CHAPTER 35

We could pick off some of the men.” Trudy jerked her bonnet back and let it slide down her back. She itched to do something. Studying the scene before them, she made a few mental calculations. “Dr. Kincaid and Libby and me. Bitsy, too. I’m sure we could get that one behind the wagon, and maybe the one peeking around the side of the house. There’s got to be two or three more men in the house, though.”

“Patience.” Ethan kept his eyes on the three horsemen and the people standing before the ranch house below. From the length of the lane, he could make out the figures near the house but couldn’t hear what was said.

Kenton whirled around, spoke to one of his men, then faced Cyrus and his friends and fired a bullet. Dust plumed near the horses’ feet. All three horses jumped. Griffin’s bucked and dumped the big blacksmith in a heap on the ground. Hiram’s bay turned completely around and lunged a few steps away from Kenton, but Hiram quickly got him under control and brought him around to approach Griffin. Fennel’s roan, meanwhile, turned and tore away from the gunman, straight toward where Ethan, Trudy, and Libby watched.

Cyrus never looked back until he reached them. He pulled the roan in and glared at Ethan. “He wants the money now. And he knows you’re up here. The men saw you.”

“If they know I’m here, I guess it won’t matter if I go help Hiram.” Ethan ran to his paint gelding and mounted.

Cyrus turned his horse and looked back, down the slight decline toward the ranch house. Griffin slowly rose with Hiram supporting him and limped to where his horse stood, grabbing a mouthful of pale grass.

“What happened?” Cyrus asked.

Trudy scowled at him. Trust Cyrus to think of himself first and everyone else last. “Griff’s horse dumped him when Kenton fired.”

“He’s not shot, is he?”

“How should we know? At least he’s alive.”

Dr. Kincaid came running from his post along the fence row.

“Is Mr. Bane hurt?”

“Don’t know,” Trudy said. “Hiram’s helping him get on his horse. Just wait here, and we’ll see.”

Ethan had reached the other two now and dismounted to help boost the huge blacksmith onto his horse. The gelding was skittish, but Hiram held his head firmly while Ethan loaned his shoulder and a shove. Griffin rose in the stirrup and swung his right leg gingerly over the saddle.

“Looks like his arm’s hurt,” Libby noted.

“Yes.” Dr. Kincaid gritted his teeth. “Maybe I should go and meet them.”

“No, wait here,” Trudy said. “Let them come to you, out of range of those roughnecks.”

Griffin’s horse came toward them at a choppy walk, lifting each hoof high and fighting the bit. Griff held the reins in his right hand and let his left arm dangle at his side. His dark beard was coated in dust, and he held his mouth in a grimace as the horse’s steps jostled him.

Hiram and Ethan mounted and trotted up on either side of the gray horse. After a moment, Ethan left Hiram and Griff behind and cantered toward the watchers.

He pulled his pinto in when he reached them and hopped to the ground. “Doc, Griff thinks his arm’s broken.”

Trudy exhaled heavily. “Didn’t think Kenton shot him, but it was hard to tell from here.”

“Hiram says Kenton fired to scare them, but it worked too well, and Griff’s horse threw him.”

“I’ll tend to him.” Doc looked around. “I’ll have him lie down in the shade of that tree.”

“Maybe you should take him back to town in one of the wagons,” Ethan said.

Trudy shook her head. “Griff won’t want to go.”

Rose came running from her observation post, her pink and white skirts swaying. “Doctor, is there anything I can do to help?” She fluttered her lashes at him, but the gesture was lost on Dr. Kincaid as he strode toward his horse.

“Perhaps so, Mrs. Caplinger. I may be able to use an assistant.”

Rose smiled triumphantly at Trudy and Libby before scurrying off after him.

Hiram and Griffin topped the rise, and Ethan and Cyrus went to help Griffin dismount.

“I’m sorry, Bane,” Cyrus said as the big man slid from the saddle with a moan. “Didn’t realize you’d gone down.”

Trudy went to her brother’s side. “You all right, Hi?”

He nodded.

Ethan stood close to Griffin so the bigger man could lean on him. “Where you want to sit, Griff?”

“Doc says to put him in the shade over there.” Trudy pointed.

The men hobbled off together toward one of the few scrubby trees in the fencerow.

Libby stepped closer and eyed Hiram. She said nothing, but a glance passed between them that almost made Trudy blush. Her curiosity drew her gaze to Hiram’s face.

He lifted his hat, wiped his brow with his cuff, and put his hat back. “I’m fine, ladies. Wish I could say the same about Griff and Miss Isabel. But I’m just fine.”

“Is Isabel hurt?” Libby asked.

“Don’t think so. But she looked like death.”

Trudy reached for his elbow. “Maybe you should sit in the shade, too.” She flicked a glance at Libby. “I’m sure Libby could find something for you to drink. I saw Annie passing a jug of water.”

