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Print ISBN 978-1-63058-259-3

eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-251-7
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-252-4

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com

Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com.

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

Printed in the United States of America.

CHAPTER 1

Johnny Paynter slung his saddle over his chestnut gelding’s back. He and Reckless would work alone today, repairing the ranch’s roundup pen. Johnny didn’t mind being up here at the line shack all alone—it was better than fighting for elbow room in the bunkhouse. Especially when he was on the foreman’s bad side. Still, he couldn’t help remembering that today should have been his day off.

Frantic hoofbeats pounded in the distance. Johnny dropped the girth ring and walked around his horse to stare down the trail. His friend Cam Combes was riding hard.

“Get your gear. You’ve got to get out of here.” Cam pulled his horse to a stop.

“It’s the foreman. Somebody shot him. And Johnny—they think you did it. You got to run for it!”

“What on earth?” Johnny stared at him. The Lone Pine foreman was known to be harsh and short tempered, but Johnny had mostly managed to stay on his good side—except for the words they’d exchanged right before Johnny came up here to the line shack, but that wasn’t serious. “Are you telling me that Red Howell is dead? How did it happen?”

“Nobody knows.” Cam swung down out of the saddle and dropped his pinto’s reins. “Ike found him this morning, on the trail about a half mile from the ranch. You were the only one unaccounted for when he rode in with the news. Red had told us he was riding up here to see you this mornin’. Wanted to know how you were doing with the roundup pen. Now I guess they think you ambushed him or something.”

“Some of the boys heard you the other night, when Red told you to come up here. They’re sayin’ you had a fight.”

Johnny shook his head in protest. “That wasn’t any fight. I told Red it was my Sunday off this week, and he said too bad, and I said I really needed a day off, and he said—”

“No!” Cam frowned. “If you do that, they’ll turn you over to the law.”

“But I didn’t do anything.” Johnny glared at him. “I didn’t even know Red was coming up here. Don’t you think I should just go and tell them that?”

“No, I don’t. You need to lie low. Better yet, get out of Colorado. Before the sheriff rides up here to take you in.”

Johnny’s stomach felt hollow. “I’m not going to run. I didn’t do anything.” He went back to his horse and tightened the cinch strap.

“I believe you, but I’m not so sure they will. I heard some of the boys talking about a necktie party.”

“You know I always give it to you straight. Remember when Buck Higgins blamed you for lettin’ the remuda loose during the roundup?”

Cam nodded. “I told the boss you wouldn’t be that careless. Turned out Buck was to blame. I’ve got your back, Johnny, and I’m just saying you’ll be safer if you make a run for it now. Some of them are pretty hotheaded. If I were in your boots, I’d want to get out of here and not take the chance.”

Cam marched into the cabin, and Johnny followed, puzzling over what he had said. It wasn’t Cam’s fault. He was only delivering the news.

“There must be someplace you could hide out for a while, until things quiet down.” Cam grabbed Johnny’s extra shirt from a peg on the wall. He spotted Johnny’s saddlebag on the cot, picked it up, and stuffed the shirt into it. “What else you got here?”

His urgency ignited a flame under Johnny. He shoved the rest of his few belongings into the saddlebag, his mind racing as fast as his pulse. “I guess I could head down to Texas. My brother’s got a little spread there.”

“There you go.” Cam smiled. “That’s what you need—someplace where you can go and take it easy for a few weeks. When things quiet down, you can come back if you want to, and see if the boss will hire you on again. Give the sheriff time to sort out this shooting and find out who really did it.”

Cam shook his head. “They said the sheriff had gone to the other end of the county, and they don’t expect him back for a few days. Come on! I’ll ride with you. I admit, I’m worried about you. The fellows at the ranch are real riled. If you don’t get out of here soon, you’ll be dangling from the nearest cottonwood.”

Relief at not having to go alone washed over Johnny, yet at the same time he hated to get Cam more involved than he already was. But that was Cam’s way, he supposed. It wasn’t just little things like the incident with the remuda. Johnny also recollected the time he’d been thrown from a green cow pony and landed on a barbed-wire fence. Cam had wrapped his cuts and ridden back to the ranch house with him, to make sure he got there without passing out, and he’d given up a night off to stay with him at the bunkhouse. He rubbed his forearm through his sleeve and could feel one of the jagged scars he still bore from that. Even though Cam could get a little wild sometimes, he had proven himself a true friend.

Cam rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not going to let them lynch you for something you didn’t do. Besides, I’ve never been to Texas. I wouldn’t mind seeing some new country.”

Three minutes later, the two men were riding hard down the trail away from the ranch. Johnny’s mind still whirled. His life was in danger. He could do nothing less than ride away, even though it went against every impulse.

