path
.

K.C. rode Big Red toward the barn and around to the north side. She saw a small fresh footprint in the snow, pointing in the direction Holmes had headed. She jerked her chin toward a gap in the trees. “That-away.”

Gentry’s face paled. “She’s gone to the caves.” He waved his arm. “Deep system. If she gets lost…”

Caves… just the thought of Holmes reaching a cave system, with or without the girl, made K.C.’s flesh freeze colder than the snow. She turned her gelding back to the trail.

“Wait,” the father yelled. “I’m coming too.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Then come. But I’m not waitin’.”

~ ~ ~

Following the girl’s footsteps, K.C. rode into a natural clearing made by several fallen trees. The girl trudged across the open area, a small figure in a brown coat and blue cap and scarf, carrying the goose with both arms, a blanket-wrapped bundle slung over her shoulder.

K.C. couldn’t see her face, didn’t know whether or not to call out, which might spook the girl into running and alert Holmes of her position. So she moved Big Red through the trees to circle around and head off the girl. With her Colt in hand, she dropped her arm to hide the gun from the child lest she frighten her.

Holmes lunged from the trees across from her and grabbed the girl.

Kayleigh shrieked, dropping the bundle.

The goose honked and flew out of her arms, settling a few yards away.

A squeeze of her legs, and K.C. urged her horse into the open.

Holmes swung the girl to face her, one arm wrapped around her neck. “Lookee what I got here, Sheriff.”

K.C. didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting the child, but she trained her Colt on him, watching for a slip.

Holmes reached for his gun in the holster at his hip.

“Keep your hand up,” she barked.

The outlaw ignored her and wrapped his hand around the grip.

K.C. knew she’d have to shoot. Her throat went dry, and she prayed her aim stayed true. Before she could pull the trigger, the goose let out a cry and launched itself at the man’s leg, taking a mighty nip out of him.

He cursed, releasing Kayleigh to beat at the bird. “Get it off!” he yelled. But before he had time to do more than swing his arm, K.C.’s bullet hit the outlaw through his shoulder, spinning him backward. His shooting arm dropped to his side, and he clapped the other hand to the wound. He clambered back and lunged for the child.

Kayleigh scrambled away from him, stooping to catch her goose, which flapped its wings and leaped out of her reach.

K.C. almost pulled the trigger again, sending a bullet through the outlaw’s black heart. But at the last minute she paused, aimed for his thigh, and shot.

With a cry of pain, he slammed to the ground. His gun skittered out of his hand to disappear into a snow bank.

The goose ran to the fallen man, who was sprawled on his back, blood staining the snow. Extending its neck, the goose nipped Holmes’ nose.

Smart bird
. K.C. dismounted.

The man howled and thrashed his hand toward the goose, only to curse again and pull back his arm to cradle it against his chest.

“Kayleigh, come here,” K.C. ordered, hoping the girl would obey her. “Bring your goose before it gets hurt.”

The girl scooped up the bird and trotted to K.C.

K.C. dropped her hand to Kayleigh’s shoulder. “Good girl. Hold these.” She handed over Big Red’s reins. “Stay here, child.”

Kayleigh clutched the goose with one arm. With the other, she reached out her hand for the reins, her brown eyes wide with fear, her skin pale.

Colt pointed at Holmes, K.C. walked forward, ran her free hand over him, searching for hidden weapons. Then she shoved her gun in the holster, rolled Holmes over, and locked handcuffs around his wrists, ignoring his curses of pain.

K.C. sidestepped over to the snow bank, stuck her hand in, and felt around for the gun. She scooped it up, opened the chamber, and, for safety’s sake, emptied the first bullet from the chamber, before tucking the bullet and the gun into her coat pocket.

Gentry on his horse burst into the clearing. He saw his daughter, dismounted, took two loping strides, and pulled her into his arms, squeezing hard. The goose let out a honk and nipped at his arm, although he probably didn’t feel anything through the thick coat.

Kayleigh held fast to Big Red’s reins.

Her father released her but kept his hands on her shoulders, studying her face.

“Prince saved me, Pa!” the girl said, her eyes shining, although her skin still looked pale.

“I think the sheriff did that.” Frank looked over at the wounded outlaw and then glanced at K.C. for confirmation.

“She’s right,” K.C. told him. “Holmes grabbed her, and I couldn’t risk a shot. But the goose attacked and he let her go. Smart girl that she is, she dashed away and I shot him.”

Kayleigh’s father pulled his daughter close for another hug.

