as a bullet. Slamming a fist into the outlaw’s face, Jacob heard bone break and knew they were now even.
The Irishman swore and backed away, dropping the knife as he stumbled to keep his footing.
Jacob rol ed toward the weapon, aware that he was close to the overhang.
Voices sounded from behind him. “We found the mules!” one yel ed.
“Why’d you fire?” another shouted. “Ain’t you got the horses?”
The Irishman rushed for his knife, grinding his foot into Jacob’s hand as he reached for the blade. “Over here!”
he cal ed to the others. He lifted the knife to Jacob’s throat. “Got me something that needs kil ing.”
Hearing the rush of hooves and men, Jacob knew he had only seconds. He put his free hand on the Irishman’s
boot and shoved hard as he rol ed away from the knife.
The outlaw stumbled, then widened his stance, preparing to fight once more.
Only Jacob didn’t stop. He rol ed over and over, ignoring the pain each time he landed on his left shoulder.
Three rol s. Four. He reached the edge under the cliff where the ground dropped. Then, as silently as if he’d
vanished, Jacob plummeted.
He tumbled, taking what he thought might be his last breath. If rocks lay below the cliff, even falling ten feet
would kill him.
But to his surprise, he landed almost soundlessly in thick, wet grass. He heard the swish of tall buffalo grass as
his body sank a few inches into the mud.
Jacob didn’t move. He heard the men shouting above, but the fog hid him from view. One claimed he was dead.
The Irishman ordered them to fire rounds. Bul ets tapped the mud around Jacob, but none landed close.
The Irishman shouted for the other two to load the mules. Despite the rain, they needed to move out fast.
“If there’s one man out here, there might be more,” someone said.
“What about the horses?” another yel ed.
“Can’t waste any more time looking for them. With the mules to carry the loot, we can walk out of Texas in a
few days. Once we’re in Indian Territory, we’ll buy horses.”
“I found Charlie,” the first voice called. “You want me to untie him?”
The Irishman laughed, “Leave him. I shot him by mistake. He’s dead.”
If the other two outlaws thought the Irishman’s comment strange, they didn’t say anything.
Jacob could hear them moving, loading the mules. He could hear them talking but couldn’t make out the words.
Even without hearing, he knew they were leaving the boy, not taking the time to look for him. The remaining
three must be thinking they’d just double their earnings with the boy, Charlie, and the guard dead.
By the time all was silent, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Jacob tried to stand but found himself almost too
weak. His shirt and coat were soaked in blood, and he realized he was doing exactly what the Irishman had
planned for him to do. He was bleeding to death.
Slowly, he crawled back up the embankment a few inches at a time. His left arm was worthless to pull him up,
but he could use it to hold to the earth so that he didn’t slide backward. Rocks cut his hands and pestered the
cut along his ribs, but Jacob blocked out the pain and kept climbing, making only a few inches of progress at a
time.
When he reached the campsite once more, the outlaws had been gone so long the fire was almost out. They’d
left their saddles and most of their supplies. The fog had cleared enough for Jacob to see Charlie stil tied to the
tree, his head now forward, stretching the rope about his throat. He no longer cared if he choked.
Jacob took a few minutes to bind his shoulder and ribs with a shirt he found in one of the packs and chewed a
few bites of jerky. Then, with evening drawing near, he made his way across the small clearing to the rocks
where he’d hidden the boy.
It took all his strength to pull the boy up with one arm. The kid was wiggling and fighting all the way. When
Jacob finally got him back to what was left of the campsite, he sat the kid down and pul ed the gag away. The
boy stared at him as if he thought Jacob were the devil.
“What’s your name?”
The kid glared at him.
“What’s your name?” Jacob asked again.
“Hank,” he finally said. “And you better let me go, or my pa will kill you.”
Jacob shook his head. “Look.” Jacob fought to keep from passing out. “My name is Dalton. I’m a Texas Ranger.
I’ve been hunting you for three days. Two of the gang are dead, neither by my hand. Your pa and the other two
are heading north toward the Red. They left you behind but took the loot.”