Sally Golding jumped and took her hands from the dishwater. Effie Winters, her hostess and her pastor’s wife, stood in the kitchen doorway, scowling down at the letter in her hand.

“What’s that make—seven? Eight?” Effie held out the envelope, still eyeing it as though reluctant to hand it over.

“Thank you.” Sally took it, slid it into the pocket of her threadbare black dress, and turned back to the sink. She wouldn’t open it in Effie’s presence. While the Reverend and Mrs. Winters had shown great kindness in taking her in, their hospitality seemed to be growing a little thin. Effie made no secret of the fact that she felt Sally had overstayed her welcome.

But what else could she do? Not many places of employment were open to a respectable widow in St. Louis. Sally had tried to live frugally on her sewing skills, but she hadn’t earned enough to pay rent and buy food for herself. When she had appealed to the minister a year ago, he had spoken to his wife and they had offered her a tiny room in their attic until she could get her feet under her again. It was their duty to help widows, the reverend had told her. The next Sunday, he had announced her move into their home to the congregation, a bit pompously, Sally thought.

“You about done with those dishes?” Effie eyed the clean skillet and saucepan waiting to be dried and put away.

“Hmpf. I’ve got some stitching for you when you’re through.” Effie’s heavy footsteps echoed as she walked away.

Sally bent once more over the dishpan. She worked hard in the Winters home—as hard as a hired maid might do, but without wages. While Effie led the churchwomen in organizing efforts for charitable causes, Sally felt she could show a little more kindness at home.

Sally continued doing whatever sewing jobs she could get from other people, but her time was limited, as was her means for advertising her services.

At first she’d tried to save enough to take her back to her parents’ home in Abilene, Texas, but after a few months, she’d had several broad hints that contributing to her hosts’ funds would not be amiss, since she ate out of their larder. Giving most of what she earned to Effie to supplement the pastor’s meager salary meant Sally had saved less than five dollars in the past year. She wasn’t sure the minister even knew of her contributions, but she didn’t dare ask.

She finished the dishes, dumped the water, and hung up the pan and her apron. She longed for a cup of tea but didn’t dare fix herself one. Effie Winters would accuse her of shirking. She went to the parlor, where her hostess sat on the horsehair sofa with her lap desk before her.

Effie pointed with her pen. “My shirtwaist. Heaven knows I need a new dress, but it’s hard to come by enough money for one.”

Sally hesitated. Was the woman hinting that she should give her more money? If Effie could buy the fabric, Sally could sew a dress for her in a couple of days. But that would take all her time, and if Effie wasn’t pleased with the result, she’d never hear the end of it.

As she picked up the bundle of mending, she realized it included several items besides the shirtwaist. “I should be able to get to these this morning, after I finish Mrs. DeVeer’s skirt.”

Effie nodded absently and continued her writing for a moment. “Oh, do you have any scraps for the quilting bee? We’re making that flying geese quilt for the missionary who was here last month.”

Sally climbed the narrow stairs and entered her bedroom, thankful for the one small window at the end of the chamber. In summer, this room became a kiln, nearly stifling her, and in winter she all but froze. But now the cool spring weather kept the attic tolerable, and the window gave her adequate light so that she could do her sewing up here in private and not have to put up with Effie’s sighs and innuendos. Her hosts seemed to be eager for her to move out, yet Sally couldn’t imagine what Effie would do if she left. She certainly wasn’t used to doing heavy housework anymore, though she did some of the cooking and made an effort to help the ladies in her husband’s congregation and nurse the ill when needed.

After closing the door, Sally sat down in her straight-backed chair near the window. She put the bundle of mending on the small table before her. The letter crackled as she took it from her pocket. This was letter number eight, but she hadn’t liked to give Effie the satisfaction of saying it. The nerve of that woman to count her letters! Did she keep as close track of how many Sally’s mother sent?

Her seam ripper worked fine as a letter opener, and she carefully slit the top fold of the envelope. Tears filled her eyes as she read the first page. Her many prayers had been answered.

It had taken him long enough, but he had finally proposed marriage. She could leave St. Louis, the city that held so many bad memories.

She had never had the courage to tell her parents how things really were during her marriage to David Golding, or the manner of his death. She had no desire to disgrace them with the knowledge of the pain and degradation she had suffered at his hands. When she was notified of his death, she wrote to her parents that he had died suddenly, but not that he was shot in a saloon brawl.

To her shame, Sally had stayed in St. Louis and scraped along for nearly two years after her husband’s death, rather than admit to them how bleak her life had become. What had happened to the courage she’d had as a girl? She didn’t like hiding the truth from her folks. Had she become so beaten down that she couldn’t face those who loved her?

