When Saul went home to check on Rachael and the boys, he found the children racing around the hardware store playing cowboys and wild Indians, and Rachael up, fully dressed, and opening the register for the day.
“Rachael!” he said, shocked. “Are you feeling well enough already?”
“And shouldn’t I be the judge of that?” she replied. “I’m feeling fresh as a daisy, thank you, Saul. Don’t you think you should turn the sign on the door around?”
“Certainly, certainly,” he said, while he flipped the CLOSED sign around to OPEN. Was this the same Rachael he’d left this morning, still giddily half out of her mind on Morelli’s potion and wobbling between consciousness and sleep?
“And?”
“And what, my dearest?”
“And what has brought on this rapid recovery? This morning, you were—”
She smiled as one of the boys dove between her feet and crawled out the other side of her skirt. “Not well. I know. But Dr. Morelli brought me the excellent news, and I suddenly felt so much better!”
“The excellent news? Rachael, talk English!”
Rachael cocked a hand on her hip and shook her head. “About Jason and the Apache. And you, my brave, brave Saul. Jason has the whole town to pick from, and it’s my Saul he chooses to watch his back. I ask you, could I be more proud?”
It was Saul’s turn to shake his head. “As long as I live, Rachael, I will never understand women.”
She took the few steps to bring her around the counter and face-to-face with him. She touched his face. “And aren’t you glad of that, my Sauly?”
Quickly, she rose on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then went back behind the counter again, leaving him almost sputtering with embarrassment and surprise. She was usually so reticent!
“In front of the boys, Rachael?” he hissed.
“It was a kiss that started each of them,” she chided, smiling softly. “And a kiss that will start the next one, when I’m healed. When time has passed.”
Saul’s shoulders hunched momentarily. “But do you think…?” He sighed. Didn’t she recall that this last fruitless delivery had very nearly killed her? “Women…”
“And what would you do without us, Saul?”
He sat on the nearest nail keg. “Live long, prosperous, worry-free lives, I’m guessing?”
She puckered her lips and shook her head. “Oh, Saul. You’d be unwashed, poorly fed, and very badly tempered.”
“True, as usual,” he said with a sigh.
She smiled. “Of course.”
Colorado Gooding, well enough to be on his feet with the aid of a single crutch, navigated the crowded aisle of the livery and stepped out into the fresh air. Once in the clear, he took a deep breath and muttered, “Better.”
He hadn’t minded the stink of animals nearly so much as the stench of scorched wood. And the smell of the fellow next to him—gangrene, if he was any judge—hadn’t been a real picnic, either.
He looked around himself on the street, looked at the wagons and the stove-up men, and the town’s kids just beginning to wander out into the street.
Matt MacDonald was getting his buggy hitched up in front of the bank. Was he leaving without his missus? Colorado had passed Jenny on his way out of the stable, and Miss Megan, too. Matt’s sister looked to be banged up pretty bad, and it seemed funny that Matt hadn’t beaten a path in there right away, just to make certain she was still breathing.
But then again, he reminded himself, you never could count on Matt to do what was expected.
Unless, of course, it was puff up and carry on like a half-grown rooster, and then turn tail and run.
He couldn’t spy Jason anywhere, but he spotted Mayor Kendall up the way a bit, and Randall Nordstrom. Rachael and Saul Cohen looked to be opening up their hardware store and Carrie Kendall was polishing the glass in the Kendalls’ front window. Both Rachael and Carrie were right pretty women, he thought, and nice, too.
Wash Keough, who, up until this very moment, Colorado had figured was off somewhere happily digging for gold, lay on a cot outside, in the shade of the boardwalk overhang. His leg must be all busted up. At least, there was a splint bandaged tight to it, and one of those fancy plaster casts on his foot and ankle.
Wash waved at him, and he ambled on down with a big grin on his face.
“Glad to see you’re still breathin’,” Colorado said, and shook Wash’s hand.
“You an’me both.” Wash pushed himself up with one hand and shoved another pillow behind his head with the other. “Appears to me we been saved again.”
“How’d that happen anyways?” Colorado asked. And Wash told him, told him as much as he knew anyhow. Or could remember.
“I’ll be damned,” was Colorado’s most frequent comment.
“Got that right,” was Wash’s.
