Spirit of the Wolf (22 page)

Chance
hadn't understood the wisdom of those words until he'd been on the road nearly two years. Rational and practical by nature, he couldn't help but agree that
a story like that
should be tol
d as it had happened.

"Now there's a lullaby if ever I heard one."

The deep voice startled
Chance
so badly that his right hand automatically
went for
the carved wooden handle of his pistol. Life on the road had made him jumpy and watchful, but it had also taught him that patience almost always paid off. This wasn't the first time his caution had saved a man's life. "
Land sake,
Micah," he
said,
"you likely shaved
another
ten years off the tail-end of my life, sneakin' up on me that way."

"
Another
ten years? You've had ten years wasted already at your age?"

If t
he older man seemed noticed that
Chance
's revolver was cocked and ready
, it didn’t show on his face
. "You're going to work yourself into an early grave," Micah said matter-of-factly. "I don't believe I've ever seen a man push himself harder. Never seen a more fidgety man, either." He leaned both forearms on the top rung of the wagon wall. "What're you running from, son?"

Chance
released the gun's hammer and faced the father of the woman he loved. "There's a lot to be done around here, Micah. Seems there aren't enough hours in the day."

Now he
rested a hand on
Chance
's shoulder. "Son, you're the best foreman I've ever had, and I've had a few, so I know what I'm talking about. But there's something about you, something
….” Frowning, he
took a deep breath and shook his head. "There's something dark inside you."

Chance
opened his mouth to object, but Micah's raised hand silenced him.

What if,
Chance
wondered,
Micah had
come face to face with a
wanted poster
hung
by the U.S. Marshalls? What if
—

"Whatever it is, it's history, far as I'm concerned. You've earned every dollar I've paid you, and then some. I like you, boy." Laughing softly, he added, "Why, if I weren't so young myself, I'd say you're like a son to me!" He gave
Chance
a hearty clap on the back. Then, in a more serious tone, added, "You befriended my boys when they needed a man to guide them, and taught them more'n I could have, in my sorry state of mind. There's not enough money in all the world to repay you for that."

Chance
wished he hadn't
removed his Stetson, because in
the shade of its wide brim
, he
might
have hidden
the flush that warmed his cheeks. "I'm right fond of Matt and Mark, Micah," he
admitted, donning
the hat back. "There's no need for this kind of talk."

Micah shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, son. Somebody's done you a powerful wrong, and I'm sorry about that, truly I am. But it's eating
at
you like a cancer." He dropped another slap on
Chance
's back. "Let it go, boy, before it kills you!"

No one had ever dared tell him what to do...and gotten away with it. But then, no one had ever told him what to do
in friendship
.
Chance
didn't know what to make of it, let alone how to respond to it. Clumsily, he moved the hammer from his right hand to his left and back again. "We're burnin' daylight," he said. "I'd best get back to work."

Micah sighed. "All right, then. But if there's anything I can do, just say the word. If it's money that'll dig you out of the trouble you're in, I've got plenty of it." Then, adjusting the top button of his white, collarless shirt, he coughed. "But if it's just a friendly ear, well
,
you were a friend when I needed one."

Staring at the toes of his dusty boots,
Chance
remembered the day, not long after he'd arrived at Foggy Bottom, when he'd gone into the barn for a shovel. He stumbled across Micah, huddled in a back stall, bawling like a baby, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his side. The older man's obvious grief stunned him, and oddly, shamed him, too. Because to survive the life he'd been forced to live these past ten years,
Chance
had had to teach himself to live simply, and with few rules: "Hide your money in your boots." "Travel by the river roads, and only after dark." "Keep your canteen full.
Always pack plenty of bullets.
"

Micah's unrelenting sobs made him wish for a rule that went something like "Never ask a man what's wrong." Because when
Chance
asked what was wrong, Micah poured out his heart. Later, when the man blamed his temporary insanity on a sizeable consumption of whiskey,
Chance
pretended to believe it. But both men knew that missing his Mary
—not
alcohol
—had
inspired the gut-wrenching, rib-wracking sobs that echoed between
empty
stalls.
Chance
pretended to believe Micah's rendition of the story because he understood exactly how the man felt
.

"
—and
I don't soon forget a kindness
.
"

Micah’s voice broke into his thoughts. "L
ook here now,"
Chance
began, "it was nothing. Anybody would have
done—“

O
ne look at the
determined
expression on Micah's wizened face told
Chance
he could talk 'til sundown and not change the man's thinking
, and since he’d
never been a wasteful sort, particular
ly where words were concerned,
he clamped his jaw shut.
Besides, i
t had been said a time or two that he had a stubborn streak of his own. It surfaced
now
as
Chance
gripped the hammer tight and struck the nail he'd been pounding into the wagon's sideboard when Micah interrupted his
song
. But when he raised the hammer in preparation for yet another blow, Micah grabbed the tool mid-swing.