Now God was giving her the chance to return to Texas and be near them again. Oh, not very near—she would still be a couple of hundred miles from her parents’ home—but close enough that she might visit them after a while. She longed to see her mother’s dear face and feel her father’s strong arms around her. And this time, she would visit as the wife of a respectable, hardworking rancher.

It would also be a second chance for her at having a family. Maybe this time she would get it right. She had answered the rancher’s advertisement with trepidation, but his letters showed him to be a caring, thoughtful, and generous man. Life with him could only be better than what she had endured with David, and for the last year with the Reverend Winters and Effie. That thought gave her the courage to seek out a new course. Perhaps if all went well, she could finally have the family she had longed for so many years. Children.

Since David’s death, she had come to think she would never be a mother. The memories of the two babies she had never held in her arms always darkened her mood, and she tried not to dwell on them. She had accepted that she would never know a husband’s true love or the joy of raising a child. But now…now perhaps God was smiling on her. Three or four days of travel would take her to the man who said he loved her and would take care of her for the rest of her life. The man she had never met but had fallen in love with.

Johnny and Cam rode together down the dusty lane, looking for Mark’s ranch. The road hadn’t been used much, and they hadn’t met anyone else since leaving the last town behind.

“Not a chance. That big rock was the landmark. He said turn right at the rock that looks like a bread loaf.”

Weeks on the trail and scanty food had worn Johnny down. He leaned over to one side and tried to watch his horse’s feet, but he couldn’t see much from the saddle. “I think Reckless is limping.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He lost that shoe a good five miles back.” Cam gazed at the chestnut’s hooves as they ambled along. “Well, we’ll be there any time now.”

The sun beat down with no compassion, and the horses’ heads drooped low. Johnny opened his canteen and took a swig. If they didn’t find water for the horses soon, they’d be in trouble. He ran his hand over his beard, wiping away a few stray drops of water. At the line shack, he hadn’t had a razor. He and Cam hadn’t shaved since they lit out. It would feel good to get cleaned up again.

Over the top of a small rise ahead was something that might be a ridgepole. They urged the horses to a trot, but at once Reckless’s limp became more pronounced, and Johnny let him fall back to a walk.

Cam rode on ahead to the top of the knoll and turned and waved his hat. “Come on, boy! We’re there!”

Reckless had a hard time navigating the hill, and Johnny swung down and led him the last few yards. They were at the edge of a yard flanked by a small cabin on one side and a large corral on the other. Beyond the corral stood a barn of sorts. Apparently its main use was for hay storage, though one part seemed to be walled in, probably so Mark could secure his saddles and tools.

Johnny looked closer at the house. No smoke rose from the chimney, but a man might let the fire go out in this heat. “Think there’s anyone here?”

A cow bawled pitifully, and Johnny spotted her in a small pen near the barn. He led Reckless down the hill toward her, looking about as he walked. He spotted a few head of cattle grazing several hundred yards away on the fenced range.

Johnny walked over and stood beside him. One glance confirmed Cam’s assessment—the cow was uncomfortable, all right.

“I saw some cattle off over there.” Cam jerked his chin toward the grassy range.

“Yeah, I saw them, too. Come on.” Johnny left Reckless ground-tied and walked toward the house. He was bone tired, and he didn’t want to sleep on the ground again tonight.

The cabin door was shut, and he knocked on it. “Mark?” Silence greeted him, so he knocked again. “Anybody home?”

Cam sidled up to him and reached for the latch. The door opened under his touch. “H’lo, the house!”

Cam hopped over the threshold, and Johnny hesitated only a moment before following him.

Lying facedown on the floor of the one-room cabin was a man dressed in twill pants and a frayed chambray shirt. Johnny’s stomach flipped.

Johnny stooped and grasped the man’s shoulder and rolled him over. Staring sightless up at the ceiling was his brother, Mark Paynter.

CHAPTER 2

Sally trudged to the post office through the rain, holding her black umbrella over her head. On most days, Effie or the pastor went for the mail, but on miserable cold winter days or ones where a body could drown by stepping off the sidewalk into a pothole, Sally had the privilege.

She didn’t mind going out in the rain, though it meant she would have to change her entire outfit on her return. The umbrella did little to protect her black bombazine skirt as it billowed in the wind. However, making the unpleasant trek herself meant she would see the letters before Effie and the Reverend Mr. Winters did.

She had received only one additional letter from Mark since his proposal. It arrived a fortnight past, and in it he had said he would await her response before writing more about their future. He sounded as though he wasn’t confident that she would accept his offer.