Neither man had planned on settling anywhere near here, but it seemed they’d both sunk in their toes and were going to live out their last days amid the folks of Fury. Which was a very good thing for the town, Jason had once told Colorado. Colorado had nodded sagely, though he hadn’t had the slightest idea what Jason had been talking about.
Maybe he knew now, though. Maybe Jason had been talking about their collective need for cannon fodder.
That was one thing Colorado had learned over the years: that if he was good for anything, it was as a moving target. And he said so to Wash.
Wash laughed and slapped at his good knee. “Me, too, I reckon! Least we know we’re appreciated, Colorado. That’s more than I’ve had in half the places I hung my hat before.”
Colorado nodded. “Where’s Jason?” he asked.
Wash pointed a finger. “Over in the jail, locked in and doped to the gills.”
Colorado hiked a grizzled brow. “Locked in?”
Laughter was the reply, followed by: “Locked in for his own good. So’s folks’ll leave him alone for a while.” Wash rifled in his vest pocket and finally brought out a pouch of tobacco. “You got papers?”
“Believe I do,” Colorado said. Digging in his own pocket, he slouched back against the hitching rail.
It was good to have a smoke with a friend, and not have arrows coming at you from every which way.
It was good to relax.
“But he is a good fighter,” said the brave traveling next to Cunning Dog. “He should be back by now.”
Cunning Dog did not answer. He was twisted on his pony, scanning the northern horizon for any signs of his brother’s return.
There were none.
“I warned Lone Wolf not to travel back to the town,” said Cunning Dog after a long pause, “but he wished it so. It is an evil place, full of white devils. Only in the most evil of places could we lose so many brave men.” He slowly shook his head. “There will be mourning in the camp when we reach it. There will be much sorrow.”
His companion, a young brave called Mole Eyes, said, “You tell me nothing new. I say someone should go back for Lone Wolf. Maybe we should all go back and teach those white devils whose land they have made their town on.”
“You are justly named,” said Cunning Dog, his tone low. “You are indeed blind.”
Mole Eyes scowled at him, but Cunning Dog did not see it. His focus was straight ahead, between his pony’s ears. “No one will go back. No one can save Lone Wolf except himself. It is how he wishes it to be.”
“You are a coward, Cunning Dog.”
In half a heartbeat, Cunning Dog had snatched the reins of Mole Eyes away and jerked both their ponies to a halt. Suddenly, Mole Eyes looked stricken.
Cunning Dog reeled in the pony until the warriors were so close that their knees touched. “Never say that to me again, or I will kill you. Do you understand?”
Too frightened to speak, Mole Eyes jerked his head up and down.
Cunning Dog stared at the younger warrior a moment longer, then cast his reins toward him with a sneer of disgust. Then he wheeled his pony and trotted on to take his place among the others, leaving Mole Eyes behind.
Blake sat on the tailgate of his wagon, next to his wife and infant son, watching the sun set over the town while he ate his stew. Yes, this was the place they’d stay. He’d talked to a number of the men, and they were all in agreement that the Indian menace was a thing of the past. According to them, they had killed so many Apache that they doubted there were enough left to mount a decent war party.
He nudged Laura with an elbow. “What do you think, honey?” he asked. “Could you be happy here?”
She beamed at him. “Ecstatically,” she said, and he knew she’d been thinking along the same lines that he had.
He nodded. “Then here’s where we’ll stay.”
He began to make plans for his church.
Jason opened his eyes just a crack.
“Well,” said Jenny in a satisfied voice. “Finally going to spend some time with us, are you?”
Jason grunted.
“And don’t try to tell me you’re going to go back to sleep, mister. It’s four o’clock in the morning. You’ve been sleeping forever!”
“What?”
“You heard me. Four in the morning, you lazy thing.”
Jason tried to sit up, but he’d forgotten the knife wound in his shoulder and pushed up with the wrong hand. “Crap,” he muttered as a stabbing pain went through his shoulder and down his arm.
“Be careful of that side,” Jenny said, rearranging his covers matter-of-factly. “Dr. Morelli said that wound of yours might reopen if you got too rough with it.” She smoothed the blanket and sat back down beside his cot.
He didn’t remember being brought to the jail. He wondered if it was because his house was still full of other people. He wondered if Matt MacDonald had left town, and if he’d made a scene with Jenny.
