Petticoat Ranch (20 page)

Sophie heard the sound of running horses from a distance and knew that whoever was shooting at them was riding off. Men came pouring out of the bunkhouse and fired a few shots at the retreating gunmen, but the riders never showed themselves, leaving the grove and riding into the heavy woods.

Clay came charging out of the barn. “Whitey, get some men and make sure they keep moving! Don’t try and run ’em down, though. They’re pure coyote to shoot from cover thatta way, and they might do it again. Just lag back, and see what you can learn from readin’ their tracks.”

Sophie opened the front door. She heard the posts that supported the crosscut boards in the front porch being wedged back into place and noticed that Whitey, as well as the rest of the cowhands, had headed for the corral before Clay had begun giving orders.

Clay looked at the house furiously, and his eyes zeroed in on her arm. Sophie sighed. She knew what was coming. It was going to be just like repairing the barn. Apparently staying alive wasn’t woman’s work either.

Judd sat his horse and worked the action of his carbine. The sound eased his fury a bit.

So they’d missed today. There was always tomorrow. He’d ridden up to scout the McClellen place, thinkin’ to go charging in and drop a necktie on McClellen, like he had Edwards. This time Judd would step right in and buy the land.

He’d have to deal with Clay’s wife, too. Judd hadn’t thought of it at first, but now he remembered that Sophie Edwards had seen the men that took her first husband. Judd had worried about it at the time,
because she’d raised such a ruckus. But then he heard she’d quit the country, and he’d forgotten all about her. There were others who had seen him, in the early days of his night riding, before he’d gotten smart and started seeing to it that there weren’t any witnesses.

It didn’t sit well with him to kill a beautiful woman, but Judd knew it had to be done. McClellen first, then the woman. It needed to look like an accident when he did her in. Or maybe he could stage something that looked like an Indian attack. There hadn’t been any in these parts for a while, but there could always be just one more.

One way or another, Sophie Edwards McClellen had to die.

He’d come today thinking to take care of McClellen. He’d figured the hands wouldn’t be much trouble. They’d all be drifters who wouldn’t measure up any better than Cliff Edwards had. Since Edwards had been a weakling, it followed that his twin brother was one, too. And the next step in reasoning told him a man wouldn’t want cowpokes around him that showed him up. But McClellen had hired himself a salty bunch. And plenty of ’em, all armed.

Studying the layout, Judd had seen a chance to take McClellen out from cover.

With a quirk of humor, Judd thought of the look on Harley’s face when he’d been ordered to back-shoot McClellen. Harley hadn’t like it one bit. Judd had enjoyed making his saddle partner do as he was told.

And then that no-account Harley had missed! McClellen must be a lucky one to have stumbled forward at the exact moment Harley had fired. The missed shot gave McClellen the warning he needed. He’d taken cover until Judd had called off the attack.

Judd rode off in a fine fury, but his calculating mind told him anything he wanted this bad wouldn’t come easy. He’d regroup and pick his time more carefully.

He pulled Harley aside as they strung out over the rugged trail that led over the bluff behind the McClellen ranch. “Harley, I need someone watching this place.”

“I’ll do it.” Harley studied his back trail.

“No, I need you with me. Pick whoever’s best at ghostin’ around. I want to know McClellen’s routine. I want to catch him when he doesn’t have his guard dogs so close to hand.”

Harley nodded. “Percy is the best, and Jesse’s good. There are a couple of others who’ll do.”

“Get ’em started,” Judd ordered.

The two of them moved out. Judd couldn’t remember the last time they’d had to hightail it. It was a bad omen. Harley fell in behind him, and they picked up the pace to leave the C B
AR
far behind.

“Sophie,” Clay growled as he strode toward her. “You are the most ridiculous. . .”

Her husband was a man of few words. This wouldn’t last long. But he surprised her. He kept up his lecturing the whole time he bandaged her arm.

Beth edged up next to him. “Let me do it, Pa. I’ve done a sight of doctorin’ alongside Ma.”

“I’ll do it,” Clay grumped at the little girl.

Beth’s eyes got round and filled with tears.

Clay hunched his shoulders like he was taking a beating. “Now don’t start in crying. I have some experience with this from the war, and I want to see to it.”

The tears spilled onto Beth’s face. “I’m sorry, Pa.”

Clay sighed deeply, but Sophie noticed he didn’t run, which was his usual approach to the girls’ tears. He turned back to the wound on Sophie’s arm and started fooling with it. Sophie wished for Beth’s gentle touch, but she didn’t tell him that.

“Get some rags and tear them up for a bandage, Beth honey,” Sophie said quietly, wanting to include her daughter.

Clay was still fuming over the wound and scolding her to beat all.

Sophie interrupted his tirade as soon as Beth was out of earshot.
“So who wants you dead, Clay McClellen?”

Clay stopped fumbling. They stared at each other for a long moment. Sophie found herself caught in the worry she saw in his eyes. Kind eyes. True, he was being as grouchy as a grizzly bear with a sore tooth, but she could see it was because he cared about her. Something warm inside of Sophie heated up past warm, and she rested her hand on his where he touched her arm.