Sally prayed that he had received her answer soon after penning his doubtful thoughts. She had sat down as soon as possible and answered that hesitant missive, of course, and assured Mark that he possessed her heart and she now waited only for his word to leave St. Louis and join him in Beaumont, Texas.

At the post office, she opened the door, stepped into the doorway, and turned so she could stand inside while collapsing her umbrella. She slid it into the holder inside the door and glanced about. Two people stood at the counter, awaiting their mail. When they had finished their business and left, she smiled at the postmaster.

“Hello, Mrs. Golding. It’s a pleasure to see you, though I suspect getting here was not very pleasurable.”

“Let’s see.…” He turned to the rack of cubbyholes behind him. “I know there’s something for the minister. Oh, and here’s one of those Texas letters for you.”

Sally schooled her features so that she wouldn’t show her elation when Mr. Beamus turned back toward her and held out the two envelopes.

She glanced at them just long enough to assure her that her own letter was from Mark, not her mother, and tucked the letters into the deep pocket of her cloak.

The door opened behind her, and she left with a nod to the newcomer, plucking her umbrella from the stand as she passed it. She opened it and plunged into the downpour again, after closing the door firmly behind her.

When she got back to the parsonage and slipped in the back door, the kitchen was empty. She had time to slip her own letter into her dress pocket and was hanging up her cloak when Effie entered.

“Heavens, that umbrella is dripping all over the floor, and your tracks—why, your shoes must be soaked.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Sally said serenely. “I’ll mop the floor after I’ve had a chance to put on some dry clothing.” She held out the reverend’s letter. “Here you go, for Mr. Winters.”

“I’ve nothing more for you.” Sally positioned her open umbrella the right distance from the cookstove, so it would dry out while she dashed up to her room but would have no chance of being singed.

“My mother seems not to have written this week. They’re probably busy with the garden and the livestock. Excuse me.” Sally made a beeline for the stairs before Effie could press her on the issue.

In her attic room, she sat down near the window. With trembling fingers, she tore open Mark’s letter. Folded inside his message was a bank check. Sally’s heart raced. She held it up near the window and looked at the amount. It was more than she had earned in the past year.

My dear Sally,

It was with great joy that I read yours of the 3rd. I trust the enclosed funds will cover your expenses to get here. Please write as soon as you know when you expect to arrive, or if there is no time for mail, send a telegram. I will be getting things spruced up at the ranch. I cannot tell you how happy I am that you have agreed to come and be my bride.

With great anticipation,

Mark Paynter

She clutched the letter to her heart and blinked back the tears that welled in her eyes.

She sat another minute, reveling in her boon, then quickly pulled off her damp clothing and put on her only other dress, a faded calico. She always wore the black outside the house since David’s death, but she donned the older dress often while doing Effie’s housework.

An unpleasant task awaited her. She would have to tell the minister and Effie that she was leaving. She wished she could go and buy her train ticket before telling them, but she didn’t see how that would be possible. Effie would be angry if she left the house without telling them.

Sally smoothed her hair and turned to the stairs. Maybe she should just tell them that “friends in Texas” had sent her the money for the trip. Perhaps they would assume the gift was from her family.

Sally raised her chin. She would proudly tell them that she was leaving them to marry a respectable Christian rancher. She sent up a prayer for strength and walked down to the parlor.

“Somebody shot him.” Johnny stared down at his brother’s body. For weeks he’d tried to imagine what his meeting with Mark would be like, but this had never occurred to him.

“I’m sorry,” Cam said. He crouched on the opposite side of Mark’s body and studied his face. “He looks like you.”

Johnny sat back on his heels and wiped his sleeve across his brow. “I can’t believe it. Mark was always the steady one. Everybody liked him.”

“You don’t know that,” Cam said. “You haven’t been around him for a long time.”

Slowly, Johnny stood and walked to the open door. “Whoever did it took his horse.”

“We oughta look around the corral and see if there are hoofprints. He mighta had more than one horse. And there could be other people. Did he have any ranch hands?”

“Yeah. And we need to bury Mark.” Johnny’s throat was dry, and he swallowed hard. “I reckon we need to get the law out here, too.”

“No!” Cam whirled and glared at him. “How do you think it would look if you got a lawman to come here?”

“No, but the sheriff don’t know that. And if he started asking around, he might hear you was wanted in Colorado. He might even have a wanted poster on you by now.”

For a second, Johnny thought his heart had stopped ticking. “Do you think so?”

“I dunno, but I don’t think you should chance it. We ran away after Red was killed. We’re as good as outlaws now.”

Johnny clenched his teeth. He’d tried not to think of it that way. Cam had said he had no other course but to run and that things would get straightened out.

