The Accidental Lawman (21 page)

“Has anyone else been hurt?” Amelia glanced around the room, forgetting where she left her bag. Laura ran to the settee, grabbed the bag and hurried back.

“One of the outlaws is dead,” the cowhand said.

Amelia’s blood ran cold. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably. She could barely breathe.

Three men. Three men stormed in, shootin’ up the place. Then a posse from hereabouts rode in on their trail. The outlaws are holed up in the house. One of them is dead.

Ruggles had been rearrested. There were four men left at large. Evan might very well be one of those men.

Then again, he might not.

Dear Lord, please, please, don’t let Evan be there. Let him have come to his senses. Let him walk the path of righteousness from here on. Don’t let him be dead.

“You absolutely cannot go out there, Amelia,” Laura protested.

“I’m needed there. I have to go.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Laura volunteered.

Amelia shook her head. She could tell Laura’s offer
was sincere. She didn’t look the least afraid of riding into danger whereas Charity was as white as a sheet, her hands trembling.

“I’ll be fine alone, thank you. You’ve guests to attend to.” Amelia turned to the cowhand. “I’m ready when you are.”

They hurried to Amelia’s house. The cowhand tossed a saddle on Sweet Pickle and Amelia followed the man back to Harroway House with her heart in her throat. She wished someone other than Oswald Caldwell was in charge. He was not a kind man. Nor a forgiving one.

Hank is there, she reminded herself. Hank with his strong yet gentle way.

Hank who had kissed her right in the middle of town in front of everyone.

Hank who had promised to help Evan. Promised to keep her wayward brother safe.

The young cowhand reined in a distance from the house. Silence surrounded them. “Wait here, ma’am. I’m gonna ride ahead a bit and see what’s going on. When I left, it weren’t so quiet.” He skirted the front of the house, keeping well out of gunshot range.

Sweet Pickle pawed the ground as Amelia waited for the cowboy’s return. When he came back for her, he motioned for her to hurry.

“Looks like we missed all the fireworks, ma’am. But they need you more than ever.”

Her heart was hammering double time as they rode around to the barnyard. Men seemed to be swarming all over the house. Staring up at the second story, she noticed not a single window had survived.

Most of the men were gathered around the back veranda.
A rifle lay on the roof amid more glass shards. What appeared to be a trail of blood led to the edge of the roof.

A woman’s body lay on the ground near the back door. Not far away, a man’s body had been tightly bound in a blanket. His head was covered, the blanket securely tied with rope.

Amelia’s breath caught. She stared at his boots.

They weren’t Evan’s. And they weren’t Hank’s.

She saw neither her brother nor Hank among the knot of men gathered around the fallen woman. All she could hope was that they were together somewhere, that Evan had surrendered and Hank was talking sense into him.

She slid out of the saddle, untied her medical bag and ran across the few yards that separated her from the others.

“’Bout time you got here.” It was Oz Caldwell. The man towered over the others, dwarfing them with both his size and his pomposity.

She paid him no mind as she focused on the woman on the ground. Fanny lay sprawled on her back, her eyes wide open, staring at the sky. She was so still, so very pale, that for a moment Amelia thought she was dead. Then she blinked.

Unmindful of the others, Amelia knelt beside Fanny and took her hand. She tried to forget that one of the outlaws was laid out not fifty feet away.

“I’m here, Fanny. You’ll be fine now.” Fanny’s fingers and arm were limp.

“What happened?” Amelia glanced around at the men. Still no sign of Hank. She recognized Patrick O’Toole, the town butcher. He’d been ordered by Caldwell to join the posse.

“What happened, Patrick?”

The man’s voice shook. “She crawled out the window,
tried to escape. Nearly made it, too, but in the end she got winged in the back and fell off the roof.” He glanced up at the overhanging veranda roof. Amelia followed his gaze, saw the bloodstain again.

“Oh, Fanny,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

She pinched Fanny’s thigh, her waist, her upper arm. There was no reaction whatsoever. Fanny was paralyzed.

“I can hear you.” Fanny’s voice was so weak Amelia had to lower her ear almost to Fanny’s lips to hear. “He said he loved me, Amelia. He said he wanted to marry me. I let him…I let him love me. No one ever loved me the way he did. I let him in the house at night. No one knew. I showed him how to get in and out of the house—the way I did sometimes…. I’m sly as a fox, you know? I stole one of Sophronia’s keys and gave it to him.”

Her words were thready, breathless, fading.

“Who did you give a key to, Fanny?”

