Читать книгу In The Sheriff's Protection - Lauri Robinson - Страница 10

Chapter One

“Ma, a rider’s comin’ up the road!” Billy exclaimed, his legs going the same speed they always were. At a run. “A man on horseback! Maybe it’s Pa, Ma! Maybe he’s come home!”

Clara Wilson squeezed the edge of the table, willing the fire-hot pain in her leg to ease while trying to find the wherewithal to respond to her son. “Shut. The. Door. Billy,” she forced out.

“No, Ma! It’s Pa! It has to be.”

“Shut the door. Now!” A moan followed her command. One she’d tried to keep down but couldn’t stop. The pain was too strong. So was the excitement in Billy’s voice, hoping the rider was his father. Hugh had let her down too many times to show up now, exactly when she needed him.

Billy did as instructed, and rushed to the table where she sat with her left leg propped up on another chair. “Is it your leg, Ma? Is it hurting again? Pa will be able to help you. I know he will. That’s him coming up the road. I just know it.”

And she knew it wasn’t. It would be nice if she could believe differently, if things could be different, but they weren’t and never would be. Her instincts were too strong, her life too true to form for anything to be different. “Yes, it’s my leg. Bolt the door.”

“Why? If it’s Pa—”

“That’s not your father riding in,” she said between clenched teeth.

“You don’t know that. You ain’t even seen the rider.”

She wiped at the sweat rolling down her temples and covering her forehead. Why now of all times did someone have to ride in? She could hope it was Donald Ryan, their closest neighbor, but he’d stopped by last week, along with his wife, Karen, on their way back from Hendersonville, a long journey that they wouldn’t be making again anytime soon.

Pulling up enough fortitude to talk while fighting the pain was hard, but she had to. “Do as I say and bolt the door.” Drawing another shaky breath, she said, “Then bring me the gun out of the drawer.”

“But I ain’t allowed to touch that gun.”

“You can this time.” Talking was stealing her strength, making her dizzy, and the flashes of light and dark spots forming before her eyes made it hard to concentrate.

Billy bolted the door and then ran to the cupboard where she kept the good napkins, folded neatly atop the pistol. “Can I get my gun, too?” he asked while closing the drawer.

“Yes.” She wanted to say more. Tell him to be careful, but needed to reserve enough strength to address whoever was riding in.

Billy laid the gun on the table. She grasped the handle, pulled it across the table and then dropped it onto her lap, covering it with the corner of her apron. Billy had run into his bedroom and was already returning with the old squirrel gun he’d found last year. It was covered with rust and the trigger was broken off, but he carried it like it could take down an elk if need be.

“Look out the window, but stay back,” she instructed.

He did so, peering over the back of the chair. The way his shoulders dropped told her exactly what she’d already known. It wasn’t Hugh.

“It’s not Pa,” Billy said. “This man’s got black hair. He’s giving his horse a drink out of the trough, and he’s taking one, too.” A moment later, he said, “He’s walking toward the house.”

Clara wrapped her hand around the gun handle. “When he knocks, you say your pa’s out checking cattle.” She pressed her hand to her head, fighting the dizziness and the nausea that had her hands trembling. Her entire body trembling.

The knock sounded. Billy spoke. And the world went black.

* * *

Ready for action, for he’d expected some, Tom Baniff had his gun drawn before he heard the familiar sound of a pistol hitting the floor. The young boy, whose thick crop of blond hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a month, shot a startled look around the edge of the door that was only opened wide enough for the little guy to fit in the opening.

When the boy had opened the door, he’d instantly claimed his pa was out checking cattle and now, at the sound behind him, boasted he knew how to use the old squirrel gun in his hand.

Pushing the door open wider, Tom said, “Put that gun down before you hurt someone.”

“It’ll be you I’m hurting,” the boy said, holding his stance.

No more than seven, maybe eight, the boy had guts, and that almost made Tom smile. Until he got a good look around the door, at the woman at the table. She wasn’t sitting; she was slumped. No, she was falling off the chair.

Tom shot forward, arriving in time to save her head from banging against the floor. She was warm, and breathing, but out cold. “Who else is in the house?” he asked the boy while glancing toward the open doorways of two side rooms.

“No one.”

“Your pa’s not out checking cattle, either, is he?”

“No, sir,” the boy answered, his voice quivering. “Is Ma all right?”

Never one to lie, not even to a child, Tom replied, “I’ll figure that out in a minute. Get me a pillow for her head.”

The boy was back in a flash. Tom pulled out his handkerchief and used it to wipe away some of the sweat covering her face before lowering her head on the pillow. She was burning with fever. “How long has she been sick?”

The boy shrugged. “Couple days. She cut her leg out in the barn going on a week ago.”

“Which one?” Tom knew which one as soon as he pulled aside the layers of her skirt. Her left leg was swollen twice its size, and a jagged and clearly infected gash marred the side of her calf. “Where’s her bed?”

“This way,” the boy said. “She told me her leg was getting better, just sore.”

“I’m sure she did.” Tom hoisted her off the floor. Out here alone, she wouldn’t want the boy to worry. “Bring the pillow.”

She moaned slightly, but didn’t regain consciousness as he carried her into the room and laid her on the bed. “Where is your pa?” Tom asked the boy while folding back her skirt to examine the gash thoroughly.

“Don’t know,” the boy admitted. “Ain’t seen him in months.” As if realizing he shouldn’t have said that, the boy added, “But he’ll be back. Soon, too.”