“Come on,” Cam said. “We’ll look around and make sure no one else is needing us, and maybe we’ll see some clues to who did this. When we’re sure the coast is clear, we’ll tend to your brother.”

Johnny followed him outside, his steps dragging. He wasn’t sure Cam was right about the law. It seemed to Johnny that if he rode to town and told the local sheriff he’d just arrived and found his brother dead in his own home, the sheriff would believe him. But what if he didn’t? He looked around the barnyard. This was a nice little spread. The sheriff might think he and Mark had fought over it.

Cam had located the well, which had a stone berm about two-and-a-half-feet high, and was hauling a rope up from it. Johnny walked over and watched him pull out a wooden bucket full of water and set it on the edge of the wall.

Cam cupped his hands and took a drink. “That’s good water. Drink up, boy, and wash the dust off your face.”

Johnny scooped up some water for a drink and splashed his face and beard. He felt somewhat better with his parched throat eased and a soft breeze cooling him. Until he thought of Mark, still and growing cold while he and Cam stood here making themselves comfortable.

“Come on.” He strode toward the corral. The rail fence ran right up to the barn. Around the open gate, he searched the ground. Boot prints. Shod hooves.

Cam stepped forward, but Johnny held up a hand. “Wait. See that? We need to get one of Mark’s boots and see if he made those footprints.”

Johnny gritted his teeth and didn’t respond. He crouched down and ran his finger around the crescent of a hoofprint. “At least one horse wasn’t shod.”

Johnny studied the other prints, inching through the open gate and into the corral to see more, but most of them were marred, overlapping each other in the dry dirt. He could make out the impressions of some rounded forehooves, and a few were definitely from slightly narrower hind feet.

“So…” Cam straightened. “Either someone walked in here and left with three or more horses, or they rode in and took their mounts and your brother’s horses.”

The open structure held no stalls, the way a barn would in cold-weather country. The lower level held a pile of loose hay in the back corner, and the mow overhead was stuffed with it. Johnny approached the door to what he assumed was the storage room.

Johnny frowned at the hasp that had been pried from the doorjamb. He pulled open the door and peered into the small, dark room.

Johnny stepped in and joined him. A spade, an ax, a hammer, and several other tools hung on the wall. “Somebody stole his working saddle.” The one that was left was an old, dried-out, cavalry-issue rig with a thick coating of dust. “That one hasn’t been touched for a while.”

“I think you’re right,” Cam said. “They’re long gone, whoever done it.”

“Not too long,” Johnny said, thinking of his brother’s body. “Mark hasn’t been dead a whole day.” Suddenly doubting his own judgment, he looked at Cam. “Do you think?”

Cam shook his head. “He ain’t stiff, and if it happened yesterday, there’d be…” He made a face. “You know how it is when we find a dead cow.”

“Yeah.” Johnny preferred not to think about the aftereffects of death—the bugs, the bloating, the stench…“We’d best get him underground as quick as we can.”

“All right.” Cam took the spade from the wall. “Do you want to get him ready, or you want me to do it?”

“I will,” Johnny said. As hard as it would be, he wanted to spend these last few minutes with Mark and examine his wounds again.

“I’ll find a likely spot to dig, then. Water the horses first, eh?” Cam shouldered the spade and went out.

Johnny’s steps dragged as he went out into the brilliant sunshine. The cow lowed piteously. He almost ignored her, but after taking buckets of water to Reckless and Cam’s pinto, he went to the barn for a milk bucket and to see if Mark had a stool. Mark would wait another twenty minutes, but this cow needed relief. Besides, the milk would come in handy.

He let the motions of routine take over, numbing the jagged pain that tore at him. As he sat rhythmically milking away, leaning back a little so he didn’t contact the cow’s hot side, sweat trickled down his back and off his face. He laughed out loud. Grief would hit him soon. It was sure to. But this was too absurd. His brother lay dead a few yards away, and here he was milking a stupid cow.

As though she heard his thoughts, the cow flicked him in the face with her tail, the coarse hairs flogging him like tiny whiplashes.

“Is that all the thanks I get?” His thoughts turned back to his brother. If he’d been shot today, it must have been early morning, or else Mark would have milked the cow. So, around sunup. That was probably as close as they could come to pinpointing the time.

Johnny didn’t bother to strip the cow dry. When the bucket was two-thirds full, he stood and set it away from the reach of her feet. He untied her and gave her flank a swat. “Go on now.”

She eyed him balefully for a moment then ambled away. Johnny picked up the pail and walked to the house. Inside the doorway, he set the bucket down and went to Mark’s side.