He said, “Matt gone?”
Jenny’s brow furrowed. “Yes. The son of a—well, you know what—he left without even trying to find me. Or his own sister, for goodness sake!”
Jason wasn’t surprised. “How’s Megan?”
“Oh, she’s gonna be fine, and Morelli says the scar won’t show at all.”
“Don’t care about the scar,” he said.
“I know it wouldn’t mean anything to you, but Megan’s a girl. Things like that are important.”
He snorted despite himself.
“Oh, you know what I mean.” She gave his side a little smack, and he figured he must be pretty much on the way to mended for Jenny to be that playfully rough with him.
But he yelped anyway.
And Jenny’s eyes practically bugged from her head. “Jason! Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
This time, he pushed himself up with his good arm and tackled her unexpectedly, pulling her across the covers. At last, giggling and crying what her mother had dubbed “laughing tears,” she broke free from his tick ling fingers.
“Honestly, Jason!” she finally managed to get out. “Sometimes you can be such a stinker!”
He blurted a guffaw. “Me?” It crossed his mind to mention the prime example of stinkerdom—her having married Matt MacDonald—but he thought better of it. Instead, he said, “I think you’re the one who’s a…never mind. I’m a gentleman.”
Jenny’s hands balled into fists and she rose up on tip toes. “Are you saying that I’m no lady?”
Jason, having just fought his way through a judgment day of sorts, had no intention of inviting a new one. But he couldn’t help saying, “You said it, not me.”
Quicker than he could see, Jenny grabbed one of the pillows from under his head and began to mercilessly pummel him—avoiding, he noticed, anyplace where he was really, truly hurt.
So he made a lunge toward her, changing his position on the cot quite suddenly. And taking an unintentional blow directly on his bad shoulder.
“YOUCH!” he cried, gripping it and falling back fast.
“Jason! Oh, no, poor Jason, I didn’t mean it, really, I didn’t—” Jenny was suddenly sobbing and plucking at his shoulder dressing.
He brushed her away. “Don’t fuss at me. I’ll be all right.”
And then it occurred to him that yes, this time he really could be all right! The town’s Indian problem was solved, wasn’t it? Ward would make as good a sheriff as he had a deputy, once he got used to the idea. His sister, Jenny, had at last made a clean break with Matt MacDonald—the divorce would be fast and efficient. And he’d practically arranged a match for her with Ward. He could leave. He could really, finally leave.
He heaved a most happy sigh, which Jenny took for permission to start talking again.
“Of course, you’ll have to be careful with that shoulder for a bit. Dr. Morelli said you very nearly lost all use of that arm.”
What?
“And then there’s the Mortons. They were completely burnt out, you know. Salmon Kendall and somebody else rode up there this afternoon. He said to tell you that they left the livestock where they found it, and just hauled hay and feed out to them. But they brought the dog back to town. That means our house, Jason.”
He pulled the pillow up over his face.
“Ward says they want to go home, but he told them you had to give them permission to leave town, plus which, they don’t have a home to go to.”
“Aw, crud,” he muttered as his happy thoughts of leaving town evaporated.
“And a small train of new people pulled in today. Looks like they’re going to stay, too, at least some of them. We’ve got a new reverend—the Reverend Blake—and he drinks beer. That’s what Ward says anyway. I met his wife, Laura. She’s really nice.”
“A new reverend?”
“And then there’s poor Megan,” Jenny went on heedlessly. “The poor thing’s concerned that her misfortune will leave her disfigured, and therefore not good enough for you, and—”
Jason held up a hand. “Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop,” he repeated wearily. “You’ve already told me. You win. The town wins. It always does, doesn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Go away, Jenny.”
“But Jason…”
“Not tonight, okay? Let me go back to sleep and we’ll talk later. In the real morning. When the sun’s up, for instance.”
“All right then,” Jenny said, her tone of voice telling him that she’d given up. For now at least. He heard her footsteps cross to the cell door, then to the office door, heard the door unlatch and open. “Good night, Jason. Sleep tight.”
He heard his deceased mother’s voice, so much like Jenny’s, echo warmly but hollowly through his head: “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Jenny closed the door behind her, and was gone.
“Aw, crud,” he muttered before he fell asleep again.