"Don't be a fool,
Chance
...look at me when I talk to you!"

Like an obedient child, he did as he was told.

"You're young and healthy, so I guess it's natural for you to think you have all the time in the world. But let me tell you a thing or two
about time
," Micah said, wagging an arthritic finger under his nose
.
"
It’s
precious."
His voice grew soft as he gazed at some unknown spot, far off in the distance. "She was a good woman, my Mary.
G
ave me three young'uns, made
us
a fine home. Getting out of bed each morning was pure pleasure, because I knew she'd be there, smiling that sweet smile of hers, telling me to hustle my ornery butt down into the kitchen before my eggs and ham got cold."

Shaking his head wearily, Micah
pinched the bridge of his nose
. "
Lord, but
I miss her," he admitted, voice gruff with a held-back sob. "Hold fast to what's important, because you never know when
your
time
will be up."
He turned to go.
"I'll tell you this: If I'd-a known I would lose her so soon, I'd-a done a lot of things differently
."

Chance
watched him move slowly toward the house.
W
hen Mary lived, Micah probably walked straight and tall. Now, it seemed to be a great effort,
and he
shuffl
ed along
as though he bore the weight of a thousand lifetimes upon his once-powerful shoulders.
He wondered if he’d adopt that stance once he put Freeland, Maryland far behind him….

Frowning,
Chance
focused on his
chore
. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the kindness that had inspired
Mic
ah
’s
lecture
.
Chance
recognized the well-meant advice and understood
—and
agreed with
—every
word.
Sadly, it was useless information.
He looked toward the horizon,
searching for
the invisible thing that had so captured Micah's attention earlier.
The U.S. Marshalls, or worse, bounty hunters, could be out there right
,
like mountain lions, waiting to pounce
.
"Time is precious," Micah had said. "Hold fast to what's important...."

Chance
knew
exactly
how precious time was! He'd lived life, for the past ten years, minute to minute, never knowing when he'd have to saddle up and head out
. Salaried lawmen were a determined lot, but
bounty hunters were another matter
entirely
. Something about the promise of silver, pressed into their palms, made them doggedly persistent.
Didn’t matter a whit to them
if he was guilty or innocent. To the bounty hunters, Walker Atwood was just another meal ticket.

He
knew how precious his time at Foggy Bottom
was, too. He’d give just about anything to close that chapter of his life,
settle down here
and
marry his Bess and raise a passel of kids.
Time? He could
name
the
exact
moment
when he knew she loved him….

That day in
the parlor, just after he'd kissed her,
h
e'd looked
into her
big, dark eyes
and 
saw pure, sweet love staring straight back at him.
He knew, right then, that if he confessed t
he whole ugly truth
, sh
e'd have waved
away
the
news
as if it were no more significant than a pesky mosquito
.

Chance
sensed he'd been the first in many years
—in
her lifetime, most likely
—who’d
seen how heavily the burden of being caretaker, confidant, confessor, and counselor had weighed on her heart. Sensed, too, that
if faced with the truth about his past, she’d spend wh
atever time God chose to give them by pampering and spoiling him
, and that he’d
treasure every blessed second
of it
until
th
e
dreadful day came
when she’d be forced to
gather him close
as the led him onto the hanging platform
, straighten his tie and collar,
and promise to
love heartily 'til
she breathed her last
.

He knew
it
as
sure as
he knew his name was Walker Atwood. He knew it from watching her give love and care without ever expecting anything in return
, and from
listening
as she bo
lster
ed
the sagging spirits of the men in her life, giving them the strength to carry on, even when things seemed unbearably grim.

Her pa
had been right: Time
was
precious.

And that’s why
he could never tell her
the truth
about his past
, a
nd certainly not that he loved her.
Because h
e wouldn't allow her to waste a moment of
her
precious time on the likes of him.

"I'm busy," he whispered into the teller's ear.

The banker's young assistant adjusted the black armbands cinching up his white shirt sleeves. "But Mister Cramer, she's been waiting nearly thirty minutes already. She says she had a nine o'clock appointment with y
ou and—“

Cramer proved his impatience by exhaling a loud sigh. "I'll get to her when I'm good and ready," he said through
clenched
teeth. "
What sort of
woman traips
es
around the country doing a man's bidding, anyway
?
If she doesn't know her place in proper society now, she'll know it by the time I'm finished with her!" He punctuated his statement by lifting his head slightly, then bringing it down with a snap.