Drying blood soaked the front of Mark’s shirt. The only comfort to Johnny was that it probably happened quick. He doubted his brother had lain there long, knowing he was dying. Nothing about the body or the floor around it suggested he had moved at all after he was shot.

Johnny walked slowly around the cabin. The kitchen area was in disarray, with a few supplies strewn about. Whoever killed Mark must have helped himself to the foodstuffs. They didn’t take everything, though. A barrel half full of flour stood open below a worktable, and though the shelves had some empty spaces, several jars of preserves sat there intact, waiting for a hungry man to open them. A little more snooping revealed cornmeal, salt, and a small amount of dried peas.

Johnny walked over to the bunk built onto one wall. The covers were neatly spread, and his heart spasmed as he recognized an old patchwork quilt their mother had stitched. She had promised Johnny one, but it wasn’t half finished when she died, so he never got his quilt.

He reached to pull it off the bunk and hesitated. Should he bury Mark in it? He hadn’t seen any lumber lying around, from which he could make a coffin. But it seemed wrong to bury Mama’s quilt. Maybe there was another blanket he could use.

A few garments hung from nails in the wall, and Johnny examined them. The white cotton shirt must be Mark’s Sunday best. He could put that on him and remove the bloody chambray one. If he washed the blood off, Mark would look almost natural.

He got a basin of water and a rag and steeled himself to remove Mark’s bloody shirt. He unbuttoned it and laid back the front pieces of the shirt. Two bullet holes. They had shot Mark twice in the chest. Johnny tried not to think too closely about that as he dabbed the blood away, but he couldn’t help the pictures forming in his mind.

Cam walked in as he finished and was easing the ruined shirt off over Mark’s lifeless arms. He stopped in the doorway.

“Good. We can have some milk with our dinner.” Cam stepped closer, frowning. “What are you doing?”

Cam squinted at the basin of bloody water and the clean white shirt Johnny had brought over.

“You might want his things later on. He’s not going to care what he has on.”

Johnny paused in his ministrations. “Cam, he’s my brother. I want to bury him nice.”

After a moment, Cam said, “Sure. You do whatever you want. I’m gonna see if ol’ Mark had any coffee.”

Cam grunted and moved toward the kitchen area. Johnny decided to let him worry about what food was left. All he cared about for the moment was that his brother was going to be buried in a clean shirt, with his blood washed off him.

Sally waited until suppertime to break the news. Her stomach fluttered during the minister’s blessing over the food. Effie would complain that the vegetables were cold after the lengthy prayer, but that was hardly Sally’s fault.

After the amens, the Reverend Mr. Winters reached for the meat loaf, and Effie pounced on the nappy filled with mashed potatoes. Sally had resisted the temptation to bake the potatoes, though it was much easier. Effie preferred them mashed, with plenty of butter, so Sally had taken the extra time to peel and mash them. She waited until the couple had heaped their plates and then helped herself to modest servings of meat loaf, potatoes, and squash. She doubted she would be able to eat much.

She watched Mr. Winters take a few bites. He didn’t offer compliments, but his face relaxed into satisfied folds as he chewed the meat loaf. She had cooked it just the way he liked it, crispy around the edges, but well-done and juicy in the middle, with plenty of onions. Sally reached for her water glass and took a quick sip to moisten her dry mouth. When she set the tumbler down, it clunked on the table, earning her a scowl from Effie.

Sally quaked inside, but she didn’t dare hold off until Mr. Winters’s plate was nearly empty. Then he would launch into a discourse on next Sunday’s sermon, or the reprobation of today’s youth, or the greedy landgrab of the Europeans, who were carving up Africa however they pleased.

Effie took a bite of the meat loaf then wiped her lips with her napkin. “Mrs. Haven’s time is near. I told her I’d take a turn helping out after.”

Cooking and keeping house for new mothers was one of the good works Effie seemed to enjoy. Sally wondered if it was because she had no children of her own. However it was, she always took a turn, and that had endeared her to some of the parishioners. Sally also volunteered for that duty, though handling the infants scraped a raw place on her heart.

She cleared her throat and looked toward the minister, not Effie. “It seems I shall be leaving you soon, sir.”

Both the preacher and his wife stopped chewing. Mr. Winters froze with a forkful of potatoes in midair, and Effie’s hand hovered over the salt cellar. Sally couldn’t resist a quick glance, revealing Effie’s gaping mouth.

“Yes.” Sally decided the safest place to turn her gaze was her own plate. “I’ll be returning to Texas straightaway.”

Sally took a deep breath. “As you know, I’ve been corresponding with my family and—”

Effie made it sound tawdry, but Sally kept her chin up, though it may have trembled a little.

