Leather and Lace (9 page)

“You can empty your money into this bag.” The gunman shoved a leather bag into Hank’s face.

Casey eyed the gunman at the counter while the second man kept vigil at the door.

Maude gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Hank said and patted her hand. He opened the cash register and began pulling out bills.

“You get over here.” The man at the door wielded a Smith and Wesson with an ivory grip in Casey’s direction. He eyed her strangely.

He recognizes me. She inched forward in the hope she looked too frightened to move. Maude’s face paled, and Hank didn’t look well either. They’d been nothing but kind to her since the day she walked into their mercantile. She moved closer to the counter and the gunman. Twelve feet. Six feet. Four feet. The man at the door continued to stare a hole through her.

Reaching into her dress pocket, Casey whipped out her derringer and sent a bullet into the man’s wrist. Blood spurted on the counter and onto Hank’s shirt and suspenders.

The gunman dropped his revolver, and Casey snatched it up. She tossed the derringer to Hank. Shock crested the outlaw’s face. In a split second she turned to the man at the door and sent a bullet into his shoulder.

“Casey O’Hare.” The man grabbed his shoulder and lifted his revolver.

She sent another bullet into the man’s firing arm, just below his elbow.

“I knew I recognized you.”

“A lot of good it did. You won’t be robbing anyone for a while.”

“You’re as good as dead. Jenkins will find out about this.”

“Then you’d better get out of here fast, because this gunfire will have the sheriff here real quick.”

“Then we’ll tell him who you are,” the gunman at the counter said.

Casey laughed. “Guess we’ll all hang together.” She lifted the revolver. “Get out of here, before all you’ll need is the undertaker.”

The two made their way to the door, and she slammed it shut. With a deep breath she faced her friends.

Casey laid the Smith and Wesson on the counter beside the cash register and reached behind for a rag. She couldn’t look at Hank and Maude. Not yet anyway.

“Blood always stains,” she said and scrubbed the splotches on the wooden counter. Satisfied that it was clean, she kneeled to wipe up the little pools of blood. An eerie silence beat down on her. She knew she should say something, but what? I’m an outlaw. I’ve deceived you. I carry a Bible in my saddlebag, and I’m faster with my Colt than most men can blink. Cross me wrong, and I’ll pin you to a tree with a knife.

The bell rang over the door, and the sheriff entered, nearly knocking her down.

“I’m sorry, miss.” He righted her, and she stood numb and ready for whatever happened next. The man was young, as evidenced by his spindly attempt at a handlebar mustache.

“Heard shots,” the sheriff said. “Are you all right?” He saw the blood-soaked rag in Casey’s hand, and his gaze flew to Hank.

“We’re all right,” Hank said. “A couple of men came in here and demanded the money.” Hank picked up the Smith and Wesson. “He tried to use this on me, but I knocked it out of his hand and—”

“Used it on him?” The sheriff’s eyes widened.

Hank shrugged. “Had to protect these women.”

The sheriff took long steps to face Hank. He stuck out his hand. “You’re a brave man, and I’m proud to call you a friend.”

“Thank you. I didn’t do any different than any other man. I needed to take care of those I care about.” He wrapped his arm around Maude’s waist. “I’m no hero—just an old man with not much sense.”

Maude’s eyes pooled with tears, and she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to dab the wetness. The sight yanked at Casey’s heart. The innocent were always the ones to get hurt.

“Well, if everything is fine here, I’d better round up a couple of deputies and get after those two.”

Hank nodded. “My guess is they’ll be ridin’ slow.”

The sheriff tipped his hat to Maude and Casey, then hurried from the mercantile. She had to say something. With the bloodstained rag in her hand, she took a deep breath.

“Thank you for not turning me in,” she said to Hank. “I’m sorry you had to learn this way.”

Maude sniffed. “Would we ever have heard the truth?”

Casey shook her head. “My work ends in three days, and I would have been out of here.”

“If you’re a part of the Jenkins gang, then what did that outlaw mean?” Hank said.

“I ran from him, all of them.” Why did she suddenly ache all over? Even her throat stung like she’d swallowed dirt. “I wanted to start my life over, live decent.”

“So the law and the gang’s after you?” Hank went on.

“Yes.”

“But you lied to us,” Maude said. “I thought you were this kind and sweet young woman.”

“I believe she is,” Hank said. His hand was still wrapped around his wife’s waist. “She risked her life to save our store and our lives. That says enough for me.”

Casey moistened her lips. “Then you’ll let me ride out of here without telling the sheriff?”

“Yes.” Hank spoke quickly.

“Miss Maude?”

Tears flowed down the older woman’s cheek. “I don’t understand this afternoon, not any of this. All those things I read in the newspapers. And the wanted posters . . .”

