After sending Eldon to watch the front, Rikker settled in the chair behind his desk while Foley took the one in front of it. Hank stood looking out the window with Charlie close by his side.
It wasn’t much of a view. A narrow back roadway that provided rear access to several of the shops fronting Main Street, and farther down, the livery. Almost at the end of town and in separate buildings because of their potential for fire, the smithy stood on one side of the street and the Chinese laundry on the other.
Business as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.
Yet something felt off to Hank.
Probably because he was unarmed. He wasn’t a shootist. He rarely drew on anything other than snakes and varmints and hadn’t shot at a human being since the feud with Sancho Ramirez ended four years ago. But the idea of being without protection should he need it made him uneasy.
Which was probably why Foley had insisted upon it. The man was worse than Brady for having to be in control. And by putting himself between Foley and Charlie, Hank had threatened the lawman’s sense of authority. Stupid bastard. It wasn’t a gun that gave a man authority, or even his willingness to use it. It was his willingness
not
to use it without just cause that made him someone to take note of.
“Papa-Hank?”
Hank looked down to see Charlie motioning him to bend closer.
“I got to pee,” the boy whispered.
Hank straightened. “Where’s the nearest outhouse?” he asked Rikker.
“By the smithy.”
Hank steered Charlie toward the door.
“Let your man take him.” Foley nodded toward Langley. “The judge will want to talk to you first anyway.”
Hank hesitated, not liking the idea of only one man guarding Charlie.
“The deputy can go along, too, if you want.” Foley gave a small smile. “Besides you’ve got two other armed men lurking out there, don’t you?”
When Hank didn’t respond, Rikker tipped his head back and yelled for Eldon.
Footsteps shuffled down the hall, then the deputy’s blond head peered around the door. “More coffee?”
“Christ, no.” Rikker set aside the smoke he was rolling and fished two bullet cartridges out of his pocket. He handed them to Eldon with a warning look. “In your pocket unless it’s necessary. You understand?”
Eldon gawked at the cartridges like they were made of gold instead of brass. “Yes, sir.”
Hank and Langley shared a look of understanding, meaning if there was any trouble, Langley was to take charge of the pistol and bullets, and use them as he saw fit. Then Hank gave Charlie a reassuring smile and sent him on his way with his two bodyguards. He was watching their progress from the window when Jones and the judge finally arrived.
Judge Clement Utley. Hank had seen him a time or two when the judge made his stop in Val Rosa on his circuit of the area. A small, thin fellow with a bald dome and gunmetal blue eyes that reflected the weary, disillusioned look of a man who had seen more than he wanted to, Judge Utley had a reputation for quick judgments and harsh sentences, whether they be founded in fact, or not. He was also a strict abolitionist with a deep hatred for anything or anyone residing south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Hank foresaw no problems in convincing the judge to issue a warrant for the arrest of a Southern sympathizer.
“Where’s this boy I’m supposed to talk to?” Utley said as he waved Rikker from his seat so he could take it. Foley vacated his for Jones.
“Taking a piss,” Rikker said. “This here’s his stepfather, Hank Wilkins. You might ought to hear what he has to say first.”
“So talk then.”
Hank recounted what Charlie had told them about finding the book, then later witnessing his grandfather’s murder. At the judge’s request, Foley handed over the book, then they all waited silently as the judge leafed through it, his expression growing more thunderous with every page he turned.
“Goddamn traitors. Should shoot them all.”
Jones cleared his throat. “Although the contents of that book are extremely damning, they are not the primary reason for the warrant.”
Utley looked up with an indignant glare. “You plan to do nothing about this filth?” He threw the book onto the desk for emphasis.
“No, Your Honor,” Jones said hastily. “But once we have Fletcher in custody for killing Matthew McFarlane, we hope to gather more information from him about his coconspirators and their activities.”
Utley narrowed his eyes. “You intend to torture the bastard?”
Jones looked taken aback. “Not at all, sir.”
“Too bad.” Utley held out his hand, palm up. “Hand them over then. The papers. I don’t need to talk to the boy if you’ll vouch for him.”
“I do,” Jones said.
“Then hurry up, man. I’ve been in the saddle all day. My ass hurts, and I need a drink.”
