CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

I can’t believe Parson Andrews drew that map.” Wallace exuded admiration as the horses enjoyed a short respite from their travels. “It looks like it was rendered by a professional cartographer.”

Matt silently agreed. He held the map at arm’s length and examined the incredibly detailed sketch the preacher had given them this morning. The grove of trees to their left matched the leafy markings on the page. Rock formations, creek beds, canyons, hills—they were all depicted with stunning accuracy. If the army had more men like Andrews on the payroll, scouting time could be cut in half.

“His missus told me he was up half the night working on it.” Jonah stood in his stirrups and scanned the landscape to the south. “Said he wanted to get it just right. Knew a woman’s life depended on it.”

Preach took a sip of water from his canteen, then wiped the moisture from his lips. “I suppose every man needs a hobby. We’re just lucky his happened to be mapmaking.”

Matt folded the sketch and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Luck had nothing to do with it.” He looked at his men, each in turn. “It’s God’s providence.”

He couldn’t deny that truth. Nor did he want to. God was leading this expedition, not him. Exactly as it should be. Matt would rather trust Josie’s safety to the One who saw all and knew all instead of relying on his own limited vision and understanding. He’d felt God’s gentle urging in his life before, but never had it been so overt. It was as if a general had ridden onto the battlefield to direct the operation himself instead of leaving it in the hands of his officers. Before this, Matt might have balked at being relieved of his command. Not anymore. He welcomed the interference and stood ready to obey whatever orders the General saw fit to give.

“We’re going to find the outlaws,” Matt said. “I have no doubt. The Almighty wouldn’t bring us this far only to leave us empty-handed. What I don’t know is what will happen when we get there. What price might be demanded of us.”

“Same price we’ve been willing to pay in every other battle we’ve faced, Cap.” Preach gave him a nod.

Wallace echoed the gesture. “Even more so this time, with Miss Josephine in the line of fire. She’s one of us.”

Matt’s chest swelled with gratitude and not a little wonder.

How had Josie become so essential to him in such a short time—to the point that he would ask his men to place her well-being above their own? Had that been orchestrated by God too? Two lives intersecting at just the right moment and under just the right circumstances had proven to be a simple matter for the Almighty lately. After all, the Lord had brought him a wagon driven by a bootmaker when they had no shoes, the finest stock in the state when they had no horses, and a map-drawing preacher when they had no direction. Bringing him a woman to awaken a heart scarred by loss and failure when he thought he was destined to live out his life alone no longer seemed so farfetched.

Strange how spiritual hindsight could change one’s view of the future.

“That jutting rock face to the south could be the hill Parson Andrews marked as the northeast corner of the Hightower property.” Jonah’s comment sharpened Matt’s focus on his surroundings.

Matt looked in the direction his sergeant pointed, pulled the map back out, and oriented himself with other landmarks closer at hand. “I think you’re right.”

Anticipation for the coming battle thrummed through his veins and pumped his pulse into a high tempo. Josie was close. But so were Taggart and a crew who outnumbered the Horsemen three to one.

Matt started to look to Preach for a verse, but a different urge tugged on his spirit. One he couldn’t ignore.

He pulled his hat from his head. “Join me, fellas?”

The other Horsemen drew their mounts near, and each man uncovered then bowed his head.

“Lord.” Matt wasn’t accustomed to addressing the Almighty in front of others, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that his men needed the words as much as he did. “Thanks for showin’ us the way and providin’ what was necessary to mount this rescue. I know we ain’t the most righteous of men. We have blood on our hands and failings aplenty, yet if you ride with us, I believe we will prevail. So stick close, Lord. We need you.”

I need you. Don’t let me botch your plans with my own ignorance. Don’t let this be another Wounded Knee.

“Grant us courage under fire. Protect us from harm, but more importantly, protect Josie. Let no bullet find her, no injury befall her, no indignity be foisted upon her.” Matt swallowed, working hard to keep his head above the murky water that roiled with dark possibilities. “I know vengeance is yours, but we offer ourselves as warriors for justice should you deem us worthy. Make our aim true and our mission a success.” He paused for a moment, culling his mind for what he might have missed. Not finding anything, he opened his eyes and tipped his chin toward heaven. “I guess that about covers it. Thanks for listening. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

A murmured collection of amens echoed around him.