“In the short time she’s been here, have you seen anything from this gal that looked like she was an outlaw?”

Maude sighed. “No. Nothing.”

“If it makes a difference,” Casey said, “I never killed or robbed anyone, but I did shoot a man in Billings when he pulled a gun on me. I heard he’s fine. Please don’t argue over me, ’cause I’ve done plenty of other things that I’m ashamed of.”

Maude dabbed her eyes again. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“Again, I’m beholden to you. You showed me how to live respectable.” Casey glanced around at the neatly stocked shelves. “I wish I could stay here forever and forget about the past, but that’s foolishness.”

Maude stepped from behind the counter. “You won’t ever make it unless you have a relationship with the Lord.”

“I have a Bible. Been reading it.”

“That’s not enough. You have to ask Jesus to forgive you and turn your life over to Him.”

“Like turning my life over to the law?”

Maude nodded. “Except with God, you have the promise of heaven.”

“Does this have to do with Him dying on the cross for our sins?” When Maude agreed, Casey shook her head. “I can’t do that yet. Too many things are unsettled. My life isn’t much good.”

“But you don’t have to do anything—”

Casey waved her hand. “Maybe someday when all this is behind me. Right now I have to get my things and ride out of here. Those two men won’t waste any time telling the sheriff who I am.”

“I’ll go fetch your horse.” Hank hesitated. “When you get to where you’re going, will you write us?”

“I promise.” Strange how a couple of weeks could make her feel so close to these good people. But Maude’s request would have to wait. When Casey was good enough, she’d take care of talking to God about things. Until then, she’d keep riding and reading.

*****

Days later, Casey sat rigid in the saddle and scanned the hill country near San Antonio. She’d grown weary of endless days in rain and blistering heat and short nights under the stars. More than once, she considered riding into some town and turning herself in to the sheriff. The idea of a hanging always stopped her.

She’d journeyed through desert and prairie lands and on through the area Morgan had spoken about. The green territory was familiar, but looking at it as a part of him caused her to appreciate each hill and valley. She wiped the sweat from her face with a dirty bandanna and tasted dirt through parched lips. Her back felt as wet as if she’d jumped into a river with her clothes on. Enough of this. She turned Stampede northwest.

The zebra-dun stallion lived up to his name. He loved to run, which had suited her just fine when she left Deer Creek. At first she fretted over whether the sheriff had caught up to those two outlaws. They’d tell him for sure where to find her, and if they got away, they’d waste no time finding Jenkins. The gang and the law could be closing in on her. But then she realized worrying about it only made her stomach churn and her head hurt. She’d keep riding until some remote town looked safe.

Every morning she thought of Morgan, and he stayed in her dreams when the world gathered its blanket of darkness.

“I’ve made him something near perfect,” she said to Stampede. “But dreams settle a body down better than nightmares.”

The beauty surrounding the rich area of central Texas captured her senses. Wild petunias in bright purplish blue sprawled nearly two feet tall. Pink prairie verbenas sprang up in clusters beside streams and in open fields. She marveled at the midsummer display of color, ranging from pale pink to blue and bright yellow. Towering live oaks and mesquite trees provided shade from the hot sun, and she sensed something different about the area. This was new territory to her, since the gang hadn’t ridden any farther south than Fort Worth.

Then, when she least expected it, memories of Jenkins flooded her mind and tortured her soul. Casey shuddered and willed her body to relax. Even the sweet smell of nature in bloom did nothing to ease the past.

The first time he forced himself on her, she’d been fourteen years old, a kid too young and too naive to have much sense. She and Tim had been with the gang for about two months. Every day she begged her brother to leave, but the tales of money and notorious outlaws were too much temptation. The gang camped along the Missouri River a few miles from Jefferson City, where they grew anxious for whiskey and women. Jenkins rode out with them, and she seized the opportunity to take a bath and wash her hair.

When Casey stepped out of the water, Jenkins stood alone on the bank. Even now, as she remembered struggling to get away, the unbidden moment attacked her senses.

“Where you goin’?” he’d said with a laugh.

“My clothes.” Casey swallowed her tears but not her fear.

He glanced toward the small pile to the right of him. “Oh, you can have ’em later.” He stepped closer, and she backed into the water. “I’ve been wonderin’ what was under them jeans. Now I can see for myself.”

She backed farther until the water was up to her neck. “Please leave me alone.”

“Can’t do that.” He pulled his gun from his waist. “Out of the water, girl.”

He hurt her, bruised her in places no one would ever see, and when he was done, he threw her clothes at her.

“There you are. And this won’t be the last time you and me get together.”

“I’ll tell Tim.”

His eye twitched, and he grabbed her face. “One word and that no-count brother of yours is dead. Understand?”

