Chapter 3

The view from the saddle was like nothing else. I sat higher, looking over the world as if a king—watching between two black, upright ears.

From where I sat atop Raven’s back, the world was white. I looked into the valley where my land stretched along the frozen James River. One hundred sixty acres, with a copse of trees along the north and south edges, a field I planted in the spring to the north of my barn, and a one-hundred-acre horse pasture to the south. Between the two fields was a lane bordered by a split-rail fence, my favorite part of the land.

I wasn’t ashamed to admit I was leaving my property and traveling five miles to Mitchell just so I could talk with Anna.

Or maybe it was the food. I was tired of beans. Beans and bacon.

Two weeks ago the boys had been reunited with their parents.

Andrew had survived the night and was hungry. I learned a few days later he lost two toes. Not important ones, I was told. They all seemed important to me.

The boys were lucky to be alive. Their fathers talked of children crawling home, their faces masked with ice, only a small hole visible for breathing. Most had made it home, all of them from the Hutterite school. Not all schools had been as fortunate.

In my barn, the fathers had thanked me for saving their boys’ lives. We would talk about an option to buy the land on the other side of the river in the spring as a token of their appreciation.

The mothers had made me two pies each which made ten pies, a good portion of which were rhubarb. Pie. Ugh. Rhubarb especially. But I took them with all proper appreciation, and now they sat almost frozen in the tack stall. I sat up in the saddle. No, that’s not true. I left Trevor in the barn.

I thought of going back. No. He earned himself a pie. Ten pies.

Spring couldn’t get here soon enough. Horse training, wheat planting, land clearing, cabin building—I simply loved this land. The work, the animals, the river, the field filled with buffalo grass and blue grama so perfect for my horses. I couldn’t wait to be back to it.

And now Anna would have a hand in building a cabin, a home she would live in someday.

Raven tapped the snow with her sock-covered front foot, feeling my surge of eager energy.

I tugged the reins toward Mitchell, and we started along the top of the ravine where the road to town should be.

Raven’s hooves punched through the top layer of ice-crusted snow. The sun was thinly veiled by a high layer of clouds, but I still squinted as the light reflected off an eternity of snow. Ice crystals fell, filling the air with a clean, frozen scent.

My Smith and Wesson bounced at my side under my duster. Behind me, saddle bags jostled as Raven pressed on. I’d decided to bring ammunition with me wherever I went, as well as a handy Colt .45 single action. My Winchester rested in its scabbard by my knee.

I wanted to add a tomahawk or bow and quiver of arrows, perhaps even a Gatling gun. At some point, I needed to trust God that my weapon at my hip was enough protection, so I drew the line. A rapid repeater Gatling gun was high on my purchase agenda though. When I bought it, I’d even let Anna shoot it.

Heavily armed as I was, I knew I was only as protected as my eyes and fingers were ready. I kept a steady lookout.

Raven recognized the buildings as we rode into town. She blew a long cloud of mist, then chomped on her bit.

She enjoyed the ride almost as much as I did.

Months ago I decided Raven wasn’t to be tied outside a business. For a dime she could be housed in a livery for a few hours. The expense would not only keep her warm but keep her hidden. I didn’t need everyone in town knowing my location.

I dismounted at the long barn and caught the reins. I pulled her to the sliding door and tugged. The rollers above gave way, and we slipped inside and closed the door. Several horses whinnied as I let my eyes adjust to the light.

“Mr. Anderson.” The boy’s voice came from a distance, and his footsteps padded across straw and dirt. “This snow.”

“I know. It’s been a while since I’ve made it to town.”

“Glad to see Raven is well. Sir,” he added quickly.

“Of course she is, Devin.” With one hand I gave him a dime. With the other I gave him the reins. “Why?”

“Lot of people lost their cattle in the storm. Hooves froze to the ground. Then their legs just”—he dropped the reins and snapped his fingers—“broke right off.” He picked up the leather strips.

I tried to hide my revulsion. “Awful. But no, my horses are in fine shape.”

He led Raven toward the stall. The livery smelled a lot like my barn—straw and manure. Comforting, really.

