Kate Wingo - Western Fire 01 (11 page)

“But the jayhawkers fight for the Union cause, do they not?”

“So I’ve been told. But given the amount of death and destruction they leave in their wake, I’ve come to the conclusion that they fight for no cause other than that which lines their pockets. Make no mistake, Miss Hibbert – the jayhawkers and the bushwhackers are but two sides of the same coin. Both refuse to answer to military authority. And both are using the war to settle old scores.”

“I will pay heed to your warning, sir.”
After what she’d seen last night, Mercy could only agree with the officer’s dire assessment.

Again,
Captain Pettijohn tipped his hat before ordering several of his men to remove the dead for burial. Prudence waited until he’d ridden off before speaking.

“How could you do that, Mercy?”

Baffled, Mercy turned toward her sister and said, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“You told him where to find Dewey,” Pru
hissed, her eyes clouded with wounded anger.

“I did no such thing. I merely told him that I’d overheard Ned Sykes make reference to Leavenworth.” Then, not
particularly liking the accusing tone her sister had used, Mercy said emphatically, “Nothing can change the fact that Bloody Ned and his men are murderous thieves. Not to mention, they are evil incarnate.”

“Dewey is not evil!” Pru retorted, her face flushed with indignation. “And neither is his brother Spencer.”

Having made her point, Prudence stormed toward the house, her long blond braids furiously swinging across her back. Frustrated, Mercy wondered how Spencer McCabe had managed to so thoroughly ingratiate himself with her family. The only possible explanation was that, given her youth, Prudence was too innocent to comprehend the dangerous threat that Spencer posed.

Mercy, however, was not so naïve
.

‘I’ll be back, Miss Mercy Hibbert. And when that day comes, you’re gonna pay for this night. So help me, God
. You’re gonna pay.’

Still holding the dead man’s pistol, Mercy hefted it in her palm, having come to a fateful decision. If Spencer McCabe thought
that he could simply ride in and terrorize her, or her family, he would be met with a most unexpected welcome.

From here on out, she fully intended to fight fire with fire.

As she did each evening before retiring, Mercy unpinned the coil of hair at the nape of her neck, her fingers loosening the braided strands. Reaching for the bristle brush on the bureau, she performed her nightly ritual, methodically brushing the long length of hair, her lips silently counting the number of strokes.

It had been a week since the jayhawker attack on the farm. A week of fear and worry and nail-biting vexation. A week in which every unaccountable noise was cause for alarm, every breeze rustling through the tree limbs a fearsome event.

A w
eek of restless, fitful sleep.

And to make matters worse, Captain Pettijohn and his cavalry troopers had stopped by earlier in the day to warn of alleged bushwhacker activity in the area.

Finished brushing her hair, Mercy performed the latest addition to her nightly routine – she opened the cylinder on her revolver and carefully counted the number of bullets in the chamber. Although she knew with complete certainty that there were six bullets to be counted, somehow verifying that number calmed her nerves and steadied her resolve. If another bushwhacker raid occurred, she would do whatever was necessary to defend her family. Even use deadly force, if need be.

Untying her wrapper,
Mercy slipped the garment from her shoulders and hung it on a nearby peg. Exhausted from her day’s labor, she wearily lifted the candleholder. As she started to blow out the flame, a pounding vibration suddenly caught her attention. Standing motionless, she listened, the sound intensifying with each passing second.

Someone was riding toward the house.
Two, maybe three, riders.

Perhaps
it was Captain Pettijohn and several of his men. Or Sam Guernsey and his son. Or—

Or
Bloody Ned Sykes and several of his bushwhacker cohorts.

Reaching for the pistol, Mercy prayed that God would give her the strength needed to protect her family. There were, after all,
only two or three riders approaching. And she did have six bullets.

Holding the candlestick in one hand, and the pistol in the other,
Mercy crept along the upper hall, trying to make as little noise as possible. Too late, she realized she’d left her wrapper hanging on the clothing peg in her room. Although if she was forced to shoot at an intruder, it would matter naught how she was attired.

Hoping
that it wouldn’t come to that, Mercy cautiously tiptoed down the staircase, the candle shedding a meager flicker of light as she made her way to the front door. Once there, she paused, uncertain what to do next.

The problem solved itself when, a moment later, someone banged on the front door.

“Open the door, Mercy!”

Dear God in heaven
! It was Spencer McCabe.