“My shadow man.” A haunting smile lifted the corners of her pale lips. “He only comes out to me at night. Except for today.” Fanny’s smile faded. “He wasn’t nice anymore. He wanted to hurt Sophronia. To steal Lemuel’s money. He called me…a spoiled brat.”

She tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. Her lips slowly turned the color of pale violets. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.

“Shh, rest, Fanny,” Amelia told her. “Don’t try to talk.”

There was nothing to do for Fanny. Her body was broken. She was lying in a puddle of blood. Her spirit was leaving her. The Lord would take her soon. He would enfold Fanny in His loving embrace and for the first time, Fanny’s troubled mind would be at peace.

But Fanny refused to rest. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for someone among the men gathered there.

“Sophronia?” Fanny whispered. “Where is she?”

Amelia turned to Caldwell. “Where is Mrs. Harroway? What happened to her?”

“She’s in the front parlor, ranting about all the broken windows. A lot of thanks we get for saving her hide.”

“Send for her,” she told him. “Quickly!”

Oswald didn’t move, but he sent one of his men after Sophronia.

“Where is Mr. Larson?” Amelia asked him.

“In the barn, tending to business.” The answer was brusque, his stare cool. His hint of a smile chilled her.

Amelia couldn’t bring herself to ask
what
business Hank was tending to. Not as poor Fanny lay dying.

“He shot me,” Fanny whispered hoarsely, her tone one of disbelief. “He shot me in the back and then they killed him.” Fanny’s eyes widened. “He…he didn’t love me at all.” Her eyes widened. She stared into the sky. Amelia leaned closer.

“God will keep you now, Fanny. You’ll be safe and loved and cherished.”

With her very last breath Fanny whispered, “Evan didn’t love me at all.”

E
van.

Evan is responsible for this. For Fanny’s death.

Evan had relations with Fanny. Innocent, confused Fanny. She let him into her room, her bed, and Evan and the Perkinses laid their evil scheme.

Shame coursed through Amelia. Shame and disbelief. How could Evan, the little boy she’d raised, the child who’d trustingly held her hand, listened as she read him stories, dried his tears, made him laugh—how could the child she’d cherished become the man who had used Fanny, shot her, sent her tumbling to her death?

How, Lord? How?

Where is he now? Where is Evan? And Hank. Dear Lord, where is Hank?

Shaking so hard she could barely move, Amelia reached out and gently closed Fanny’s eyes.

Somehow, she rose to her feet, amazed that she could stand. The men had gathered around her. Hardworking, hard-driving men, their faces were creased by the weather and the sun. Cowhands who worked for Lemuel stood
shoulder to shoulder with men from Glory and Comanche. Their expressions were grave as they stared down at Fanny. A few had unshed tears in their eyes.

Amelia’s heart faltered when she looked around and didn’t see Hank anywhere.

Oh, dear Lord. Please let him be safe.

Just then Sophronia came out of the back door and crossed the porch. Her long black hair hung wild and free, cascading past her waist. Gone was the haughty Spanish don’s daughter. Disheveled, unkempt, Sophronia was a far cry from the woman Amelia knew. Her blouse was spattered with blood and dirt. Some of the pearl buttons on her torn bodice were missing.

Sophronia took one look at Fanny’s body before her gaze cut to Amelia.

“Get away from her,” Sophronia ordered. “When Lemuel finds out your brother was part of this he…he’ll ruin you.”

Amelia tried to move but couldn’t. She could barely breathe. She glanced around at the men, at Sophronia. The woman stood protectively over Fanny and commanded the men to carry her sister-in-law’s body inside. She sent someone to fetch Lemuel in Austin.

She may not have looked like a don’s daughter just then, but Sophronia could still issue commands.

Movement near the barn drew Amelia’s attention. Her breath caught when she recognized Hank. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His shirt was stained with blood and mud—but he was alive. As he walked slowly into the sunlight from the shadow of the barn, she noticed he was leading a horse behind him—a horse that she knew all too well. Evan’s horse.

She recognized the saddle their father had given Evan on his thirteenth birthday—a man’s saddle, with his
initials tooled in the leather. He was trussed up like an animal beneath a canvas tarp with a thick cord around it. Someone had slung his shroud-wrapped body over his saddle, head and heels down.

Amelia opened her mouth but she couldn’t speak.

Mercifully, her world went black.

Hank flipped the reins around the top of the corral fence and ran, but couldn’t reach Amelia before she hit the ground. He sank to the dust and pulled her into his arms, held her as gently as one would a babe. He smoothed her hair back, traced her cheek with his fingertips.

It pained him to know that from this day forward, she’d no longer be known for all the good she’d done. She’d no longer be thought of as Amelia Hawthorne, apothecary and healer, but as the sister of the outlaw Evan Hawthorne.