“And Devin, last time I brought Raven in you gave her a rubdown. I hadn’t paid for that. Here’s a nickel.”

“Please, sir, no. It’s an honor. Really it is.”

“An honor?”

He turned and looked around Raven’s belly. “Since you’ve been bringing Raven here, our business has nearly doubled.”

“Doubled? Why?”

“You’re a hero, if you don’t mind me saying, sir. Yes, a hero.” He wiped his berry-red nose with his sleeve. “And if you bring the likes of Raven here, well then sir, we must be the best.”

Raven whinnied, and the other horses answered as if there was some sort of joke. In the daylight that streamed through the cracks in the livery walls, I could see the admiration shining from the boy’s face.

I should try and live up to his dreams. Instead I asked, “Devin, how old are you?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“Well, it’s time someone told you. There’s no such thing as heroes.” I reached into the saddlebag, pulled out a small leather pouch, and slid it into my duster pocket.

I vaguely recalled that if I were twelve and someone told me something so ludicrous, the comment would simply fly past my ears. As proof, his beaming face changed none at all.

I bit my irritation back like Raven chewed her bit.

“Have a good day, Devin.” I tipped my hat.

“Wait. Wait! I forgot.” He dropped Raven’s reins and dashed off to a small office beside the sliding barn door. In two seconds he returned at a run with an envelope in his hand. “Colin said someone left this for you in case you came back into town.” He held out the small rectangle-shaped paper.

Before I took it, I smelled perfume. “A woman?”

“He didn’t say.”

The letter wasn’t sealed, so I lifted the flap. A small page was imprinted with flowers. In the center, scribbled in black ink, were the words I’m sorry. The writing looked like a child’s handiwork. I turned the paper over but found no other words.

I stuffed the note in my pocket and nodded my thanks to Devin.

Who could have sent the letter? A man wouldn’t send a note of apology. And Anna’s handwriting was beautiful, not childish. I didn’t know many more women, especially ones who would write me a note.

Beth, Anna’s younger sister? What could Beth possibly be sorry for?

My steps in the snow crunched faster.

What about Becky, my best friend Scott’s girl? Seemed unlikely.

Rachel? I’d helped her leave a life of prostitution, and she’d taken over Caroline’s Kitchen just after Caroline died. Hadn’t she come from a family that had supplied her with education enough for better handwriting?

Between the two best possibilities, Beth and Rachel, Rachel’s past held the most to be sorry for. Anyway, pointless speculation. Time to move on. Hopefully the reason for the apology was simple, like she changed the name of Caroline’s Kitchen or something.

I rushed across the packed snow of First Street, took a right past Wilkes Bank onto Main. The history I had with the Wilkes family made me shiver.

Every breath came in large puffs, and I stepped through the vapor. I hurried down the wide street then turned toward a side road until reaching the restaurant. The large, red sign had been swept free of snow. Caroline’s Kitchen. Not a name change.

I stepped onto the brushed boardwalk and grasped the knob. I pulled and was met by a blast of warmth and the smell of roasting chicken.

I took in the scene as I unbuttoned my duster. The orange glow of lamplight splashed against the wood-paneled walls and twelve tables—six on each side, two with families. I recognized both as acquaintances.

I scanned the back table where my old buddy Leroy always sat to the right of the door to the kitchen.

Scott’s red hair caught my eye first, and his back was to the door. His girl Becky sat next to him, her blond hair bouncing as she turned to look at me. Leroy’s grizzled face squeezed tight, and he squinted as I stepped in the door.

My gaze leveled at the man standing beside the table.

Ryan, one of Jacob Wilkes’s chosen men.

At night as I lay down, my back still stung. My jaw twitched in every storm. The bruises on my stomach had taken six months to fade.

Ryan’s face flashed through my mind every time my body ached. The beatings this man delivered could never be forgotten.

His massive form towered over my friends. He held a shotgun in both hands.

My hands were a blur as I leveled the Smith and Wesson at Ryan. “Drop the gun, now!”

Both families ducked under the table, their chairs falling over like trees in a tornado. Screams mixed with the crash of dishes.

Ryan turned toward me as slowly as the second hand of a clock.

I pulled back the hammer. “Drop the gun!”