“No time,” Hiram said. “We got to help Cy raise some cash. That or put some pressure on Kenton and his men.”

Libby cleared her throat. “I wasn’t in on the discussion when Cyrus told you about Mr. Smith’s demands, but … I could lend him some money.”

“Before sundown?” Trudy stared at her friend. “He needs fourteen thousand dollars.”

Libby cleared her throat and shot a glance at Hiram. “Well, I don’t have that much, of course, but I have”—she leaned toward them and dropped her voice—“about two thousand in my safe. I was planning to send most of it to the bank in Boise City by this afternoon’s stagecoach.”

Trudy tried not to let her eyes bug out. She’d always known Libby had a good income from the Paragon Emporium, but she would never have guessed she had that much cash on hand at any given time. How would this knowledge affect Hiram’s feelings toward her?

Hiram cleared his throat. “If you want to offer that as a loan to Cyrus, it might help him some. And I’d be willing to escort you in to town to fetch it if you decide to do that.”

Libby’s sweet smile beamed for Hiram. “Thank you. That’s kind of you. I would certainly want an escort I could count on.”

Trudy saw that ardent look in Hiram’s eyes—almost the same intent look Ethan had for her when he moved in to kiss her. She gulped.

“Why don’t I fetch Cyrus so you can ask him if he thinks that would help?”

Isabel cowered against the wall farthest from the four men in the kitchen and rubbed her sore wrist. Eli Button had bruised her when he took her outside. Now he slouched against the front window frame, watching the lane. Kenton and two of the cowboys lolled at the table, playing cards.

“What if he don’t bring you your money by suppertime?” asked the one they called Buck.

“He’d better.” Kenton glanced her way. “Get on with the cooking, girl. We’re powerful hungry.”

“Yeah,” said Eli. “We ain’t had no woman’s cooking for weeks and weeks.”

She moved along the wall, keeping her distance, until she reached the work area. It consisted of a rough bench at waist height and a small heating stove with a flat top. No oven. No dry sink—just a dishpan and a bucket of water with a tin dipper floating in it. Dirty dishes lay strewn on every flat surface.

She rolled up her sleeves. This is just like at home. Fixing dinner for Papa.

Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. This was nothing like home, and these men had nothing in common with her father. She blinked back tears and looked about in vain for an apron. If only she could go back to the big, airy kitchen at home and clean up the dirty dishes she’d left last night. Could Papa ever forgive her for her outburst? His face had been like stone today as he’d gazed at her across the yard.

He’d come this morning and then gone away for an hour or two. Why hadn’t he returned with the money Uncle Kenton wanted? Had he truly tried to raise it without success? Or didn’t he intend to pay? Didn’t he care about her?

And Griffin Bane had been with him, of all the odd things. He and Hiram Dooley had accompanied her father. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. One of the ruffians had said they observed more men at a distance. So Griffin’s appearance didn’t necessarily mean he cared about her. She suspected the ladies of the shooting club harbored stronger feelings for her than the blacksmith did. For once, she didn’t care.

She opened a crock that sat on the floor beneath the bench. Wheat flour. Another held rolled oats. Methodically, she surveyed the jars and tins on the bench. Nothing fancy, but she could make a bean soup and biscuits. She set a pan of dry beans to soak. Lifting the heavy kettle made her wrist ache.

Behind her the men began to bicker over the card game. She looked at them, and one of the cowboys caught her glance and grinned. He winked with a leering eye. She shuddered and turned away.

How could Papa owe Uncle Kenton so much money? He was asking for a fortune. Papa had a lot of property, and he never seemed to lack for cash, but surely he didn’t have that much. Suppose Uncle Kenton was lying?

She went to the stove and opened the door. Ashes and charcoal filled the bottom of the firebox.

“You ain’t going to light a fire, are you?” asked Buck. “It’s hot enough in here already.”

True, the day promised to be a scorcher. The gloomy log house offered some shelter, and Isabel had found it much cooler inside than out when Eli Button had pushed her back through the door.

She straightened and looked over at the card players. “How else do you expect me to cook?”

Uncle Kenton dealt the dog-eared cards rapidly. “Leave her alone. I’m hungry.”

“Well, make it a little fire,” Buck muttered, picking up his hand.

“Ain’t there a fire ring out back where Sammy cooks sometimes?”

“Shut up, Red. I don’t want her outside where they can see her.” Uncle Kenton leaned back and studied his cards.

The man with carroty hair scowled but said no more on the matter. She found only a few sticks of wood in the box by the stove. No one offered to fetch her any kindling. She cleared her throat.

“Would there be more firewood about?”

“In the lean-to.” Kenton nodded toward the door at the back of the room. “Eli, go with her.”