He looked over, expecting the kid to say something, but he just stared.
“The way I see it, I’m too wounded to hold you here. If you go with your pa and the others, it’s only a matter of
time before the law catches up with you. If you stay with me willingly, I’ll do what I can for you. I can’t promise
you won’t get jail time, but if you weren’t the one who shot those people back on the train, I think I can keep
you from hanging.”
“You going to untie me?”
“When I have your word you’l go back with me.”
Jacob reached for the knife he’d used to cut the makeshift bandage, but when he leaned forward to cut the
ropes, the world began to spin. He tumbled without hearing the kid’s answer.
NELL AWOKE LATE IN THE NIGHT. THE RAIN HAD stopped. Rol ing slowly to her side, she stared out the window,
realizing the silence must have awakened her. Un-beckoned, her thoughts fil ed with Jacob. He’d been gone five
days now. That wasn’t long, she reminded herself. He’d said he might be gone a week, maybe more.
Listening, Nel tried to hear something, anything. Nothing. Gypsy was the only one of the women who snored,
and she slept in one of the rooms off the kitchen.
The silence should have reassured her, but it didn’t. Something was wrong. She could feel it as easily as she felt
the night wind drifting from the open window Mrs. O’Daniel had insisted be left ajar. Fat Alice used to say that
once in a while she heard a shadow move. Nel swore she heard it now.
A stair creaked. Someone crept about. Maybe Wednesday making a midnight run to the kitchen, or the nurse
checking the house.
Suddenly, Nel realized pain hadn’t awakened her. Something else had. She took a deep breath, trying to
remember what she’d heard the moment before she’d passed from sleep. But al she could think of was the rain
that had pounded the house for two days and how now she almost missed the sound.
The same rain must have made her ranger’s life hell. Jacob always said he didn’t mind the weather, but more
than once she’d seen how tired he looked when he rode in after a storm.
She forced herself to relax. Every door was locked, every window on the ground floor double-checked. Brother
Aaron probably still snored on the porch where he claimed the wicker chair was far more comfortable than the
barn floor. She’d seen Harrison bed down near the loft door in the barn. She guessed he wanted a clear view of
the house and grounds if anything unexpected happened during the night.
She was safe, Nell reminded herself again.
Another step creaked slow and low as if someone were putting his or her weight on the wood as carefully as
possible so as not to cause a sound.
“Who’s there!” Nell called softly as she fought panic.
No answer.
“I said, who is out there?” She waited. Anyone on the stairs should have heard her. If she said the words any
louder, she’d wake everyone in the house.
Again, no one cal ed in return.
“Mrs. O’Daniel!” Nell screamed.
Footsteps, running fast, rattled down the stairs as she screamed again.
She rolled to the side of the bed and felt for the arms of her wheelchair. She knew she could never reach the
stairs in time to see whoever ran, but she had to do something. She could not lie still and wait for trouble to
reach her.
A light flickered on in the hall, then another outside the barn.
Wednesday reached Nell first, scrambling in her bed like a frightened child. “Miss Nell,” she cried. “Someone
was coming up the stairs! I thought I was dreaming until I heard you yel . You heard it, too, didn’t you?”
Nel put her arm around Wednesday and held her tightly as much to calm her own fear as to help the girl. Mrs.
O’Daniel rushed into the room with her hair tied up in rags. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “Is someone
harmed?”
Nell heard Harrison and the preacher bang their way through the front door and storm the stairs.
“Is everyone all right?” Harrison yelled. “May we come up?”
Nel almost laughed and gave her permission. Jacob Dalton would have never asked such a thing if he thought
there was trouble on the second floor, but Harrison would be proper to the end.
Harrison stood in the doorway holding the barn lantern in one hand and an old Walker Colt in the other. Brother
Aaron appeared sleepy, taking a few steps into Nell’s bedroom and glancing around as though expecting to see a
wild animal lurking in the shadows.
Both men looked like deer who’d stumbled into a bear cave. Nell could see that they both thought they were
definitely somewhere they didn’t belong.