His red lips—so thin I barely made them out—opened wide, his bottom jaw protruding just half an inch from his top lip. His tiny, dark brown eyes held a look of confusion.

City Marshal Stone had put out a warrant for Jacob, Ryan, and Jeb, insisting shoot on sight if armed.

If the muzzle of his shotgun moved one inch closer, I would fire. And not into his shoulders like I had John Maxwell. At this distance, I could send him to eternal judgment in the fiery pits of hell. Similar, no doubt, to the hell he’d made my life.

My finger twitched. Not enough to drop the hammer on his death.

Scott held out a hand. “Philip, no!”

Rachel stepped into the kitchen doorway in Ryan’s shadow. He was a massive man, but I couldn’t take the risk of firing now. A lesson from the man who taught me to shoot flashed through my mind. Bullets pass through men and kill what’s beyond them. I kept my revolver pointed at his heart.

I held my fire.

“No, Philip, please!” Rachel sobbed. “Don’t kill him!”

My gun quavered. What was this?

Scott stood slowly, both hands held out, palms forward. “Philip, he’s one of ours.”

I squeezed my lips together and stared down the sights of my revolver at Ryan. It wasn’t often you had a mortal enemy facing the barrel of your gun and you didn’t fire.

“Ryan,” Scott said. “Lower the shotgun. Slowly.”

Ryan’s eyes, dull and unthinking, looked from my face to the Smith and Wesson. His mouth still hung open.

Rachel’s voice was shrill. “Philip! I love him!”

The world swirled around me as I stood still. Love him? Jacob’s second? Ridiculous.

Ryan stood unmoving, his features bulging, his idiot expression incapable of love.

Red curled around my mind as I pressed on the trigger. Ask forgiveness instead of permission. Deal with consequences later.

Danger always offered a vision. So why wasn’t my mind filled with the vision of my parents’ deaths?

I leveled my gaze into Ryan’s eyes and saw nothing. No fear. Not even worry. “He stabbed you, Rachel.”

“No, that was Jeb, remember?”

“Anna shot him!” I motioned with my left hand. “In self-defense!”

“Philip, please!” Rachel grasped Ryan’s arm and pulled herself in front of him so that my aim was between her eyes. “Please, just listen.”

I lifted the muzzle toward his forehead. “He must answer for his crimes.”

Ryan moved almost imperceptibly toward the table. With a hand on the barrel and his other on Rachel’s shoulder, he handed his shotgun to Scott.

A child at my feet whimpered.

I pointed my gun to the ceiling and slowly lowered the hammer.

Dear God. What have I done? What have I become?

While the families skirted past me as fast as they could, I holstered the gun. A burst of cold air hit my back as the frightened men and women escaped with their children.

Two emotions battled inside my gut. The first was shame. But more overpowering was the feeling I’d been stabbed in the back.

Betrayed.

I was about to turn and leave when Ryan finally opened his mouth. “Sent you a note.” His voice was flat and a little scratchy.

“What are you talking about?” I returned with a snarl.

“A note.” He nodded like a small child several times.

His clay-colored hair, thick sideburns, untrimmed brows, and neckless body made me shiver with revulsion. I knew—yes—the note, but I wouldn’t acknowledge the two words he sent me. “You’re a killer.”

No one moved. I looked into their pleading eyes, first Scott, then Becky, Leroy, and finally Rachel. Rachel, who had been a prostitute. And now it seemed she’d fallen into the same trap. “You love him? This . . . this killer?”

Her blotchy face didn’t turn from mine, but her thick lips quivered. “Yes.”

“Fine. He’s yours.”

As I turned to leave, I heard her burst into tears.

I heard boots come after me, not heavy like Ryan’s, but the quick, light pad of Scott. I heard his order for Becky to find Anna before I slammed the door behind me.

Outside in the cold on the street, my best friend faced me. “You won’t even give us a chance to explain.”

“Explain?” His finger against my chest made me want to break his bones. “Scott, your loyalty is . . . is pathetic.”

He pointed toward the restaurant. “You weren’t here. You can’t know.”

“What is there to know? He’s made his camp. He sits at Jacob’s fire.”

“He’s misdirected.”