With a swift glance at the girls, he whispered, “I don’t think he was after me, Sophie. It would take them awhile to get set up in that grove. Why did they pick that spot? It’s mostly blocked off from the rest of the yard by the barn. I think they were after you.”

Clay’s hand came up and caressed her cheek. Suddenly he looked dismayed. “I’m sorry.” He pulled his hand away and looked around for the wet cloth Beth had brought when she was preparing to clean the wound.

“Sorry about what?” Sophie asked, not wanting him to look away.

“I got blood on your face.” He touched her cheek with the cool cloth, so gently that Sophie forgot the sting in her arm and the bullets that might have caught one of her girls.

“I’m so sorry, Sophie. I should have been more watchful. They should never have gotten so close to the place.” Clay looked from her cheek where he caressed her with the cloth to her eyes. His eyes flickered to her lips and then to her arm, and he seemed to gather himself. Suddenly brisk, he washed her face, then went back to his ham-handed doctoring. Sophie didn’t mind his rough skill anymore.

“Who do you. . .” Sophie’s voice was husky—not her normal voice at all. It seemed to sharpen Clay’s attention on her. She cleared her throat. “Who do you think it was?”

“I don’t know.” Clay tied off the rough bandage. “But it appears someone. . .”

“I counted five different guns.”

“There were at least five of them. And it appears they want one, or both of us, dead.”

Clay and Sophie exchanged long, solemn looks. Their silence was broken by the giggling and chattering of the girls in the background.

“Well.” Sophie’s jaw tightened. “I’d say that
someone
is going to be disappointed.”

Clay nodded in firm agreement.

Sophie hoped he’d say something complimentary right then. Something along the lines of, “It takes quite a woman to pick out five different gunmen in all that excitement.” Or maybe, “I’m right proud of you for running in to protect the girls and having the house all closed up and safe.” Or maybe even, “That was quite a carpentry job you did on the barn, before I kicked it in.”

As usual, he failed her.

“What kind of blamed fool notion got into your head, to go running out of the barn while there were bullets flying. There I had you all tucked away safe, and instead of staying put, like anyone would who had half a brain, you had to go haring off. . .”

It went on the rest of the day. He even woke up a few times in the night. At first he’d hold her tight and close and long and touch her as if he were desperate to make sure she was alive and well.

Then he’d start in on his scolding again.

Adam chafed at the slow pace. He had no money, and no one would be inclined to trust a black man enough to loan him a horse, so he didn’t ask.

The world was full of food to anyone who would just open his eyes. He unraveled enough thread from his tattered shirt to rig a snare. He caught grouse or rabbit most nights. He fished. There wasn’t much growing yet in the early spring, but he found a few wild strawberries and a steady supply of greens.

He wouldn’t have minded living like this forever, if it hadn’t been for the voice. He refused to think about his murdered friends. He was
afraid the hate would overcome his need to get to Sophie. He kept his mind always on her.

His back still hurt like fire. The gunshot dragged on his strength, but he didn’t let up on himself. One night, he made himself a soft bed of pine needles under a loblolly and had the best night’s sleep he’d had since he’d been heading for Sophie.

He awoke with a jerk. He froze, trying to think what had disturbed him. Maybe he’d heard Sophie again. He stared straight up, and looking through the limbs brought memories. Branches. Nooses. Swinging bodies. His friends had been lynched. Adam had been presumed among the dead, and he’d walked away. Guilt wracked him. He should have gone after the killers! He should have hunted them and killed every man jack of them!

Adam swallowed the hatred and remembered why he’d walked away. Sophie. He reached for his side and felt the tender bullet hole. He swore that when he had done whatever Sophie needed doing, he’d find those men and make them pay.

He lay flat on his back and stared up at the sky through the pine boughs. He had to get to her. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. He wasn’t a superstitious man, and he wasn’t given to notions. Sophie needed help. God had placed it in his heart.

He hoisted himself to his hands and knees and started to crawl out from under branches that sagged so low to the ground he had to lift them to get past. Just as he reached for one, he heard in the distance the sound that had awakened him. Hoofbeats.

He held himself as still as a wild hare and listened to silent men, riding fast in the direction he was headed. He slowly, carefully, moved his head, aware that any motion on his part could attract their attention. He saw stirruped feet, he heard creaking saddle leather, but faces were blocked from his line of sight. He didn’t see anything that he could recognize. Then the last few riders went by.

One of them wore Dinky’s boots.

They were ridiculous black boots, overloaded with glittering silver
trim. Dinky had them special made with money from his first cattle sale. He’d laughed and talked about how he hadn’t owned a single pair of shoes until he’d joined up with the Union army. He’d picked cotton and tended horses barefoot until he was twenty-five years old. The man who owned him thought shoes were above the station of a slave.

Dinky loved those boots. Adam had scoffed at him and told him his boots would spook the herd, but Dinky, always happy, always finding joy in life, only took those boots off when he slept. Adam looked closely at the last few riders. He saw William’s rifle. It was a .50 caliber Sharps. William, handy with a knife, had carved scroll work in the wooden butt.