Something about the girl’s pleased expression made K.C. think hugs from her father hadn’t come her way much, if at all. Men were sometimes like that with their daughters. Sheriff “Big John” McNamara also hadn’t shown affection to his daughter. But he’d taught K.C. everything she knew and gave her a love so deep, even if unexpressed, that she could never doubt his feelings. In that moment, K.C.’s throat clogged up, and she ached from missing her father.

~ ~ ~

As the shadows of the winter afternoon lengthened, K.C. rode into the town of Sweetwater Springs, leading the reins of a horse lent by Kayleigh’s grateful father, who rode with her. Holmes was strapped to the saddle, and, as an extra precaution, his arms were still handcuffed behind him. They’d had a hard time hefting the wounded man onto the horse; he’d screamed and protested until K.C. had threatened to shoot his other leg.

Then on the ride, Holmes had moaned and complained about his wounds. Finally, he slumped in agony, riding in silence with a groan of pain whenever the horse jarred him.
 

K.C. had no sympathy for the man. She’d wrapped his shoulder and leg, but blood still seeped through the bandage. If the outlaw died from blood loss before they got to town, so be it. She’d considered letting him bleed out, but wanted a trial and hanging in Grant Hills more than she wanted the man dead now. Charles’ family deserved that much. Gentry had assured her that in town a doctor should patch him up enough so she could get him on the train and take him back to Grant Hills for his trial.

Frank Gentry rode with her, determined he’d told K.C., to see the man locked up and, if need be, to vouch for the sheriff’s story. In addition, he wanted to use the trip to town to buy Christmas gifts, including a turkey for Christmas dinner. She had a feeling that Kayleigh’s run-in with Holmes caused her father to experience an unusual burst of holiday generosity. His family would have much to rejoice in this Christmas.

The town of Sweetwater Springs looked like dozens of others she’d seen on her journey, although maybe a little more prosperous, considering the amount of whitewash on the wooden buildings, some taller houses in the distance, and the brick mercantile. The construction of several large buildings, one next to the railroad, one down the street a ways, showed that, unlike the rest of the country, a boom might be happening here. She wondered if mines existed nearby.

Like in Grant Hills, several saloons cast yellow light and raucous voices into the dusky afternoon. But unlike her community, Sweetwater Springs drew the eye to the white steeple and cross of the church. Something about this town appealed to her, although she couldn’t pinpoint what. If she didn’t have a prisoner to return to Grant Hills, she wouldn’t mind tarrying.

She could see a small Christmas tree in the window of the mercantile, and pine and holly wreaths on the doors of many of the buildings and houses. The privy by the side of a saloon sported a sprig of holly.

Even though Kayleigh’s mother had mentioned Christmas dinner, K.C. hadn’t really thought about the approach of the holiday. Not that it made any difference. One lonely Christmas in Grant Hills would be about the same as one in Sweetwater Springs; better maybe because here, there’d be no sad reminders around her.

A hot bath, clean clothes, and a warm meal eaten at leisure will be enough of a Christmas for me.
Or so she tried to tell herself. But now that she wasn’t focused on capturing Charles’ killer, she ached with grief. Just two months ago, the man who’d been her beloved friend since childhood had hinted she’d find a ring in her stocking come Christmas. And she had only three days to savor the anticipation of that happy event.
Three precious days.

As she eyed the two men on horseback riding down the street toward them, she figured the bath and time to grieve and review her options would have to wait.

The men saw her, checked their mounts, exchanged some words, and then trotted her way. They pulled up in front of her and forced her to stop. Both dropped their hands to their Colts.

K.C. held up her hand in a peaceable gesture. “Howdy.” Then she slowly touched the star at her shoulder.

They took their hands off their guns, but their bodies remained alert. Both stared at her and Holmes with narrowed gazes.
 

One man looked older, with a thin face and blue eyes. The younger man had green eyes and a slightly crooked nose that must have been broken at some point. K.C. wondered if he was a brawler.

“I’m Sheriff K.C. McNamara from Grant Hills, Wyoming.” She jerked her chin at her prisoner. “This man’s under arrest for murder. One man at Grant Hills, one outside in South Pass, Wyoming. For all I know, he probably has a string of victims, and, if he’d lingered in the vicinity of your town, would probably have added to that count. A little girl.”

Holmes roused himself enough to smirk.
 

K.C. read the truth of her words in his cold gray eyes and had to restrain herself from yanking him off his horse and strangling him. Instead, she made a fist, leaned over, and bashed his shoulder. Not on the wound, but above the bicep. She didn’t want to get her gloves bloody.

Holmes winced and slumped in the saddle.

Before she watched him be strung up, she wanted the names and locations of all of his victims. Their families deserved to know the killer had been brought to justice. But that was for later. “I’m taking him back to Grant Hills,” she told the strangers.