“Has this whole town gone crazy? He’s a murderer. He’s supposed to be in jail,” I yelled, but the snow around us muffled my voice.

“Or have you been on that farm too long?” Scott’s face was bright with a mixture of anger and cold. “You won’t let anyone explain!”

“I don’t need anyone to explain.” As soon as the words slipped from my mouth, I knew I was being thickheaded. But the fire in my brisket burned too hot for me to back down. He should be in jail! I looked away.

Scott took advantage of my averted gaze, obviously taking my embarrassment as a sign he was getting through to me. He stood on the boardwalk so that he was tall enough to look directly into my eyes. “Look, Philip, I’m not mad at you. I see your point. Yeah, things changed fast here. But you’re not alone anymore, buddy. Remember when it was just you and me in the field shooting cans and talking about women? Those days are over. You’re famous. And I’m involved in law. People look up to us now. We need to watch each other’s backs like never before.”

I grunted.

“Philip, you’re a hero now.” He patted my shoulder and grinned. “Not all are born heroes like me.”

I set my boot on the boardwalk and leaned on the rail. I let loose a long breath, and the vapor looked like I just loosed a draw from a cigar.

With my boot I cleared snow from the edge. “Did I make a fool of myself?”

“Yeah, this time you did. The Jacksons and the Millers—”

“I’ll buy them a month of meals.” I leaned both arms on the rails and looked at the door of the restaurant.

“Good, good.” Scott settled by my side. “And keep in mind, they weren’t the only ones in there. I was a victim—”

“I’m not buying you free meals.” But why not? I had money—lots of it—from hunting down the Maxwell Gang. “Perhaps one wouldn’t hurt.” I took another breath, pushing out the anger that had threatened to turn to violence. “This isn’t easy, you know. I just want to be left alone.”

“Maybe someday you will. But for now, you’ll need everyone on your side. As many people as you can get.” He nodded toward the restaurant’s door. “It’s not easy taking advice, especially when you’re a leader who doesn’t want to be in charge.”

A leader who doesn’t want to be. His words echoed through my mind.

Footsteps on the end of the boardwalk caught my attention. Not a man’s, but a feminine, soft step. Anna.

She wore a tan coat that draped from her neck to her boots. Long buttons closed the fabric across her chest, and a clasp lay close to her neck. A warm hat framed her wide cheeks, raven hair, and bright blue eyes.

Our gazes locked. “Philip, are you all right?”

“I am now.” All my anger was gone, replaced with a desire to be with Anna. I was pathetic. In love and confused. “I . . .”

Down the street, five people walked into the empty lane. One man entered a store as I heard the sound of a bell. Across the street, an older woman and a tall, young man—probably her son—shuffled to Gale’s Market. Another man marched down the street, his hands in his pockets.

None of them worried me.

What caught my eye was the thin man with his head wrapped in a linen cloth. His hat set atop, heavy coat wrapped loosely around him, and tattered pants hanging over his boots. His walk was direct, as if he were motivated for more than shopping.

His hand reached into his coat.

“Anna, Scott, inside now.” I unbuttoned the bottom half buttons on my duster.

As I barked the order, both listened.

Anna was inside first, but Scott lingered. “What?”

“That man.”

Scott glanced back. His voice was colder than the air. “Philip. That’s Jeb.”

Recognition filled me. With Ryan inside and Jeb outside, my trust wavered. I didn’t want to take chances. “Jeb in love with anyone?”

“No, he’s not ours.”

“Keep an eye on Ryan.”

“Yeah.” The door closed.

Was Jeb returning to kill Rachel? Or perhaps to find me? Everyone knew I loved hanging out at Caroline’s.

Jeb and Ryan. All we needed was Jacob and the reunion would be complete.

I took a step away from the restaurant, my Smith and Wesson within easy reach.

Jeb slowed.

The high clouds, the snowy streets, the muffled sounds of distant horses and wagons moved to the recesses of my mind. Night pushed into my head, a familiar vision. My father sat reading by the fire while my mother cooked. I could smell the food on the warm, gentle wind.

Three outlaws entered our camp.

Jeb took a few steps closer, this time halting then moving closer.