Quickly pulling the papers from his coat pocket, Jones rose and spread them open on the desk. “If you’ll just sign here, sir.”
Utley elbowed him aside. “I know where to sign, goddamnit. Give me something to write with.”
Rikker rummaged in his desk drawer until he came up with a frayed quill and inkpot. Muttering under his breath, Utley dug from his vest pocket a stubby black lead pencil. After priming the tip with spit, he scrawled his name on each sheet of the warrant then shoved the papers back to Jones.
Jones took a copy, folded it, and handed it to Foley. “Arrest the bastard.”
After Foley left and the judge headed to the nearest saloon, Rikker pulled a bottle of red rye whiskey from his bottom drawer and took a long swallow.
“Jesus, that man gives me the hives,” he muttered once he quit coughing. He offered the bottle to Hank and Jones. Having seen the grimace and shudders that assailed the sheriff after a single sip, they both declined. Rikker took one more swallow, gagged and belched, then dropped the bottle back into his drawer.
Hank continued to stand at the window watching for Charlie and Langley. He had decided to wait for Foley to return with Fletcher so he could be certain Fletcher was locked up before Charlie got back. He wanted the boy to see that it was over. Hank frowned at the dark clouds building in the west. Too bad it was so late. They’d have to wait until morning to head back to the ranch, weather permitting.
A feeling of impatience nagged at him. They’d only been gone a night and two days, but he found himself anxious to get back, and that unfamiliar feeling of homesickness surprised him. And it wasn’t really home that he was missing. It was Molly. And Penny. It was being away from where he was supposed to be . . . where he
wanted
to be.
Christ.
He was as pathetic as his lovesick brother.
Footfalls pounded down the hall. Hank whirled as the door crashed open.
“He’s gone! The bastard’s gone!” Foley shouted just as gunshots sounded from the direction of the smithy.
THE FIRST BABY, A RED-FACED BOY WITH DARK HAIR AND flailing fists, arrived without complication, although Jessica might have disagreed with that assessment. He was perfect in every way, and Molly almost wept with the joy of it. Leaving Consuelo to keep an eye on Jessica, and Maria Garcia to clean up the baby, she rushed to the balcony railing.
“You have a son,” she called down to Brady.
He leaped to his feet, then his legs seemed to give way and he collapsed back down into the chair, a stunned look on his face. “A son.”
Dougal laughed and leaned over to cuff him on the side of his head. “A wee bairn, ye great lummox! Aboot time ye did sommat right!”
“The other one?” Brady called up in a shaky voice.
“Not yet. But soon.” With a backward wave, Molly hurried back into the birthing room.
“Okay, Jessica,” she said, all business once again. “You’re halfway there.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Molly,” Jessica panted. “Your wretched cheeriness is getting on my nerves—oooh!”
Positioning herself at the foot of the bed, Molly rested a hand on Jessica’s abdomen to judge how far the second fetus had descended. Oddly, it was still high in the womb and hadn’t yet begun to enter the birth canal. She glanced at Consuelo, who gave her a worried look and shook her head. Looking up at Jessica, Molly put on a smile. “Try not to push just yet, Jessica,” she said. “Rest for a moment while we see where we are.”
“I can’t help it,” Jessica said through clenched teeth. “Oh, God, it hurts.” Another contraction bowed her back.
Molly listened through the stethoscope to pinpoint the location of the baby’s heartbeat. If it was below Jessica’s navel, the fetus was presenting headfirst. If it was above the navel, it was buttocks or feet first.
It was just above Jessica’s navel.
Starting to panic, Molly directed Consuelo to bring a lamp and hold it so the light would shine into the birth canal. When the next contraction came, she checked for the head of the baby. Instead, she saw a foot.
Oh, God.
A breech birth.
“Jessica, don’t push,” she ordered. “Pant. You can’t push while you breathe.”
A look of terror crossed Jessica’s face. “Is it breech?”
“Don’t you dare give up,” Molly ordered harshly. “You can do this. You can have this baby. But you must do what I tell you. Do you understand?”
Air hissed through Jessica’s teeth.