Knowing what had to be done, Mercy placed the candleholder on the little side table next to the door
. Then, taking a deep, stabilizing breath, she turned the key in the lock and swung the door wide open. No sooner had she opened it than Spencer yanked his hat off of his head, a rogue’s grin plastered on his face.

“Evening, ma’am. Looks like you cleaned up the yard a bit since my last visit.”

“What are you doing here?” Mercy demanded to know, holding the pistol in what she hoped was a threatening pose. At a glance, she could see that Spencer hadn’t shaved in several days, his clothes were covered in trail dust, and that he looked worse for wear.

“What am I doing here? Oh, just passing through,”
Spencer drawled as he leaned his shoulder against the door jamb. To Mercy’s acute dismay, he seemed unconcerned that there was a loaded pistol aimed at his midsection. In fact, he pointedly nodded at her firearm, his lips twitching with barely repressed laughter. “You planning on shooting me?”

Humph! Let him lau
gh. See if I care.

“If need be,” she replied in a cool, contemptuous tone of voice.

Slowly, Spencer straightened. As he shifted his weight, Mercy saw a grimace flash across his face.

“Put the gun down, Mercy.
I mean you no harm. You should know that.”

“I know no such thing!” she hissed, tightening her grip on the pistol. “The last time
that you darkened my doorstep, you issued a deadly threat to me and my family. I warn you, Mister McCabe, that I shall do whatever is necessary to protect my family from the likes of you.”

“
Seems that in my absence, this place has become a regular Yankee stronghold. Bet you’re right proud of yourself, huh?”

Before she had a chance to reply, Mercy heard the soft patter of footsteps descending the staircase.

“For heaven’s sake! Whoever could be calling at this late hour of the night?”

Peering
over her shoulder, Mercy caught sight of Prudence.

“It’s Mister McCabe,” she tersely informed her siste
r. “And he’s just now leaving.”

“
What a surprise, Spencer! Whatever are you doing here?” Pru trilled as she joined Mercy at the entryway.

Spencer smiled handsomely, savvy enough to realize
that he had at least one ally in the Hibbert family. “Well, like I was telling your sister, I was just passing through and—”

“Is Dewey with you?” Pru interrupted, craning her neck to scan beyond the porch.

As if on cue, Dewey McCabe stepped out of the shadows. “I finished putting the horses in the barn, Spence.”

Prudence pushed her way past Spencer and ran down the porch steps,
heedless of the fact that she was attired in her nightclothes.

“Dewey!
I can’t believe that you’re here! I’ve been so worried about you.”

Mercy all but groaned as she watched her sister gush all over young Dewey
McCabe, her girlish infatuation knowing no bounds.

“If you think this means that
you’re welcome in my home, you are gravely mistaken,” she curtly informed Spencer, intentionally lifting the pistol to chest height. Although the action was intended as a warning, Mercy had serious doubts as to whether she could actually shoot the man in front of their respective siblings.

Evidently, Spencer had his doubts, as well, for he seemed in no hurry to
depart.

“I
have a reason for being here, Mercy.”

“As well I know.”

Spencer pushed out a deep sigh. Studiously watching his every move, Mercy was puzzled to note that he wore a pained expression.

“I just figured this would be the last place they’d look for us,” he said, all traces of his earlier humor having vanished.

And who is chasing you
this
time?”

“Federal troops
. They’ve been on our tail most of the day.”

Mercy kept her own counsel, having strong reason to suspect that it was Captain Avery Pettijohn of the 6th Kansas Cavalry chasing after Spencer and his brother.

“You can’t stay.” Standing firmly in the middle of the doorway, Mercy barred him from entering.

“I need your help, Mercy.”

She shook her head, refusing to acquiesce.

In the next instant,
noticing the haggard way in which Spencer’s shoulders drooped, she felt a moment’s remorse. “If you wait a moment, I’ll pack some food for your journey. But that is
all
the assistance that I will render to you,” she was quick to add.

“It’s not food that I’m in
need of. What I need is for you to tend to this bullet wound in my lower leg.”

Mercy’s
gaze instantly dropped, startled to see a dark puddle of blood around the bottom of Spencer’s boot.

“You’ve been shot!”
She made no attempt to mask her concern. “Does it hurt?”

“Like the devil,” he answered,
swaying slightly.

Without thinking, Mercy reached for
him, slipping her left arm around Spencer’s waist.