The robber asked for the box.

My fingers tingled. Buffalo grass swayed around me as the moon’s light bathed the covered wagon in a silver glow to my left.

“We’ve no money,” my father replied.

Almost time to pull my gun.

“Anderson!” Jeb’s voice cut through the vision. “Philip Anderson!”

The snow-covered street with the lone figure of Jeb filled my vision. His hand was still in his coat pocket.

My fingers hovered over my gun.

He was close now, and I made out his gray, oily hair. Thick wrinkles ran contrary to laugh lines, and tobacco stained his scraggly beard.

The frigid air was still, but the ten feet between Jeb and me felt like a whirlwind of snow and fire.

I took a few steps to my left, each stride crunching under my boots, and stopped in the middle of the street. Bullets that passed by me might hit someone. But I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

A few onlookers paused on the boardwalk.

My hips shifted so my gun was visible.

I was lean, my eyes the color of a wolf’s, and I was five inches taller than Jeb. I used all of it to intimidate him. “Come down to the jail house.”

His eye twitched. “Been doing some thinking.” He shook his head slightly. “They’re going to hang me if I come with you.”

“Probably.”

“I don’t see any other way.”

“You don’t have to do this, Jeb.”

“I’m open for suggestions.”

In the cold light of reason, Ryan could be on the streets as a citizen. His crimes were typical of a brawler. But Jeb had brutally stabbed Rachel. And I believed he shot and killed the security guard in the Wilkes Bank. The man would hang.

“See,” he said in a slow drawl. “There’s nothing for it ‘cept going down into history.”

His hand twitched and his coat moved at the pocket. I almost drew.

A figure appeared to the right, just inside the window of the mercantile. The only man I knew who could be that big was Ryan. In the shimmer of the reflected light, I made out his shotgun. The barrel was pointed at Jeb. He must have gone around through the alley to flank Jeb.

The door opened without a sound, and Ryan stepped onto the boardwalk.

Was I facing two men? Or was Jeb?

Ryan started for Jeb across the snow. The big man was quiet, his feet barely making a sound. I had to give him some credit.

Jeb turned to see what I glanced at.

“Jeb,” I said quickly before he saw Ryan. “Take your chances in the courts.”

He turned his attention back to me. “I’ll hang.”

“I stood before a judge and didn’t hang.”

Ryan moved closer.

My hand hovered so close to my gun, I could almost feel the grip. “Give it a chance. Choose honor.”

Jeb stared at me for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Honor?”

Ryan lifted his shotgun and brought the stock down. Jeb crumpled in a heap.

Fire burned in Ryan’s eyes, but his face remain placid.

“Ryan, do me a favor and lay your shotgun down.”

He looked at me then took off his coat, shifting the shotgun from one hand to the other. He wrapped the gun and set it in the snow. “They say . . .” He licked his lips. “They say you can’t get a gun wet.”

“They also say don’t wet your lips in freezing weather.” With Smith and Wesson in hand, I pushed Jeb’s shoulder, and he slumped back. His head rolled to the side.

With my left hand, I searched his coat pocket. Empty. Interesting.

I felt around his waist, his chest, his legs. Nothing.

I looked up at Ryan, who seemed to watch with interest. “He’s unarmed.”

“Sometimes. He keeps a knife. In his boot.” He pointed. “That one.”

After finding nothing, I rocked back on my heels. “I don’t get it.”

“He never went without a gun. Never.”

Still hunched, I said, “I can imagine.” With the barrel of my gun, I pushed my hat back so I could get a better look at Ryan. “I’ve got to tell you, I don’t trust you. I don’t want to trust you. You and this guy,” I motioned to Jeb, “go together in my mind. If I ever, ever get a whiff that you might hurt one of my friends, even if you say something to hurt their feelings, I’ll kill you. You said you were sorry. Well, I don’t forgive you. I want to kill you.”

“You didn’t kill Jeb.”

I opened my mouth to respond to such a bland, stupid statement, then shut my mouth. “Yeah. I didn’t kill Jeb.”

What was going on? Why would Jeb face me unarmed, as if he wanted me to shoot him? What kind of man walked to his death so that another simply looks guilty?