OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 2 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Blood and Honor in the Wild West", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
Chapter One
Harmony, Kansas
1865
Thunder grumbled in the sky overhead, and big drops of warm summer rain suddenly began to patter down on the dusty road: one, two, five, sixteen. The smell of fresh earth rose up from the ground, and frogs raised a grateful chorus from the scrubby bushes lining the road.
Montgomery Lawrence pulled his hat brim down and his coat collar up as his horse slowly plodded west. He glanced up at the road ahead. Its slender brown ribbon wound through the low hills and oak groves all the way to the horizon. He was looking for a barn or a house where he could stay for the night, but he didn’t see any. It looked like another night of sleeping in the grass.
He shifted his weight with a grunt of pain. Rain griped him now. He’d caught shrapnel at Antietam. His resulting limp, slight but permanent, was a war souvenir to add to the others he was carrying home: the white streak through his bushy brown hair, a wasted body from long months in a Confederate prison, and a head full of memories that became nightmares in the dark.
He was not yet thirty, but the mirror told him he looked a hard-bitten forty-five.
But at least he’d made it. He was grateful to be alive, even if he was carrying everything he owned. Some of the men he’d started out with were sleeping in the green hills of Pennsylvania and Virginia.
He adjusted one shoulder. He didn’t like to dwell on that, and he’d settled with himself never to speak of it.
The scattered raindrops turned into a cloudburst, and water dumped down on him and his longsuffering horse. It ran off the brim of his hat, poured over his jacket, and soaked his trousers. But the war had made him almost indifferent to the weather. He’d camped and slept and fought in every kind of deluge God ever made, and he was used to it by now.
His stomach growled, and he put a hand to it, as if to calm it down. It was past time for dinner, but he was still holding out hope for a farm somewhere up ahead, and he wanted to go as far as he could while he had daylight.
He calculated that he was about twenty miles from home.
After a while the hard rain slacked off, slowly tapered to a light rain, then stopped altogether. The dark, draggled skirts of the clouds broke and swept over, revealing long stripes of pale yellow, the golden hour in the sky.
As he topped a rise, the road ahead inched into view. To his surprise, a wagon was sitting motionless a few hundred yards away. The back left wheel had slipped off, and the wagon dipped sharply on that side.
A woman and a little girl were standing beside it. The woman was staring at the wheel with her hands clasped in dismay, and the little girl was crying.
He let his horse keep walking. The road was wet and muffled the sound of its approach, and he got within a dozen yards of the woman before she looked up.
She jumped in transparent dismay, grabbed her daughter, and clamped her to her skirts. “Stop right there,” she quavered, and the little girl stared at him with round, frightened eyes.
Monty lifted his hat. “Evening, ma’am.”
The woman’s chest was heaving in mingled agitation and fright. “You just ride on,” she called. “We don’t need any help!”
Monty pulled the house to a stop. “You got no call to be scared of me, ma’am,” he told her. “I’m just back from the war. I’m on my way to my home in Harmony.”
She seemed to relax a bit. “We’re on our way to Crossroads. My brother has a place there. I’m a widow and I’m going to live with him.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.” His eyes went to the broken wheel. “Would you like me to see what I can do about that wheel?”
The woman hesitated. Her expression was a contrast between fear and desperation, but she finally nodded. “I’d be much obliged.”
Monty dismounted his horse, slowly and stiffly. He unslung the rifle around his shoulder and stowed the revolver in his saddle bag before walking over to the wagon.
He looked down at the little girl. “Howdy, young miss,” he rumbled. “I have a little niece about your age.”
She stared at him in open-mouthed dismay, but her mother replied, “Her name is Pru. Mine’s Olive Jenkins.”
“Proud to know you ladies. I’m Montgomery Lawrence.” He walked around the wagon to inspect the wheel and bent down slowly.
“Yeah, you’ve lost your lynch pin back there somewhere. That’s why your wheel slipped off.” He straightened up and scanned the road behind them. He strode back the way they’d come and bent down to pick something out of the grass. “Here it is.”