“Prudence, have Dewey take you to fetch the doctor!” she shouted over her shoulder as she as
sisted Spencer into the foyer.

“No doctors,” Spencer rasped, countermanding her order.

“But you’re—”

“A wanted man,” he interjected. “Or have you forgotten?”

“No. I haven’t forgotten.” Realizing that she still held the pistol in her hand, Mercy set it on the entry table. Although there was only the one lit candle in the hallway, she could see that Spencer’s entire lower pant leg was soaked in blood.

“Besides, I’m willing to bet hard currency that you can get this
lead slug out just as well, if not better, than any surgeon.”

About to usher Spencer into the kitchen,
Mercy stopped in her tracks. “Do you mean to say that the bullet is still lodged in your limb?”

“Yes
, ma’am. And if you don’t get it out quick, I’m only going to have one leg to stand on,” Spencer quipped, his arm tightening around her shoulders. Although his tone was lighthearted, Mercy intuited that he was in a great deal of pain.

“But I . . . I don’t have any idea how to remove a bullet,” she croaked,
filled with dread at the mere thought of trying to extricate a lead slug from his leg.

“Don’t worry, honey. It’s a lot easier than you think.”

At hearing that, Mercy gulped back a mouthful of acid, her stomach churning as she tried to collect herself. Sidling past them, Prudence and Dewey made haste to light the kitchen lamps. To Mercy’s surprise, her sister wore a grave, determined expression, the same expression mirrored on Dewey McCabe’s face.

Staggering to the kitchen table, Spencer unbuckled his gun
belt and handed it to his brother before sliding his tall frame into a kitchen chair, manfully stifling a groan.

In the next instant, all three of them turned to
ward her, expectantly waiting for her to do,
what exactly
, Mercy didn’t know. Wringing her hands together, she stared at the man sprawled before her, baffled as to how Spencer could remain so cavalier in the face of such a calamity.

“I, um, I’m not entirely certain where to begin,” she
said truthfully, gulping back a mouthful of bile.

If Spencer sensed her
anxiety, he gave no indication. “How about taking this boot off my foot?”

“Yes . . . yes, of course,” Mercy sputtered, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it herself. Then, adopting a more assertive tone, she turned to Dewey and said, “Would you
please draw a bucket of water from the well.”

“Yes
, ma’am,” he replied before exiting through the back door.

Mercy next turned to her sister, a taut smile on her
lips. “Prudence, will you get a fire started? We’ll need to boil some water.” Her sister bobbed her head, quickly commencing her assigned task. “And when you’re finished with that, would you then go upstairs and retrieve the bandages?”

“You’ll also need to get something sharp,” Spencer
instructed. “A pen knife will do, if you have one.”

“A pen knife?” Mercy’s brow furrowed, thinking his request unusual, to say the least.

“Honey, this here bullet isn’t going to just pop out of my leg. You’re going to have to dig it out.”

Mercy’s legs wobbled
unsteadily. Reaching for the nearest chair, she grabbed hold of it, worried that, for the first time in her life, she might very well faint.

Spencer put a steadying hand on her waist. “It’ll be all right, Mercy.
I have complete faith that you can do this.”

Although she feared his confidence misplaced, Mercy released
her grip on the wooden chair and straightened her shoulders. Silently praying that she would not prove him wrong, she swallowed her panic as best she could.

“Please bring my knitting basket, as well,” she instructed her sister. “If Mister McCabe has no objections, I shall . . . I shall attempt to extract the bullet with a knitting needle.”

Spencer nodded his approval. He then slid a huge knife out of the scabbard that hung at his waist.

“You’ll need this to cauterize the wound once you’re finished,” he said, offering
her the knife.

Mercy’s eyes widened with shock, horrified to see that the
blade was covered in blood. Noticing the direction of her gaze, Spencer wiped the knife blade against his pant leg.

“We got caught in quite a tangle,” he said by way of explanation. “Still not sure how we managed to get out alive,” he added with a
shaky laugh.

She made no reply, at a loss to know how the man could joke about such a thing. Why, he acted as if such danger was nothing mo
re than an everyday occurrence.

A moment later, as Mercy examined Spencer’s blood-soaked pant leg, it belatedly dawned on her that perhaps his latest escapade was just that, an everyday occurrence
. Part-and-parcel of being a southern renegade. Moreover, she supposed that for a man who looked death in the face on a near daily basis, a gunshot wound could hardly be considered a momentous event.