“Yes, a fine Christian man. I shall be married soon. My parents will be so pleased.”

“Don’t they know of your plans yet?” Mr. Winters cocked his head to one side.

Sally’s cheeks heated. She would shamelessly dodge that question. “I meant, sir, that they will be pleased to see me settled. My intended is, as my father would say, all wool and a yard wide.” She pushed back her chair. “Excuse me. I’ll get the coffee.”

She stayed in the kitchen longer than she had to, but her absence seemed prudent. Effie made no attempt to modulate her voice in the dining room, and Sally could hear their words clearly.

“What do you mean?” The pastor’s voice was less strident. “I thought you wished to see Mrs. Golding settled.”

“Of course,” Effie said, “but not like this.” The minister murmured something, and Effie went on, “I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s never met the man! She’s been writing him letters since way back before Christmas, but who knows how they made the connection? The newspapers have lurid advertisements almost every day for women to go and marry these rough miners and ranchers. He could be anyone. She could be walking into a life of slavery. Or worse. I wouldn’t want to be too near the Mexican border, myself.”

“But she said he’s a fine Christian,” the minister said. “And you’ve remarked on the lack of privacy since she came here. You’ll have the freedom of your home back, my dear.”

“We shall have to hire a girl to come in and do the heavy work, and that will mean wages.” Effie made this sound like a dire thing.

“Perhaps we can find another woman who needs room and board. It’s worked out well with Mrs. Golding, hasn’t it?”

Sally smiled grimly to herself. More than ever, she was convinced the minister knew nothing of the small amounts of money she gave Effie. She poured out their coffee and set the cups on a tray with the cream pitcher. The sugar bowl stayed on the table next to the spoon holder, so she needn’t worry about that. As she entered the dining room with the tray, Effie fixed her malevolent eyes on Sally.

“He does. Mark Paynter. He owns a cattle ranch.” Sally was proud of herself for keeping her voice level, and she hoped they didn’t ask how many cattle Mark owned, as his herd was yet very small. But it would grow and he would prosper, she was sure.

“I suppose he has half-a-dozen unruly children he wants you to raise for him.” Effie’s tone had turned a bit smug.

“Actually, no.” Sally set the cups and saucers carefully onto the tablecloth. “He has been a bachelor up until this time.”

Sally shrugged and managed a slight smile. “I don’t know all his eccentricities, of course, but he is two years older than I am.” Effie opened her mouth again, but Sally said, “I see you’re nearly finished with the main course. I’ve baked an apple pudding, and I’ll bring it in directly.” She tucked the tray under her arm and made herself walk slowly back to the kitchen, though she wanted to flee.

“Apple pudding,” Mr. Winters said behind her. “That sounds very nice. We’ll miss your cooking, Mrs. Golding.”

Sally turned for a moment in the doorway. “Why, thank you, Reverend. It’s kind of you to say so.”

CHAPTER 3

Johnny rose when the first light of dawn crept through the one window in the cabin. Cam still slept on the floor. He had insisted Johnny take his brother’s bed. Johnny stepped over him and tiptoed outside.

The sun was still below the horizon, and the air smelled sweet—breathably cool. He walked slowly around the yard and leaned on the corral fence. His horse and Cam’s came over, gazing at him with large, hopeful eyes. Reckless nickered and snuffled his sleeve.

“Yeah, yeah,” Johnny said. “I’ll put you out in the pasture now.” They hadn’t dared turn out the horses the evening before—not with murderous robbers in the area. Keeping them close was their only defense, short of sleeping outside to guard them, and neither Johnny nor Cam wanted to do that. They’d slept in a house for the first time in weeks.

Johnny opened the gate between the small corral enclosure and the field. The days of open range were gone in Texas, and Mark had fenced quite a chunk of his land. Johnny couldn’t help but be impressed with his brother’s hard work.

He walked slowly behind the barn and up a gentle knoll to the spot Cam had chosen for Mark’s grave. They hadn’t marked it yet, but the newly turned earth showed where Mark lay. Johnny promised himself he would take care of that soon. A cross, at least. Maybe later he could have a stone made, but he was capable of putting together a decent cross and carving Mark’s name on it.

He hauled in a deep breath as he stared at the burial plot. It wasn’t right. Mark had never hurt anyone, and so far as Johnny knew, everybody liked him. It just wasn’t right.

He turned back to the cabin. A few chickens flitted about the barnyard. Johnny approached them carefully and watched where they skittered off to.

Cam was standing in the cabin doorway, stretching, when Johnny ambled across the yard with four eggs in his hat. “What do you reckon?” Cam said.

