Part 44 (1/2)

Troy looked astonished. ”Oh, but you can't. We have cherry pie.” He leaned closer. ”And iced cream. Isn't that something?”

Jack didn't know what that was, but he still said no.

”What about Emily? She'll want you there.”

And he wanted to be there for her. His stomach ached to see her again, but not as Troy's wife. He wanted to see Charlie's sister. He wanted to see the girl he'd danced with.

”I'm just not hungry,” Jack said.

Troy shrugged. ”Suit yourself, Devlin. I'll see you in a week.” He gave him a rib rattling slap on the back and then jogged over to his wagon. ”And I'll bring the missus with me!”

The missus. What a terrible word.

Jack turned to look at Samson. The horse stared at him.

”I'm sorry,” Jack said, ”but what should I have done? You go with him and you'll be in an even bigger corral surrounded by other horses. You want that?”

Samson moved toward him.

Jack stepped back from the rails. Up until that moment, he'd never seen the Clydesdale do much more than blink. The horse stopped at the fence and stared down at him.

”You do understand, don't you?” Jack said. As he reached up to touch his muzzle, Troy's wagon rolled past. Jack dropped his hand and headed back to the house.

Inside, it was dark and silent. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs. Jack sat at the supper table and looked around.

Emily's broom stood in the corner.

Emily's towel lay over the washbasin.

The door to Emily's room stood open. Her bed quilt lay crumpled on the floor.

It was going to be a long week. A long, boring week, with nothing to do but look at the various reminders of her and Charlie. What else could he do? There was no point in fixing the roof-Troy Plymouth was only going to tear the house down. He'd have to milk the cow and feed the chickens, but that would occupy a small portion of his day. His only alternative was to chop wood. A lot of wood. Maybe he could fix Charlie's fiddle and give it a try. He once plucked a guitar string-it was a start.

Jack stood and walked over to Emily's bedroom. He lifted her quilt and spread it over the bed, revealing a large, rusty blood stain.

”d.a.m.n,” he said, as the tears welled in his eyes. He sat on the bed and wiped them away.

The only thing worse than the long, boring days would be the nights. How was he going to sleep with a house full of ghosts?

BANG!.

Jack cried out at the crack of a shotgun. He dropped to the floor. The front door was slightly ajar, but he couldn't see who was out there. He scrambled out of the bedroom and dropped beside the fireplace. He groped his arms, his chest. They'd missed.

His pulse throbbed in his ears. His mind raced.

Someone at the wedding recognized you and came to collect the bounty- It's Sheriff Tracker, out to blow your head off- It's Cole Smith, he's still alive- Take your medicine like a man.

He spotted Charlie's shotgun above the mantle, but it might as well have been on the moon. If he went for it, he'd make a clear target through the window. Jack clambered under the supper table and pressed his back against the wall. He listened: Nothing.

He slipped his fingers up between the wall and the table and inched it forward. The legs squeaked on the floorboards. He stopped and listened: Still nothing.

After pus.h.i.+ng a few more inches, Jack crept up until his head hovered just beneath the window ledge.

He raised his hand and dropped it.

No gun shot. No missing fingers.

Holding his breath, he counted to three.

One, two, three!

He popped his head above the window ledge- Samson- and dropped again.

He exhaled. All he saw was Samson, no one else who- He paused.

”Samson?” he said. He lifted his head again. Samson stood in front of the porch, blood trickling down his neck and shoulders. Behind him, the rails of the corral lay snapped and splintered.

So much for a shotgun showdown.

Jack crawled out from under the table. He stepped outside. Seeing him, Samson nickered and swished his tail.

”Well, now you've given me something to do,” Jack said, looking at the corral.

The Clydesdale approached him and sniffed his outstretched hand. Jack patted his neck, careful of the wounds. ”I understand,” he said. ”If I was stuck in a corral, I'd try to break out as well...”

He turned and looked at the house. He looked inside. Beyond the door lay shadows and silence.

Empty chairs.

Empty bed.

A blood stained quilt.

Samson snorted and shook his head.

”You're right,” Jack said, nodding. ”Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here.”

After saddling up, he and Samson left the Sewell ranch. They didn't look back. Samson carried him easily, moving with a dignified trot he wouldn't have expected from a draft horse. Jack touched the thick, coa.r.s.e hair of the Clydesdale's mane and settled into the saddle. It felt good to move again.

If they kept a brisk pace, they'd reach Brush by early afternoon. Once there, they'd join a wagon trail heading to Lone Pine. He'd need food, but that would be easy enough. Half a day's sweeping would garner him a loaf of bread and maybe a few apples for Samson. Then they'd be off. He couldn't wait to see the look on Silas's face.

They stepped onto the old wagon trail and the prairie opened up. Samson bared his teeth and stretched into a canter. ”Yes,” Jack said, grinning. ”The rails are gone, boy. Let's go.”

Samson leapt forward and surged into a gallop. Jack doubled the reins around his fists as they thundered over the land. The Clydesdale sucked in great lungfuls of air, his muscles hammering like the rods of a locomotive.