When she didn’t answer, he squeezed her face. “Keep your mouth shut, and don’t try to leave. You understand?”

She nodded.

“And from now on you ride with us, Casey girl.” He ran his fingers through her damp hair. “I like this.” He bent to kiss her, but she spit in his face.

A mistake.

“What happened to your face?” Tim later demanded.

“I fell when a snake was after me.” That wasn’t far from the truth.

The vile smell of Jenkins’s breath, his hands on her bruised flesh, and all the sounds of nature disappeared. Some things could never be forgotten. Some women might have given in to Jenkins and his way of life, but she refused. Call it stubborn. Call it uppity. Call it remembering her ma’s kind nature. She hated every moment of those seven years. And the only reason she stayed was fear.

Casey dug her heels into Stampede’s sides and let the stallion fly.

Warm nights gave way to warmer mornings, and by afternoon the temperature heated up again. Casey remembered this part of Texas rarely saw snow, which sounded better than the subzero temperatures of the North, especially the winters in the Utah, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, and Dakota territories. Watching the seasons change had been a splendid sight, but a warmer climate suited her bones.

As the miles lay behind her and the forests grew thick and green, she began to look for a small quaint town to call her own. She bathed in the sparkling creeks feeding off the Brazos River and passed huge clusters of tall, spindly pine. Choosing to travel back roads, she avoided anyone who might cause her harm, but now and then she met a traveler and asked where they were bound or where they’d been.

Surely she could hide from all those who wanted her dead.

*****

Morgan dusted off the sides of his jeans and stomped the miles of dirt from his boots. He’d been to Arizona and New Mexico, and now he was back in Texas. He’d searched for Casey and Jenkins since May, and here it was July. He still limped after a long day in the saddle, and the comforts of home sounded good. The hotel near the livery in Houston advertised a good meal, a bed, and a bath. He sorely needed all three. Come tomorrow evening, he planned to ride toward his ranch and see how he could help his mother and family. Leaving her to run his place was another one of those things that needed to change. She’d sold the ranch to him some years back, but he’d wanted her to stay, along with his younger brother and sister. Now she ran the place like a man because he was out chasing Jenkins. What a good son he’d turned out to be.

Bone-tired, Morgan reflected on the days since leaving Vernal, sleeping little and pondering, always wondering what to do. How to end the vendetta? How to go on with his life? How to forget Casey? The answers lay in returning to the Lord, but he rode on in search of another way, his own way.

At times he prayed. At times he cursed the God who gave him life. Sometimes he wept. It just came more easily to ride mile after mile, to run away from the demons hot on his trail. When sleep refused to ease his pain, he stared up at the sky and remembered the full moon and the many stars the night he led Casey down from the snow-covered mountain. Then the torment began again. He barely knew this woman. He should hate her.

Anxious for an end to it all, Morgan considered putting a bullet in his head. But he feared facing God as much as he feared the moment-by-moment nightmares.

I’m a coward. Don’t even have the guts to finish it.

All of his anguish had brought him to Houston. A part of him said his mother deserved a son who didn’t look like he’d driven cattle for weeks on end. He’d clean up and ride on north to see her. Maybe talk, really talk about his past.

Morgan knew this city had a preacher on the west side of town—a man who had a reputation for having answers. Perhaps if this man explained why God had allowed things to happen, Morgan could go on. He could step over the line and be a man again. He might even find his faith in God.

After checking his horse at the livery and taking a bath, he made his way to a white board church. The door opened easily, as though inviting him inside. A twinge of guilt whispered to him that he wasn’t worthy to step inside. And logic agreed.

Raised stained-glass windows and a nice cross-breeze made it pleasant. He removed his hat and walked down front. His boots creaked across the wooden floor, as though telling him he might have waited too long. A Bible rested on the pulpit, and he picked it up. Not certain where to turn, he held it in his hands. Some folks believed just holding the Good Book cured them of diseases and problems. He didn’t believe that, but he did know the power of God’s Word.

“Need some help?”

Morgan lifted his gaze to a tall man standing in the doorway. The sun illuminated his figure. Morgan nearly spooked.

“Are you the preacher?” He wasn’t the man Morgan expected.

“Yes, sir. Do you have need of me?”

“I might.” The preacher made his way toward him. He didn’t have the years of wisdom Morgan craved. A white-haired preacher like the one from home suited him better.

“No man steps inside an empty church unless he has a heart to match.”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“We could talk.” The preacher walked closer. “You look mighty troubled.”

“Do you always call it like you see it?”

“Yes, sir, I do. Straight to the point.”

Morgan hesitated. Already he’d abandoned the reason he came here in the first place. “I’ll just head on out.”