“Good words, Captain,” Wallace said as he and the rest of the Horsemen fit their hats back onto their heads.

Feeling more settled in his spirit, Matt nodded to Preach.

“‘The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped.’ Psalm 28:7.”

He couldn’t think of a better send-off.

Matt gave the signal to ride, then bent over Percival’s neck and whispered, “Let’s go get our fair maiden, Sir Knight.”

As if the horse understood the quest, he sprang forward and surged to the front of the pack, forcing Matt to rein in his enthusiasm lest he tire too quickly. With a grin on his face, and a confidence rooted not in his own expertise but in the God whose presence permeated the air around them, Matt led the way to the rocky outcropping and the outlaws waiting on the other side.

A cool bit of wind brushed Josephine’s cheek like the caress of a finger. Her head jerked upward, and a shiver of awareness tingled against her nape. She pushed away from the chuck wagon where she’d been opening the tinned vegetables from her supply bag into Arnold’s soup pot, and scanned her surroundings.

She glanced toward the house, then the barn, then to areas beyond, but she spied nothing out of the ordinary. A handful of Taggart’s men were readying the horses for the ransom appointment. Others hunkered together playing cards. A few passed around a jug of home-brewed spirits. Taggart remained inside the house. Separate. Apart.

Ever since she’d written that letter, he’d barricaded himself in the house, watching the goings-on through the windows and distributing orders through his lieutenants. Was he weary of his men? Heaven knew she was. Or maybe a part of him feared she was right about the cavalry coming and sought the protection of four solid walls.

Carver and Dawson had spent the most time indoors, but yesterday another fellow had spent nearly an hour inside. A man who had ridden Matthew’s horse. She’d recognized Phineas the moment the outlaw had ridden in last night, the provoking sight raising her ire. No one should ride that horse but Matthew Hanger. Yet even thieving outlaws recognized prime horseflesh when they saw it. All of the Horsemen’s mounts had been claimed in short order, along with their ammunition and weapons. Taggart’s top men kept the best items for themselves, of course. Her guard wore Matthew’s gun belt and pistol crisscrossed over his own, giving him a gun on each hip.

Carver winked at her as her roaming gaze slid past him. He tucked his thumb into the gun belt and smirked as if to remind her that her man was gone.

But was he?

Another breeze tickled her neck. Stray hairs pulled free from her braid and whipped across her eyes. As she drew them away from her lashes, she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was supposed to see something. Something important. Her scientific mind tried to dismiss the thought as irrational. It was just a gust of wind, after all. Nothing more. Yet her instincts continued to flare, prodding her to be ready.

Today was the day the ransom was to take place. The day her fate would be decided. Charlie’s too. They had to be ready to take advantage of any opportunity that presented itself. Arnold had slipped Charlie a knife after supper, and her brother had spent the better part of the night whittling the end of the wheel spoke so that he could splinter it and unfetter himself should a chance for escape arise. Or should the threat to their lives reach a critical stage.

She prayed for the first even as she mentally prepared herself for the second.

Her father could have decoded her hidden message. Could even now be closing in on the camp. The Horsemen could be near, as well. Could have picked up Taggart’s trail somehow. Matthew would’ve driven them hard, relentless in his pursuit. He’d promised to find her, and she believed him. Believed he lived and was searching for her.

She had to believe. If she didn’t, she’d have nothing to hold back the flood of despair that threatened to sweep her away.

Josephine finished opening the tin of carrots in her hand and dumped the contents into the soup pot. Two tins remained on the tailgate that served as a work surface, but she hid them with a dish towel, then proceeded to haul the large pot over to the cooking fire. Arnold looked up from banking a pile of coals in a separate pit that would soon cover a pair of Dutch ovens filled with biscuit dough.

