Shotgun Bride (5 page)

T
he horseman sat alone on the rise, looking down on the two glowing houses, one on either side of the moon-spangled creek, wondering why he gave a damn about any of the McKettricks, let alone the man who’d ridden off and left him with relatives before he was old enough to walk. Hands down, the best thing to do would be to rein his gelding around and ride straight back to Texas, where he reckoned he belonged, despite all that had happened there in recent years, but something nagged at him to stay.

He’d always been sure of his substance as a boy and as a man, and he’d elbowed out a place to stand wherever the trail led him, but that night, he felt more like a wraith than flesh and blood, as transparent and impermanent as smoke from a dwindling fire.

Holt Cavanagh cursed and spat.
Ride away,
whispered the still, small voice in the back of his mind, the one he’d learned to disregard only at his peril.

“The hell I will,” he said aloud. Leaving now, however well advised, would feel too much like running from a fight. Trouble was, he couldn’t seem to make himself wade in, either. The situation put him in mind of a mule up to its nostrils in mud.

There were horses grazing in front of Rafe’s place, and a couple of wagons, too. The strains of a fiddle spun lively over the silvery grass, interspersed with an occasional burst of laughter. They grated on Holt, those sounds, pulling at him and driving him back, both at once. He wondered what they’d do, the high and mighty McKettricks, if he knocked on the front door, just like he was one of them, and joined in the celebration, whatever it was.

He sat awhile longer, resting one forearm on the pommel of his saddle, and then, no closer to making a choice than before, he turned his mount toward the log ranch house just five miles north of the Triple M, where there was no need for knocking at doors.

“W
ho are you?” Kade asked quietly when he caught Sister Mandy alone on Rafe and Emmeline’s front porch, toward the end of the evening. She sat huddled in a wooden rocker, a plate of food in her lap, and she barely made up a shadow, swaddled in all that dark wool. She was going to be in misery when the hot weather came, he reflected, as sure as if she’d wrapped herself in an army blanket.

She started, evidently lost in thought, and barely caught Emmeline’s piece of prized wedding china before it could slip off her knees to shatter on the floor. Light from the window spilled over her face, glinting in a wisp of golden brown hair escaping from the wimple.

“I’m Sister Amanda Rose,” she said with a little thrust of her chin.

Kade leaned against the porch railing, a too dainty plate of his own in hand, and stabbed up a chunk of roast beef. “Like hell you are,” he said easily.

She had backbone, he had to give her that. She wanted to run, he could tell by the way she stiffened, perched there on the edge of her seat, but she kept a tight hold on the reins. “Think what you like,” she said with a sniff. “You will, anyhow.”

He chuckled, helped himself to another mouthful of food, and enjoyed chewing and swallowing before offering a reply. “I reckon that’s true enough. You on the run from somebody? The law, maybe?” He would have bet she was, wearing that imaginative but pitiful disguise. Her watchfulness gave her away, too; there was something tightly wound about her, as if she might lift her skirts and sprint up the road at any moment. Lord, he’d like to see her do that, if only to catch a glimpse of her ankles.

Her nervousness was palpable, but she didn’t bend: “You planning to arrest me if I am?” Word that he was considering pinning on John Lewis’s badge had apparently gotten around fast—no surprise in a town the size of Indian Rock. Around those parts, folks flapped their jaws over a lot less.

“Should I?” he countered.

She hesitated, as if she wanted to tell him something, but she didn’t stumble. “I haven’t broken any laws.”

He considered the man he’d seen talking to her the day before, in the alleyway, the one she’d been so glad to get away from. “Might be I could help you, if you’d give me a chance,” he ventured, feeling kindly disposed toward her, though against his better judgment. She wasspunky, but she was also a woman, and the Arizona Territory was brimming with outlaws, renegade Indians, rattlesnakes, and sundry other perils.

“Might be you couldn’t,” she countered, determined to be contrary, and, after gazing at him steadily all that while, finally glanced away.

Inside the house, Denver Jack, a longtime fixture in the Triple M bunkhouse and an able cowpuncher, was giving his fiddle a workout. Feet shuffled on the bare wood floors, and Angus let out a roar of merriment, sounding almost like his old self. He was probably as happy about that new baby as Rafe and Emmeline were, in his own crusty way, and he’d make a fool of himself over the child, once it came. For Kade, the prospect was bittersweet.