“I’m sure he will be,” Tom answered drily. That was the reason he was here. “What’s your name?”

“Billy. What’s yours?”

For half a second he contemplated using an alias, but since this was Wyoming, a place he’d never been before, he doubted anyone had heard of him. However, he did leave the title of Sheriff off because much like the pin he’d taken off his vest and put in his pocket, the title could cause some people to clam up. “Tom Baniff.” Resting a hand on Billy’s shoulder, he added, “I’m going to need your help. Infection has set in your ma’s leg.”

“Is it bad?”

There was worry in the boy’s blue eyes, but Tom still had to be honest. “It’s not good,” he said. “But once we’re done, it’ll be better.”

“What are we going to do?”

From the looks of her leg, lockjaw was a real concern, and there was only one thing he knew to do about that. Tom turned Billy toward the doorway. “To start with, we’re going to need fresh water.”

“Ma already had me haul some in. Just a little bit ago. She set it on the stove to boil.”

Tom nodded. She’d probably been preparing to do just what he was going to do. Lance her leg.

Billy stopped in the doorway leading out of the bedroom. “Her name’s Clara. Clara Wilson. My pa’s name is Hugh. Hugh Wilson. He’s tall, but not as tall as you, and he has brown hair.”

If Tom had needed confirmation that he was in the right spot, he now had it. Hugh Wilson was the man he was after. The man who’d shot and injured one of the mail-order brides on her way to Oak Grove, Kansas. She’d been on the train Hugh and two other men had robbed. The other two had met their demise by bullets from passengers on the train, but Hugh had gotten away on a black-and-white paint horse. The only clue he’d had to go on had paid off.

“Mister?”

Reining in his attention, Tom patted Billy’s shoulder. “Let’s see if that water is boiling.”

The kettle was on the stove, but the fire needed to be stoked. She must have been about to do that, considering two logs lay near the stove door. Tom grabbed the poker to stir up the coals. “What did your ma cut her leg on?”

“The side barn door is broken. Nellie, she’s one of our cows, stumbled and pushed Ma against it, and the hinge cut her leg. Ma said it wasn’t bad. It didn’t even bleed much. She’s been boiling onions to put on it for the past couple of days. I tried to fix the barn door, but couldn’t. I did pound the hinge off and...”

As Billy talked, Tom’s thoughts bounced from Clara’s infected leg to why Hugh Wilson would take to robbery when he had a wife and son and a pretty decent chunk of property. The house was small and needed some work, but it was solid and clean. Clara’s leg wasn’t. She’d have been better off if that hinge had sliced her leg wide open—the bleeding would have cleaned away the bacteria. As it was, the closed wound had given the bacteria the perfect breeding ground, which could lead to lockjaw. His father, a surgeon who’d served in the army, had told him all about lockjaw, gangrene and a plethora of other infections and ailments that had affected men during the war. Enough so that even at a young age, Tom had realized being a doctor was not his calling.

There’d been a time he’d thought being a lawman hadn’t been, either. Until Julia had died and finding her killer and knowing justice would be served—and had been—had somehow eased the pain inside him, and the anger. Now being a lawman was his life. When he’d taken the oath to protect the citizens of Oak Grove, he’d meant it, and wouldn’t let them down. It may have been a coincidence that the shot mail-order bride’s name was the same as his little sister’s, but he considered it more than that. To him, it was proof that he’d chosen the right path. That while the other men in town were head over heels at the idea of getting married, he was right in not having anything to do with the entire Oak Grove Betterment Committee.

“It’s boiling.”

Tom turned about.

“The water,” Billy said. “It’s boiling.”

“That’s good.” Tom walked back to the stove. While his mind had been roaming, so had he. The house was in better condition than his first glance had let on, and fully furnished with store-bought items. Not overly expensive pieces, but considering they were a two-day ride from the closest town, several things had him thinking about how long Hugh Wilson had been in the robbery business.

A knife lay on the top of the cabinet near the stove, as did several neatly folded cotton towels and a tin of cayenne pepper. More evidence Clara had been about to lance her leg herself. His stomach clutched slightly, thinking of how difficult and dangerous that would be for someone. The pain could have caused her to pass out, leaving her to possibly bleed out. Which in hand would have left little Billy out here all alone.

Bitterness coated Tom’s tongue as his thoughts hopped to Hugh Wilson again. How could a man leave a woman and child out here alone for months on end? The same kind of man who didn’t care that his bullet could have killed a woman on her way to getting married.

Tom sucked in the anger that circled his guts and picked up the knife. Lowering the blade into the hot water, he nodded toward the door. “Do you know how to unsaddle a horse?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy answered.

“Unsaddle mine, would you? Put him in the barn and give him some feed if you have any to spare.”

“Sure. We got some. I’ll hurry.”

“No,” Tom said, walking toward the sink to wash his hands. “Take your time. His name is Bullet.”

“You want me to brush him down?”

“That would be good,” Tom answered. It wouldn’t take long to lance the leg, but he wanted Billy away from the house in case his mother woke up screaming.

“Then I’ll help you with Ma,” Billy said, already opening the door.

“I’ll be ready for your help,” Tom answered. “Shut the door.”

Billy did so, and Tom scrubbed his hands a bit longer, watching out the window until Billy led Bullet into the barn. Then he dried his hands with one of the clean towels, gathered the other towels and the knife, and walked into the bedroom.