“We’re fine.” Nell pul ed her blanket up not because she felt exposed, but because she guessed the men felt
uncomfortable seeing a lady in her nightclothes. “Someone was on the stairs a few minutes ago. Both
Wednesday and I heard them. When I cal ed for Mrs. O’Daniel, they ran down.”
Mrs. O’Daniel paled. “Someone was in the house.” She looked at the preacher.
“They didn’t get past me. I sleep with one eye open most of the time.”
Gypsy and Marla thundered into the room, shoving the preacher closer to the bed. The old man still had all his
clothes on, but he buttoned his coat as if he could ward off sin with fabric armor.
Harrison seemed to relax and take charge. “Were either of you on the stairs a few minutes ago?”
Marla and Gypsy shook their heads as if their chins were connected with an invisible string.
“How about you?” He turned to Mrs. O’Daniel, who shook her head in double time.
“Not me,” Wednesday offered before she was questioned.
Nel decided it would be a waste of time for her to say anything.
Harrison lifted the lantern. “Everyone stay here.” He moved toward the door. “I’l check things out.”
No one argued. In fact, he would have had trouble finding a second to fol ow.
He disappeared. A few moments later, they all heard his footsteps descending the stairs.
Gypsy turned up Nel ’s night-light and paced back and forth across the room. Wednesday curled closer to Nell.
Mrs. O’Daniel glared at the preacher, mumbling something about being married enough times to know that
trouble usually wore trousers.
“You don’t think it’s my pa come to get me, do you?” the girl whispered. “I don’t want to go if it is. He can’t
make me, can he?”
“No,” Nel answered and gave the girl a squeeze around the shoulders.
“I don’t want to go back,” she repeated. “Not ever. I want to stay here with you.”
Mrs. O’Daniel pul ed her robe tighter around her ample chest. “It might just be one of those men who likes to
look at women sleeping. We had a fellow like that in Fort Worth once. He’d find an open window and poke his
head in, hoping to see a woman in her nighties.”
Brother Aaron frowned and glanced at Mrs. O’Daniel’s hair with rag ends sticking out like rolled barbed wire. “I
bet he was disappointed more often than not.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She raised her chin. “He leaned in once too often, I heard, and a widow slammed a cast-iron
skil et into his face. Folks said he didn’t have enough nose left to sneeze.”
Wednesday giggled, lightening everyone’s mood.
“That’s not true,” the preacher debated.
Mrs. O’Daniel hugged herself. “Is, too. I heard he got religion soon after that, though most folks can’t stand the
sight of him for more than a graveside funeral.”
Nel joined Wednesday’s laughter.
“I’m coming up!” Harrison called as if everyone might have given up worrying and gone to bed while he was
checking out the house.
He tapped up the stairs, then seemed to stop halfway before climbing the last few steps.
“I think I’ve solved the crime,” he announced with a smile.
Everyone gave him their ful attention as he walked to the center of the room.
“The lock on the back door had been broken. It must have happened during the storm earlier tonight, or one of
us would have heard something. Marla, did you notice anything when you locked up?”
The shy cook shook her head.
Harrison continued. “Wel , it must have happened sometime around midnight, because the storm settled about
one.”
Everyone nodded, following his logic.
“Only one thing was stolen.”
“Stolen,” Nel whispered. She couldn’t imagine what would be valuable enough to commit a crime to get from
her house.
Harrison looked straight at Nell. “The painting Henry Stockard gave Fat Alice. The one hanging halfway up the
stairs.”
No one said a word for a moment, then Gypsy mumbled, “We’ve been burgled by the dumbest thief in the
world.”
No one argued.
Harrison moved closer to Nell when she asked, “Do you think it could have been Walter Farrow?”
He shook his head. “Why? You offered him the painting his uncle did when he was here. Why would he turn it
down and then come back almost a week later to steal it? I’m not even sure he’s stil in town. Looks like he
would have been back out to check on what we want for the land if he is stil interested.”