He walked back to the wagon, brushing wet grass and mud off the metal spike. He stopped and stared at the wagon, then drawled, “Well, we found your pin, but we still have a problem. I’m gonna need the wagon lifted up to put the pin back in.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m not as strong as I was a few years ago, but I’m game to try if you are, ma’am. I’ll lift this side of the wagon if you’ll replace the wheel.”
The woman looked doubtful but nodded. “I’ll try.”
“All right then.” He tossed the pin down. “I’ll lift this corner up and you need to slip the wagon back on and fasten it to the axle with the pin. Get the wheel ready.”
The woman turned to take the wheel, and Monty inhaled. “On three. One…two…three!” He grabbed the corner of the empty wagon and strained to lift it. His wounded leg screamed in pain, and he staggered to one side, but he held the wagon up. Olive slid the wheel over the axle, and he let go abruptly and sagged against the wagon bed.
He stood there for a minute to catch his breath, then leaned down to get the pin and slide it back into place.
“How far are you from your brother’s place?” he gasped.
“Not far,” Olive told him. “Just a few more miles.”
“Good.” He nodded. “If you like, I’d be glad to ride along with you until you get to your brother’s house. Your wagon should be all right, but I don’t like you driving alone. The roads aren’t very safe these days for an unattended woman. There are bushwhackers of all stripes on the roads.”
“Very well, Mr. Lawrence. But only if you agree to have dinner with us, and to stay the night.”
“I’d take that as a real kindness, ma’am.” He held out his hand and helped her climb back into the wagon.
Chapter Two
Brick Turner opened his eyes, stretched, and yawned. The gray light outside his makeshift tent was brightening toward dawn.
He sat up on one big elbow and glanced down at his sleeping wife and boy. They’d traveled a long way the day before, and they were about to travel a long way again. He’d let them sleep a few more minutes.
Brick sat up, scattering the pile of burlap sacks that was their quilt. He’d found them in an abandoned barn, and when he wriggled out from under them, the morning chill raised goose bumps on his arms. It was time to make a fire and start breakfast.
He sat up, then leaned over to pull a cast-iron skillet out of a cotton sack. Celie had brought the pan, a sack full of corn meal, and another full of sheets when she fled her master’s plantation and joined him in Kentucky. It was just about all they owned.
But Brick still whistled as he ducked through the tent opening. They were alive, they were free, and the war was over. He glanced up at the sky. It was going to be a sunny day.
He went hunting for twigs and leaves, and soon he had a bright fire crackling. He ducked inside the tent and came out with a jar of lard, a jar of water, and the corn meal. He dipped his fingers into the lard, dropped a dollop into the hot pan, and watched it slide from one side to the other.
He was just about to go back for some beans when a sound from the trees made him stiffen and tense. He searched the woods with his eyes, scanning every tree and bush.
They weren’t slaves anymore, but they were still in Kentucky, and the war hadn’t been over long. They weren’t safe anywhere east of the Mississippi, and not for a good distance west of it.
That’s why they were going west, and why he carried a gun. He scanned the trees warily, then ducked into the tent to dig up his gun.
He woke Celie, who glanced at him over her shoulder and murmured sleepily. “Why you gettin’ that gun?”
He didn’t look at her. “It’s nothing.”
She frowned at his hands as he loaded the cylinder. “It is something. What’s wrong?”
“Go back to sleep. I’ll call you when breakfast ready.”
He felt her eyes on his back as he ducked out again. He held the revolver loose in his hands, but he turned in a circle to search every inch of the woods with his eyes. The morning sun was a wink of gold in the eastern trees, and the birds in the forest stirred. Brick strained to listen. The bird calls echoed in the trees, and something jumped in the tall grass. He whirled toward it, but there was nobody there.
He sighed big and dropped his arm. It was nothing. There was nobody there.
The next thing he felt was something hard slamming into the back of his head. He felt a jolt of pain, saw a flash of light, and then…nothing.
Chapter Three
The first thing Brick felt was pain throbbing in the back of his head like a hammer. He groaned and bowed his head, but a shrill scream and couple of sharp pops yanked him wide awake.
