Spirit of the Wolf (32 page)

Bess had been out back, humming as she picked sheets and pillowslips from the clothesline, when the ruckus started.

"I seen 'im first, Carter; you got no right to him," shouted the first voice.

Bess rounded the corner as the second man bellowed, "I'll see
you
swing
be
fore I let you
—“

In a single, sweeping glance, she took it all in: Matt's stunned expression and the fury
blazing
between the man on the porch and the man still astride his horse. Hitching up her skirts, she ran up the porch steps and wrapped a protective arm around her brother. "What's going on here?" she'd demanded, scowling for all she was worth.

Her ire seemed to have temporarily quieted their wrath.

Matt spoke first, pointing a forefinger at the man on the porch. "He rode up, asked if a man by name of W.C. Atwood had been around these parts."
Then, a
iming the
same
digit at the man on horseback, he added, "Whilst I was tellin'
this
one I ain't never heard of any such person,
that
one rides up and starts barkin' orders, sayin' he'd followed that galoot's trail right to our door, and if I didn't tell him where I was hidin' that fella, he'd hog-tie me and
—“

Standing beside him, Bess hugged Matt a little tighter. Ever since that afternoon on the Baltimore docks, she'd known this day
c
ould dawn at any time. The presence of these two angry men explained
Chance
's agitation earlier that morning. She didn't care
what
they threatened
. N
o one at Foggy Bottom would help them slip a noose around
Chance
's neck
. Not if she had anything to say about it
! Lifting her chin and raising her left brow, she said, "Will one of you...
gentlemen
...please explain why you're on Beckley property, making threats?"

"Didn't mean no harm, ma'am," said the first. With his thumb, he shoved his hat farther to the back of his head. "Name's Carter. Chuck Carter, and I'm the sheriff in Lubbock, Texas."

Her whole body stiffened at the mention of the town. She could only hope the sheriff hadn't noticed her reaction.

"I'm here to collect a prisoner," he continued, elbow resting on the
saddle horn
. "Ever hear-tell of a man by name of W.C. Atwood, ma'am?"

She frowned. "No, the name isn't at all familiar, I'm afraid." Bess brightened a bit to add, "There's a family down the road a piece," she said, pointing east, "whose name is Atkins. Maybe you've got your names mixed up."

The sheriff grinned and shook his head. "No ma'am," was his patronizing reply, "there
ain’t
no mix-up."

Bess aimed a glare at the
other man
. She would have recognized him anywhere. He was the filthy sailor who'd picked a fight with
Chance
that day on the docks. "I suppose you're looking for this Atkins fellow, too?"

"His name's Atwood. W.C. Atwood. And ye
ah
, I'm huntin' him, too."

"Why?" Matt wanted to know. "What's he done?"

"Killed a man with his bare hands
," said the man in the saddle. “Broke his neck and stole his watch.”

Under her hand, Matt's shoulder tensed. "In Lubbock?"

"That's right," the sheriff said. "He was about to pay for his crime when he escaped."

"P-pay
for it
?"

"Another hour or so, he'd-a been lookin' up a limb. Ain't that right, Sheriff?"

Carter stared hard at
him
. "Shut up, Yonker," he grated, "can't you see you're scarin' these nice folks?" He poked around in his shirt pocket for a second or two, then withdrew a many-folded sheet of paper. Leaning forward, he handed it to Bess. "That there's the feller we're lookin' for, miss," he said. "He look familiar to you?"

She held in her hands a wanted poster exactly like the one hidden in beneath the desk blotter in her room. Matt peered over her shoulder
. S
urely, the striking likeness to
Chance
wouldn't escape his scrutiny. Her voice was thin as she said, "I'm sorry, but I've never seen this man before in my life."

Bess quickly summoned the strength to aim a carefree, friendly smile in their direction. Just as quickly, she realized it had been an exercise in futility, for their visitors no longer had any interest in anything she had to say.

Sheriff Carter had turned slightly in the saddle to face north, a steely, determined expression on
a
face shaded by a wide-brimmed hat. What had so completely captured his attention? she
’d
wondered, following his gaze.

In the fleeting moment that ticked by, she saw what Carter had seen...the silhouette of a horse and rider. She guessed the distance to be a mile
or more, yet she'd have recognized the way he sat a saddle anywhere.
Run,
Chance
! was her silent warning.
Run as fast and as far as you can
!

Somehow, she must distract them, and give him the head start he needed. But
how
?

"Here's your wanted poster, Sheriff," she said, holding it out to him.