Johnny shrugged. “I still think we should ride into town and talk to the sheriff.”

“I thought we settled that.” Cam eyed him as if he were a six-year-old. “You’re a wanted man, Johnny. This is a good place for us to lie low. If anyone comes around, we just tell them you’re Mark’s brother, and he’s out tending his stock at the moment.”

“We won’t need to. And if it’ll make you feel better, after a while, we can tell the town folks that Mark died and we buried him. We just won’t say when.”

Johnny let out a long, slow breath. He didn’t like lying, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t legal to dispose of a body without telling the authorities. He looked down into his hat. “I got four eggs.”

A grin split Cam’s tanned face. “Now you’re talking. I’ll bet we can scare up a real breakfast.”

“Do you really think we’re doing the right thing?” he asked as he fried the eggs.

“Seems to me like the only thing we can do.” Cam eyed him keenly. “I thought staying around the Lone Pine would be a big mistake. I still do. And this isn’t such a bad place. No one from Colorado will bother you here.”

Johnny nodded. After all, they had come to Texas at his own suggestion. “It just doesn’t feel right, you know?”

Cam set two forks on the table. “Look, Johnny, I don’t really know what’s best for you. If you really want to turn yourself in, maybe you should, so it won’t eat at you.”

“Of course, there’s no guarantee you’d get a fair trial,” Cam said. “Especially in a place where nobody knows you.”

Johnny broke the yolk on two of the eggs before turning them. He like his cooked firm. What would happen to Mark’s ranch? He was Mark’s only living family, and he figured he was his brother’s heir. But not if he wound up being hung for a murder he didn’t commit. “What would you do if I did go to the law?”

“I don’t know.” Cam rubbed his jaw. “I suppose I’d go looking for a job.”

Johnny blew out a deep breath. They hadn’t found any money in their quick search of the house. Whoever killed Mark must have taken any cash he’d had. The supplies were minimal. If he and Cam stayed on, they’d have to go to town soon. But the small herd of cattle—mostly breeding cows and their calves—looked healthy. Besides that, Mark had provided a sturdy cabin; a small garden growing out back, though most of the plants were beginning to die off; and a flock of chickens scratching about the yard. Increasingly, keeping his head down made more sense. The two of them had everything they needed, and nobody would look for them here. No one in Texas knew about the killing. There was no reason to keep running.

The eggs were done, along with what bacon they’d had left in their saddlebags. Johnny took the frying pan over to the table, where Cam had set two plates and was pouring milk, their one plentiful commodity, into the only cups they’d found—one tin cup and a thick, ironstone mug.

“Nothing. You’re right. We’ll need some other stuff, too. And you’re right that we don’t have much money.”

They sat down and began to eat. After his eggs and bacon had disappeared, Cam said, “So, what do you think? I’ll go along with whatever you decide.”

Johnny clenched his jaw for a moment. “I reckon we should either stay here or keep moving. I’m sort of leaning toward staying.”

Cam nodded. “The way I see it, we’re broke, but we’d be worse off if we tried to move on.”

“Guess so.” Johnny picked up his last piece of bacon. “I reckon we can stay a few days, anyhow. Sort things out. Let Reckless rest his foot.”

Johnny didn’t like it. Yes, Mark was dead, but did he have a right to sell off his brother’s property? Next Cam would want to sell the whole ranch.

“Right. We may wind up eating those cattle.” Cam rose and took his dishes to the worktable and set them in the empty dishpan with a clatter.

Johnny leaned back in his chair while he chewed the bacon and thought over their situation. “Cam, I’d like to clear my name in Denver, but I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Likely not, unless you could show ’em something that would prove someone else killed Red Howell.”

“You can’t. Seems to me, disappearing is still the best solution, like you said. And here, you can ease into the countryside. We can work this ranch and make it pay, like Mark wanted.” Cam eyed him closely. “We can do it, Johnny. I know we can.”

Johnny tried to make that fit over his grief, but the hard knot still sat in his chest. Having a small ranch of his own was every cowpuncher’s dream. But building up Mark’s ranch wouldn’t bring him back, and hiding from the law to do it… He tried to push that thought away. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

Cam joined him and puttered about the barn, taking stock of their new assets. When Johnny had milked the cow, he let Cam turn her out while he carried the bucket of milk to the house. He set it in a corner with a dish towel draped over it. Mark must have had a springhouse, or a root cellar. Or maybe he kept things like milk down the well to keep them cool. He would have to explore those possibilities.

He noticed a drawer on the front of the worktable. He and Cam had missed it last night. Johnny pulled it open. A jumble of small items lay inside, and he took them out, one by one, in the dimness and held them up toward the window.