“Do you hear me?” Molly was shouting now, desperate to make Jessica understand. “Just do what I tell you!”
“Y-Yes. All right.”
“Breathe short and fast until I tell you to stop. I don’t care how much you want to push, you mustn’t.”
Jessica nodded, tears and sweat streaking her face.
Working as quickly as she could, Molly ran her hands over Jessica’s abdomen, trying to determine the position of the fetus. She found the buttocks then the head. “I’m going to try to get him to turn a somersault, Jessica. You absolutely must not push!” Molly waited until the next contraction ended, then pressed upward on the fetus’s buttocks and down on the head. Nothing.
She did it again. Nothing.
A third and fourth time yielded no change in the position of the fetus.
Choking back her own terror, she realized the baby would have to come breech. But before it moved too far into the birth canal, she would have to make sure the head was tucked against its chest and the umbilical cord wasn’t wrapped around its neck. “Open the jar of sheep tallow,” she said to Consuelo.
Once she’d lubricated her hand and arm with the fat, she slid her fingers into Jessica’s straining body. Protruding from the tip of the womb, she found one tiny foot, then another, tucked tight against the buttocks.
“Don’t push,” she ordered hoarsely as Jessica’s uterine muscles clamped down on the fetus. It slid farther into the birth canal, then stopped.
Was its chin caught? Molly knew that was the most dangerous situation in a breech birth, especially with smaller babies like twins usually were. Another contraction sent the baby farther into the canal. Molly could feel the chest, the neck.
No cord was wrapped around it. Good.
“You’re doing wonderfully, Jessica. It appears to be another boy.” The baby slipped farther.
She found the face, hooked her finger in the tiny mouth, and pulled down, tucking the chin of the fetus against its chest. Praying that it would hold that position, she pulled her hand back out. “Now push,” she ordered.
Jessica pushed, her head thrown back, her body shuddering.
“Again.” The feet, hips, and torso slipped free.
“Again. Last time, Jessica. Push as hard as you can.”
Jessica rose off the sweat-soaked mattress, her hands twisting in the loops tied to the bedposts. With a scream, she pushed her son free in a gush of bright blood.
Molly caught him in trembling hands and wiped the mucus and blood from his mouth. Immediately, the baby sucked in a gulp of air then gave a tiny mewl of indignation. Another breath and the mewling became a healthy cry.
“You did it,” Molly cried, holding up the baby for Jessica to see.
Jessica smiled shakily, tears of joy and triumph and exhaustion streaming down her ashen face. “Another . . . son.” Then with a sigh, her body went limp.
“Jessica?” Molly called. “Jessica!”
Behind her, the door crashed opened. Still clutching the baby, Molly turned to see Brady standing in the threshold, staring in horror at his unconscious wife.
DEAD. JESUS, NO . . .
Brady staggered back, unable to tear his eyes away from his wife’s still form. Then whirling, he stumbled down the stairs, shoving Dougal aside as he forced his numb legs to carry him past the great room into the east wing and through his office door. He slammed it shut, then stood gasping as a rage and grief so profound there were no words to name it filled his chest and pressed against his lungs.
Jessica.
Dead.
A smothered feeling came over him, and suddenly he was desperate to escape this moment, this place, this pain. But all he could do was stand there, shaking, his heart bleeding in his chest while tears ran unchecked down his face.
OUTPACING FOLEY, HANK CHARGED TOWARD THE SMITHY, shouting for Curly and Bishop. When he ran past Gruber’s Fix-it, they burst out of an alley, guns drawn, falling in behind Foley.
As they neared the end of the street, where the smithy and the laundry stood, Eldon rushed toward them, waving his revolver like a flag, his face so white it looked bloodless. “It’s Fletcher! He’s got the kid!” As Hank ran up, he pointed the pistol toward the laundry. “Took him in there! I tried to get him but I think I missed. Christamighty!”
Hank prayed the idiot hadn’t shot Charlie instead. “Go around front,” he yelled at Curly. “Bishop, cover the back.” Without being told, Foley cut through the alley to block access to Front Street. Langley staggered around the corner of the laundry, blood pouring from a gash at his temple. “Ambush,” he choked out then toppled face-first into the dirt.