He frowned and opened his eyes. He was still fuzzy and confused, and somehow, he was sitting at the foot of a tree with his hands and feet tied.
He frowned and yanked against them, but they were too thick and tight even for him. He raised bleary eyes to look around him. He was about a stone’s throw away from their tent.
A couple of white men were kneeling beside the opening of the tent rifling through their things. One was small, skinny, and dark, and the other was tall and had a full head of blonde hair. They were both dressed up fancy for riders.
The sight of them made the back of his neck prickle because they looked like patterollers.
“Nothing here worth having except a beat-up skillet,” the dark man laughed and tossed down the bag of corn meal. It spilled on the ground, a splash of yellow against the brown leaves.
The blonde man sputtered. He lifted a cigar to his lips and blew a plume of smoke into the air. “Well, we can have some fun, anyway.”
Brick frowned and blinked the fog out of his eyes. There was something lying on the ground beside the men. At first it looked like a pile of rags, but as he stared, he made out his little boy’s hand digging into the dirt, and the back of his wife’s head.
Brick’s mouth twisted.
“Celie!” he screamed and tried to jump up. “Celie, Celieee!” He twisted like a snake, trying to yank free, but he was tied fast.
The two men turned toward him and laughed. The dark one drawled, “Well, I see the buck is awake. You a runaway, boy?”
Brick’s tears streamed down his face as he looked at his little boy lying face down in the dirt. “You killed ‘em, you devils! You gonna bust hell wide open for what you done to my little boy!”
The blonde man shrugged and smiled. He threw his cigar down on the ground as he sauntered toward him. “Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.” He turned to call to the other man. “What do you say, Little Bill? Shall we proceed?”
Little Bill rose and walked over with his hands in his pockets. He stood beside the other man and stared down at Brick as he thrashed against the ropes.
“Devils! See what you done to my boy!”
Little Bill reached up to pull a noose down from the tree limb. He looped it around Brick’s neck and yanked it tight with a sudden jerk.
Brick gasped as it half-cut his windpipe. He shook his head, trying to loosen its cruel pressure on his neck.
“I don’t think we need to give him a last prayer,” Little Bill said with a smile. “He can tell God to his face in a minute.”
The blonde man knelt and grabbed his arm. “Stand him up.”
Brick thrashed and twisted as they pulled him to his feet, but they stood there looking at him, then up at the tree limb.
“You know, Justice, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to hang this buck by ourselves. He’s a big ‘un.”
“Go get the horse.”
Brick gasped and turned his head, but the rope around his neck was cutting off his air so he could hardly breathe. Tears streamed down his face as he gasped.
Justice stood beside him until Little Bill returned leading a horse. The blonde man took the other end of the rope and tied it to the pommel of the saddle. He finished his work, tugged on the knot, and nodded to Little Bill.
“Back him up.”
Brick sobbed as the rope slowly lifted him off the ground. He gagged as the rope crushed his windpipe, and he wriggled like a fish at the end of line.
“Hah! Look at him twist!”
“That’s called the dead man’s dance, boy.”
Brick convulsed, convulsed again, and the world and the pain slowly faded to gray, then to black.
* * * * *
The shock of landing on the ground slapped him awake again. He sucked in air and sucked in air again. His head and neck felt broken, but he was alive.
He coughed, then threw up. He heaved until his stomach was empty, then lay on the ground like a dead thing.
He stayed there for a long time, until the harsh croak of birds made him open his eyes. There was a broken tree limb on the ground beside him, but that wasn’t all.
A frown slowly dawned across his face. Buzzards were hopping around him, staring at him out of their beady eyes. And when he raised his head, he saw them on the ground around Celie and their boy.
He rolled over on his stomach, then struggled to his knees. “Get out here!” he croaked, “get out, I kill you! Get, get, get!”
He tried to stand and stumbled face first on the ground. The birds hopped away, then took to the sky.
Brick turned his face into the ground and shook his head and wept. “I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you,” he moaned. “I’ll kill all of you, I swear it.”
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 2 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Blood and Honor in the Wild West", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
Hi there, I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek of my latest story! I will be impatiently waiting for your comments below.