“Thought you wanted me to keep guard.”

Kenton swore and shoved his chair back, scraping the floor. Isabel’s pulse pounded. She shrank toward the back door.

“Go on,” he snarled. “I’m right behind you. Let’s have some of that pie you served me and your daddy.”

She gulped. “I’d need mincemeat. Do you have—”

“No, we ain’t got mincemeat. I shoulda had the boys raid your larder when they grabbed you. Get moving.” He nodded toward the door.

Isabel turned and walked the three steps to the door made of weathered boards. She swung it open and peered into the lean-to. A stack of firewood on one side of the door reached to her waist. Straight ahead was daylight. She could see part of the corral, and a ways from the house, where the land sloped sharply upward, a dilapidated outhouse.

“Quit lollygaggin’.”

She chose an armful of sticks from the woodpile and carried them past him, back into the kitchen. It would be a shame to heat up the place.

She dropped her load into the wood box and moved a crusty frying pan, a tin cup, a filthy towel, and a box of shotgun shells from the top of the stove to the workbench and knelt on the rough board floor. At least they had matches handy. When the kindling caught, she put a few sticks in and closed the stove door. The men ignored her as she bustled about to start a pot of coffee and get their dinner cooking.

At the back of the bench, she found a jug of molasses. A golden powder half filled a small, unmarked tin. When she sniffed it, her nose tickled. Ginger. She was halfway to a pan of gingerbread. Baking powder? Hmm. She poked about, setting dirty dishes into the dishpan. She’d probably have to wash those or the men wouldn’t have plates enough to go around. She picked up the box of shotgun shells. Uncle Kenton apparently kept his supply of ammunition on a shelf beyond the table. If the boxes there were full, these men were prepared for a fight—or a siege.

“Hey, boss.” Eli turned from the window. “Sammy’s coming—”

The front door burst open. “Mr. Smith!”

“Right here, Sam.” Uncle Kenton folded his cards and laid them facedown on the table. “What’s the matter?”

“You know you told me and Chub to watch the hills out back?”

“Sure did. So why ain’t you out there?”

“‘Cause I seen people up there. With guns.”

“Whyn’t you come in the back door then?”

Sammy spit on the floor. “I didn’t want to get shot at.”

Uncle Kenton and the other two cowboys stood. “They’s that close?” Red asked.

Sammy nodded. “Looked to me like they was sneaking closer. Wilfred’s still out near the barn watching ‘em, and Chub’s out beside the wagon. I told them I’d come in and report to you.”

“Those men out near the road are still there, too,” Eli said from beside the window.

Kenton strode to his position and peered out. “You mean to tell me Cyrus ain’t gone to get the money?”

“I don’t know if he went or not,” Eli said, “but there’s somebody out there. I keep seein’ ‘em move.”

Buck went to a corner and lifted his rifle. “Maybe the whole town is having another play party.”

Isabel’s heart leaped. Had the sheriff raised a posse to get her back? How many members of the Ladies’ Shooting Club were out there right now, prepared to defend her? She surely would hate it if anyone got hurt helping her.

The men crowded around the one small window, all trying to get a better view. In the momentary silence, the fire in the stove crackled. Isabel jumped.

A stray thought took root in her mind. She glanced at the men with their backs to her. She reached across the workbench and opened the cartridge box. A half dozen shells stood inside it. She tucked them into the pocket of her skirt and closed the box.

“You think they’ve got us outgunned?” Eli sounded worried. Maybe he was thinking about the shooting match in the schoolyard.

Isabel tiptoed to the stove and opened the door. The men paid no attention. The fire had taken hold and had begun to burn down. She tossed a couple more sticks in.

“Uncle Kenton?”

“What do you want, girl?” He had a rifle in his hands now and was easing the front door open a crack.

“I need to use the necessary.” She fingered the shells in her pocket and held her breath.

“What? Oh. Not now!”

Isabel swallowed hard. She thought of how little Millie Pooler’s plaintive wail always got to her during school. “But I have to go, Uncle Kenton.”

He turned and glared at her. “This ain’t a good time, Isabel.”

“I don’t think I can wait.” Her face flushed. Bad enough if it were true, but she’d never made a habit of lying.

“Sammy, take her out there. Watch yourself. And then resume your post.”

Quickly, Isabel pulled out a handful of shotgun shells and tossed them into the firebox behind the cover of the stove door. She slammed it shut and stepped away.

“All right, let’s move,” Sammy said, waving his gun barrel toward the back door.

Gladly, Isabel scurried to the lean-to. When they’d left its cover and stepped into the open, she wondered if she’d done something wrong. Hiram Dooley had made it sound like you only had to drop the bullets into the stove and—

Behind them, gunfire erupted inside the house. Without looking back, Isabel lifted her skirt and ran for the outhouse.