Her words seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, for Carter
had wheeled his horse around, gripping
the reins so tightly that the leather squealed against the snaffle rings. The hackamore bridle tightened as
his
horse responded by rearing back its mighty head, ready and willing to obey his master's next instruction.

In an eyeblink,
he
was bulleting toward the shadowy figure on the horizon. "You ain't goin' nowhere without me,
Carter!
" Yonker shouted, pressing his own horse into action. "I aim to get my fair share of that
polecat
!"

She and Matt huddled in stunned silence, blinking into the gritty fog kicked up by the horses' hooves.

"I always wondered why
Chance
kept to himself so much," Matt said when the dust cleared. He nodded at the wanted poster Bess still clutched in her hands. "Now I know...."

"He didn't kill that man in Lubbock."

Matt only shook his head. "I never said he did." He gave the poster one last worried glance, then jammed his hat onto his head. "I promised
Chance
I'd clean the barn this morning," he said, and headed out.

"Where's Mark?" she asked as he crossed the yard.

"Mixin' feed for the horses, like
Chance
told him to," he hollered over his shoulder. When the boy reached the barn, he slid open the wide double doors and faced the house. "Hey, Bess...."

One hand on the door frame, the other over her hammering heart, she looked his way.

"You think he'll be all right out there?"

The hammering beneath her hand escalated. For the first time since Mary's death, she felt no inclination to lie to protect her younger sibling. "I hope so," she'd said to Matt.

God in heaven,
she prayed now,
I hope so....

***

After supper, as Bess was scouring the skillet she'd fried their chicken in, Micah joined her in the kitchen. "Hey, Pa," she said without looking up, "there's hot coffee on the stove."

He crossed the room
and slid
a heavy pottery mug from the open cupboard shelf. "Matt told me what happened this morning."

The last time she'd heard him speak in that gritty, glum tone of voice had been on the day they'd buried her mother. Bess set the pan aside and dried her hands on her apron.
Relieving him of the mug, she
filled it with coffee, poured a cup for herself, and followed him to the table.

With thumb and forefinger, he repeatedly stroked his bearded jaw and shook his head. "Guess it was just a matter of time 'til they came for him."

All day, she'd been fighting tears, but staved them off by throwing herself into her work. Though the silver hadn't needed polishing, she'd shined it up anyway. Only two days earlier, she'd dragged every rug outside and hung it over the wire clothesline out back, but she'd done it again today, beating the carpet nap with every ounce of energy she had. She'd taken down the kitchen curtains and soaked them in a tub of lye, despite the fact that she'd done the exact same job just last week. Even tonight's planned menu
—chicken
pot pie and buttermilk biscuits
—became
a Sunday feast, complete with mashed potatoes and gravy, butter beans, and turnip greens.

Ever since Mary's death, Bess had been putting on whatever face her father and brothers needed her to wear, regardless of her own moods or feelings. Even now, as she watched Micah's worried frown, she wondered what she could do or say to comfort him, to ease his concern.

"He'll be fine, just fine," she said, forcing a cheeriness into her voice that she did not feel. "I'm sure he's found a good hiding place by now."

Micah sighed deeply. "Bess," he said, reaching into his coat pocket, "I have something for you." He held the envelope in his left hand, covered her right hand with his.

Blinking back hot tears, she stared at the envelope and folded her hands in her lap. "It's from
Chance
, isn't it?"

Micah nodded. "He gave it to me first thing this morning, and asked that I
—“

"Why didn't he talk to me himself?" she demanded as a sob
s
welled in her throat. Fingers flexing nervously, she looked at the note. "Why did he feel he needed to say goodbye...
that
way!"

"
Told me
he gave it a lot of thought,
” her father said, “
and figured this way would be least painful for you."

She thought of what they'd done that morning, remembering with crystal clarity the way he'd held her, breathed into her ear that he'd never loved a woman as he loved her. "You've given me something to live for, Bess," he had whispered. "I swear to God, I'd
die
for you...."

Less painful
?
He was gone for good. How could
anything
make that less painful!

Glaring, she met Micah's eyes. "And you believed him? He decided to take the coward's way out, and you
let
him?" She stood so quickly that her chair tumbled backward and clattered to the floor. "What kind of father are you?" she demanded. "How could you let him just walk away
, knowing what it would do to me,
without
—“

Micah calmly got to his feet and wrapped her in his arms. "I swear to you, Bess, I tried to stop him. But
Chance
believes his leaving is best
, a
nd safest
,
for all of us." He tightened his hold
.
"
U
nder the circumstances, I'm bound to agree with him."

Just a
s 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 h
adn'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.