“Let me get that, Miz Josephine.” He scurried forward to take the large pot from her hands. “That thing’s too heavy for you to be luggin’ around.”

“Thank you.” She released her hold on the handle as he took charge. “I thought I’d give Charlie a hand with the potatoes.”

“Nice of ya, but I think he’s about finished . . .” Arnold hefted the pot over the low fire, fitting the handle onto a hook suspended from an iron crossbar that spanned the length of the fire pit. “That right, Charlie? You got them taters peeled and chopped?”

Her brother hunkered down behind an overturned crate a short distance away, a bowl of prepped potatoes on the ground at his elbow and more on the cutting board on top of the crate. The chain attached to his right wrist had little slack remaining.

“Yep.” Charlie answered the cook, but his eyes met his sister’s. He felt it too. The anticipation. The need to be ready. “Jo can bring them to you.”

Josephine ambled toward Charlie, conscious of the gaze following her every move. Right before she reached her brother, her watchdog pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against and moved to join them.

Rats. She’d hoped to speak to her brother without Carver’s interference. Unfortunately, her guard took his duty seriously. Which made her duty more of a challenge. If Matthew was out there, alive and coming after her just as he’d vowed, then the safest place for Charlie was by her side. She doubted the Horsemen felt any kind of loyalty toward her brother after his betrayal, but if she stayed near him, any buffer the Horsemen created for her would extend to him.

Charlie scraped the last of the potatoes from his cutting board into the bowl just as Carver arrived.

“I’ll take charge of that knife, Burkett. Set it on the board, then back away.”

Charlie did as he was told, raising his hands in the air as he backed toward the chuck wagon. Carver slapped his palm over the handle of the paring knife, then turned and flung it with expert precision at a log jutting from the fire a few scant inches from where Arnold was stirring the stew pot. The cook yelped and jumped back.

Carver chuckled. “Easy, Cookie. I’m just returnin’ yer knife.”

He was a sadist, and Josephine wanted nothing more than to dump the bowl of potatoes she’d just retrieved over his head. Instead, she made a point of ignoring him completely as she walked the potatoes to the fire and dumped them into the pot.

“I’ll wash the bowl for you, Mr. Watson,” she said as she headed back to the wagon.

Charlie rose to his feet. “I’ll help.” He fit his hand to the small of her back and pushed her toward the wagon.

She stumbled a bit at the forcefulness of his shove. What was he doing?

“They’re here,” he murmured as his hand latched onto her elbow. He hurried her to the side of the wagon where the whittled spoke waited.

“Who?” Her gaze swept the trees at the edge of yard, seeing nothing different.

Then a light hit her face. A concentrated beam that made her blink until Charlie growled a warning at her.

“Don’t look.”

She turned back toward the wagon, hoping Carver hadn’t noticed her suspicious behavior. Her heart thudded in her chest. The light. A signal. A reflection off a mirror.

Matthew. It had to be him. He was here.

“It don’t take two of you to wash a bowl,” Carver said as he came up behind them.

“Run for the trees.” Charlie’s urgent whisper screamed through her mind as he snatched the bowl from her hands and kicked the whittled spoke with his boot. The spoke splintered, and the manacle slid free.

“I’ve had enough of your bullying, Carver.” Charlie spun around, swinging the metal bowl at Carver’s head.

Carver ducked. The bowl glanced off the side of his skull. He straightened, bringing his fist up as he did so, straight into Charlie’s midsection. Charlie doubled over.

“Stop!” she cried.

Run for the trees. That was what Charlie wanted her to do. Save herself while he kept Carver occupied. She looked to the trees. Took a step. But the pounding thuds of fists on flesh tore at her heart. She couldn’t leave her brother.

Helpless tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. Then a violent punch splayed Charlie at her feet. She bent to help him rise, but as he stood, he grabbed her arms and looked into her face. A cut above his eye dripped blood, a welt on his cheek foretold a nasty bruise, but it was his gaze that arrested her.

Go! He mouthed the word and shoved her away from him. Then, with a roar, he launched himself at Carver once again.

Tears rolling down her cheeks, Josephine ran.