He crossed to Sister Mandy, took her plate and silverware, set them on top of his own. “Who,” he said, leaning down and lowering his voice, “was that fella I saw you with yesterday, out behind the hotel?”

Her eyes flashed as she looked up at him. “His name,” she said in a burst, “is Gig Curry, and if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll stay clear of him.” The instant the words left her mouth, she tightened her lips, as if she hadn’t meant to let them get by. “Like as not, he’s heading up a gang of cutthroats as bad as he is.”

“What’s he got to do with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Lying is a sin, Sister. Or didn’t you learn that at the convent?”

She stood, nearly clipping him under the chin with the top of her head, and he was forced to step back, their two plates rattling in his hands. He felt a peculiar quiver deep in his middle, being so close to her. “You might know a thing or two about sin yourself, from what I hear,” she retorted, and slipped past him, hurrying into the house and letting the screened door slam smartly behind her.

Kade didn’t move right away, and he was jolted to find himself grinning a little, for all his bafflement. The muscle under his belly was still jumping.

Presently, when he’d recovered a little, he went inside, carried the dishes through to the kitchen, and set them in the sink. When he got back to the front room, Denver Jack was putting away his fiddle, and the cowboys who’d wandered over from the bunkhouse to sidestep Red’s cooking and socialize a little were tipping their hats to Emmeline, offering shy congratulations and saying their farewells.

Kade caught Mandy’s eye and smiled, and she responded with a glare.

The crowd had thinned appreciably with the cowboys gone, and Concepcion started looking about for her shawl. Jeb, who had been perched on the arm of an over-stuffed chair for most of the evening, the ring no longer in evidence, made to rise, and Rafe yawned, though a smug light lingered in his eyes, as if he were the first man in the history of the world ever to get a woman pregnant. Angus, leaning against the framework of the broad doorway leading into the small parlor, straightened. Emmeline had begun casting glances toward the kitchen; no doubt her thoughts had turned to washing dishes. He’d never seen a woman who thrived on hard work the way she did, except for Concepcion.

Kade spoke up. “I believe,” he said solemnly, “that an occasion like this calls for a prayer.” He paused, waiting for the roof to fall in, but the beams held. “Sister Mandy, would you do the honors?”

Mandy reddened under the cheekbones and her aquamarine eyes took fire. Something tightened in Kade’s groin.

“Sounds like a fine idea to me,” Angus boomed. He was about as religious as the pump handle out by the horse trough, but his spirits were high that night, with three of his sons in one place and a baby coming, and he must have been feeling generous.

Emmeline looked amenable, and so did Rafe. Jeb was amused, as he was by just about everything; it was Concepcion who sliced a sharp glance in Kade’s direction. He saw it out of the corner of his eye and steadfastly ignored it, though he reckoned he’d pay later.

Sister Mandy’s eyes flashed again, fit to singe the fine hairs off Kade’s flesh, but then she stepped resolutely into the center of the room and knotted her fists together in front of her chest. The knuckles, Kade noted with a satisfaction he knew was downright unbecoming, were white as a skull bleached in the desert sun.

A reverent silence fell. Concepcion and Emmeline folded their hands and bowed their heads. Rafe, Angus, Jeb, and Kade kept theirs up, and not a one of them shut their eyes.

Sister Mandy cleared her throat and shifted from one foot to the other before finally getting herself situated someplace in the middle.

“Good evening, God,” she said. “This is Sister Amanda Rose talking. We—we’ve had a dandy time here tonight, and we’re grateful. There was plenty of food and the music was tolerable. We’d appreciate it if You’d look out for all of us, but especially for Mrs. McKettrick and the babe she’s carrying.” Sister Mandy opened her eyes, caught Kade watching her, and squeezed them shut again. Her right temple throbbed. “Much obliged, Lord,” she added as a seeming afterthought. “And amen.”

“Amen,” Emmeline and Concepcion chorused.

“Amen,” echoed Jeb, Angus, Rafe, and Kade in gruff unison and a beat late.

“Now,” said Mandy, with a that’s-done motion of her shoulders, “I’d better get those dishes washed.” At that, she turned on one heel and hustled off to the kitchen.

