Chapter Six
“Ma, a rider’s comin’ up the road!” Billy exclaimed, his legs going the same speed they always were. At a run. “A man on horseback! Maybe it’s Pa, Ma! Maybe he’s come home!”
Clara Wilson squeezed the edge of the table, willing the fire-hot pain in her leg to ease while trying to find the wherewithal to respond to her son. “Shut. The. Door. Billy,” she forced out.
“No, Ma! It’s Pa! It has to be.”
“Shut the door. Now!” A moan followed her command. One she’d tried to keep down but couldn’t stop. The pain was too strong. So was the excitement in Billy’s voice, hoping the rider was his father. Hugh had let her down too many times to show up now, exactly when she needed him.
Billy did as instructed, and rushed to the table where she sat with her left leg propped up on another chair. “Is it your leg, Ma? Is it hurting again? Pa will be able to help you. I know he will. That’s him coming up the road. I just know it.”
And she knew it wasn’t. It would be nice if she could believe differently, if things could be different, but they weren’t and never would be. Her instincts were too strong, her life too true to form for anything to be different. “Yes, it’s my leg. Bolt the door.”
“Why? If it’s Pa—”
“That’s not your father riding in,” she said between clenched teeth.
“You don’t know that. You ain’t even seen the rider.”
She wiped at the sweat rolling down her temples and covering her forehead. Why now of all times did someone have to ride in? She could hope it was Donald Ryan, their closest neighbor, but he’d stopped by last week, along with his wife, Karen, on their way back from Hendersonville, a long journey that they wouldn’t be making again anytime soon.
Pulling up enough fortitude to talk while fighting the pain was hard, but she had to. “Do as I say and bolt the door.” Drawing another shaky breath, she said, “Then bring me the gun out of the drawer.”
“But I ain’t allowed to touch that gun.”
“You can this time.” Talking was stealing her strength, making her dizzy, and the flashes of light and dark spots forming before her eyes made it hard to concentrate.
Billy bolted the door and then ran to the cupboard where she kept the good napkins, folded neatly atop the pistol. “Can I get my gun, too?” he asked while closing the drawer.
“Yes.” She wanted to say more. Tell him to be careful, but needed to reserve enough strength to address whoever was riding in.
Billy laid the gun on the table. She grasped the handle, pulled it across the table and then dropped it onto her lap, covering it with the corner of her apron. Billy had run into his bedroom and was already returning with the old squirrel gun he’d found last year. It was covered with rust and the trigger was broken off, but he carried it like it could take down an elk if need be.
“Look out the window, but stay back,” she instructed.
He did so, peering over the back of the chair. The way his shoulders dropped told her exactly what she’d already known. It wasn’t Hugh.
“It’s not Pa,” Billy said. “This man’s got black hair. He’s giving his horse a drink out of the trough, and he’s taking one, too.” A moment later, he said, “He’s walking toward the house.”
Clara wrapped her hand around the gun handle. “When he knocks, you say your pa’s out checking cattle.” She pressed her hand to her head, fighting the dizziness and the nausea that had her hands trembling. Her entire body trembling.
The knock sounded. Billy spoke. And the world went black.
* * *
Ready for action, for he’d expected some, Tom Baniff had his gun drawn before he heard the familiar sound of a pistol hitting the floor. The young boy, whose thick crop of blond hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a month, shot a startled look around the edge of the door that was only opened wide enough for the little guy to fit in the opening.
When the boy had opened the door, he’d instantly claimed his pa was out checking cattle and now, at the sound behind him, boasted he knew how to use the old squirrel gun in his hand.
Pushing the door open wider, Tom said, “Put that gun down before you hurt someone.”
“It’ll be you I’m hurting,” the boy said, holding his stance.
No more than seven, maybe eight, the boy had guts, and that almost made Tom smile. Until he got a good look around the door, at the woman at the table. She wasn’t sitting; she was slumped. No, she was falling off the chair.
Tom shot forward, arriving in time to save her head from banging against the floor. She was warm, and breathing, but out cold. “Who else is in the house?” he asked the boy while glancing toward the open doorways of two side rooms.
“No one.”