Kade tried to go after her, but Concepcion moved to block his path and elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.

Angus was already at the door, and Rafe stood by Emmeline’s chair, holding her hand. Their fingers were interlaced. No doubt they would do some private celebrating once they were alone.

“Come along, woman,” Angus said to Concepcion, who had driven him across the creek in a buckboard before supper. “It’s late.”

Kade cataloged the oddness of the remark with the other ragtag impressions he’d been storing up since his return from Tombstone, and promised himself that he’d unravel it all later. In the meantime, he got his coat and hat and followed Concepcion and Angus outside.

He offered Concepcion his arm when she went to climb up into the box of the wagon, and she shrugged it off and favored him with another scorching look. A moment later, she and Angus were rattling down the rocky bank toward the shallow place in the creek.

Jeb stood beside Kade, the reins of his horse in hand, watching as the pair made the crossing and trundled up the opposite side, wagon bed dripping, headed for the barn.

“That was a dirty trick, making Sister Mandy offer up a prayer in front of us all the way you did,” Jeb drawled. He was holding a matchstick between his teeth, and he shifted it to the other side of his mouth. “Wish I’d thought of it first.”

G
ig Curry smiled to himself as he watched the homesteaders rushing hither and yon, trying to put out their blazing cowshed. Might as well stir things up a little, he’d thought, while he worked out his plans. He meant to conduct some business with the railroad, and with the McKettricks, too, now that the old gang had come together again, but he wouldn’t have a peaceful mind until he knew where Cree Lathrop was.

Under a headstone someplace, he hoped. Should have killed that ornery little half-breed when he had the chance; now, if he didn’t track him down and deal with him, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the tasks at hand for looking over his shoulder all the time.

Curry shifted in his saddle and spat. He could feel the heat of the fire on his face, but he was hidden in a copse of oak trees, so he was in no hurry to ride on. He’d stay awhile and enjoy the spectacle while he ruminated on how to proceed. The stakes were big, and Dixie’s boy was a wild card, a spoiler.

One thing would draw Lathrop out of the brush for sure, though, and that was Mandy. They were cozy, those two, and while Cree would cut a man’s throat as soon as look at him, he’d go to hell and back for that lying, thieving little hoyden.

Sister
Mandy. He chuckled and shook his head. He’d have to ask her where she’d gotten that getup, next time they crossed paths.

Meanwhile, the entertainment at hand was getting good. The homesteader’s woman, a bony little snippet in calico and work boots, shrieked something at the man when the flames caught the dry grass and started racing toward the cabin. The sodbuster had his hands full, tending a couple of terrified plow horses and a razor-hipped milk cow, but his wife hoisted up her skirts and ran right alongside the fire. She had some spirit in her, he thought. Maybe he’d come back another time, if they stayed on, and pay her a social call. He turned melancholy on occasion, since Dixie had run him off, threatening to bring the law down on him if he came near her, though he didn’t miss the aggravation.

The lady of the house sprang into the cabin just as the fire started climbing the eastern wall and came out quick with a bundle in her arms. Yes, sir, she had some gumption, all right. He did admire a frisky woman.

The shack went up just as fast as the shed had, and the nesters stood piteous but proud next to the trickle of a creek, with their flea-bitten livestock gathered around them, watching as fire took everything.

Still Gig remained, fascinated. It soothed something in him, watching ill fortune overtake somebody else besides him. He looked on until the flames died to embers, until the dirt farmer and his wife and the babe finally laid themselves down on the creek bank, spent by their efforts and their heartbreak.

When he was sure they weren’t fixing to stir and catch sight of him, he pulled a cold branding iron from the scabbard where he usually carried a rifle, climbed down off his horse, and laid the business end of the rod in a patch of red coals to heat.

Light was gathering in the eastern sky by the time the iron was ready; he took it from the coals and pressed the Triple M brand hard into the charred trunk of an oak tree. The mark it left was clear, and he paused to admire his handiwork for a few moments.

He was humming under his breath as he mounted his horse, turned north, toward the Circle C, and rode off. A man needed his diversions, and if the boss man took pleasure in the news of the dirt farmers’ calamity, once it reached him, Curry might just feel obliged to take the credit for a fine night’s work.