He’d asked someone to come and find him as soon as she arrived. He’d hoped to spare her this, to tell her as gently as he could that Evan was gone. He wanted to be the one to explain, to prepare her before she was subjected to seeing her brother’s body like this.

But no one came to let him know that she had arrived. Now it was too late. He tightened his hold, clasped her to his heart. Rocking back and forth, he whispered her name. A moment passed, then another before her eyelashes fluttered. She smiled up at him, until she suddenly remembered. An expression of horror crossed her face.

“Evan—”

“He’s dead, Amelia.” Hank would sooner cut out his tongue than have to tell her the rest. She closed her eyes and let her tears flow. They streamed down her cheeks, plopped onto the bodice of her gown.

Hank shifted, helped her sit. They sat in the dirt facing each other, unaware of anything or anyone else. Finally he took a deep breath and began.

“The Perkins brothers took Fanny and Mrs. Harroway hostage. There was a gunfight.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Fanny’s dead, Hank.”

He glanced over at the house. Fanny’s body had been taken inside. Caldwell’s men were hefting one of the Perkinses’ bodies to the back of a horse, tying it down for the trip back to Comanche. Only the two Perkins brothers and Evan Hawthorne had attacked the ranch. Silas Jones was still at large. For Amelia’s sake, Hank wished it could have been Evan who had disappeared, wished the young man had finally come to his senses.

“Help me up,” Amelia said softly.

He helped her stand, refusing to let go of her hand.

“I want to see Evan.” She turned toward her brother’s horse.

“Not now, Amelia. Wait until we take him back to town. Until he’s laid out properly.”

“I want to see my brother.” She started toward the horse.

“Wait,” he commanded. His harsh tone stopped her in her tracks. “Please. Come with me first,” he begged.

He walked her over to a pump near a windmill. A metal cup dangled from the handle. He pumped a cupful of water, offered it to her, but she refused. He lifted it to his lips, drained it. Hung the cup again.

“Let me tell you what happened,” he said, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He
needed
to tell her what happened.

“I’m sure you did everything you could.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Amelia, I killed Evan. I’m the one who shot him.”

She looked startled. “What?”

“I killed your brother.”

“No.” She shook her head in denial. A fleeting smile touched her lips. “No, Hank. Not you. You couldn’t kill anyone. Besides, you
promised
me you’d watch out for Evan. That you’d protect him.” She actually reached out and brushed his hair back, then tried to straighten his collar.

Her trust in him, her denial, broke his heart.

“I’m sorry, Amelia,” he whispered. “The younger Perkins brother was dead. I was covering the front of the house with Charlie Scout when Evan came running out. He was holding Mrs. Harroway at gunpoint. He threatened to kill her if anyone came any closer. She was struggling, fighting like a wildcat, trying to break his hold.

“I called out to him, told him to let her go. To surrender. But he charged out. Charlie Scout fired over his head, thinking Evan would bolt, but he didn’t. He fired back and hit Charlie in the arm. Then he raised his gun to Mrs. Harroway’s head. I had no time to think. I fired.”

He didn’t think he could actually hit the side of a barn under pressure. It was a miracle that he had killed Evan and not Sophronia Harroway. The shot could have gone wide, but somehow Sophronia lunged to the side and he’d put a bullet right into Evan’s heart.

“It was a clean shot, Amelia. He was dead in an instant.” No consolation, he thought. None at all.

She stared at him as if he were speaking in a language incomprehensible to her. Then, without a word, without warning, she started walking toward Evan’s horse.

“Amelia, wait!”

She stopped in her tracks, slowly turned. The look on her face broke his heart.

“And if I don’t? Will you shoot me, too?”

If she intended to wound, she had hit the mark. Hank opened his mouth, closed it again. What could he say? He’d promised to do what he could to protect her brother, but he’d killed him instead.

The distance between Hank and Evan’s horse was the longest journey Amelia had ever had to make. Afraid she would faint again, she faltered and took a deep breath. She forced herself to continue to breathe. Finally, she was beside Evan’s body. She thought she’d wanted to see him, but Hank was right. Better to wait. She hadn’t the courage to fold back the canvas shroud. To see him draped over his saddle, his body treated with as much respect as a deer carcass, wounded her to her very soul.

I’ll do everything I can to keep him safe.

He’d sealed his promise with a kiss right there in the middle of Main Street in front of everyone.

She thought Hank was different. She had thought that because he was well-educated, because he was well-mannered and well-spoken, that he was a caring man. A man of his word. Obviously, he was no better than Oswald Caldwell. No better than the rest of them.

She was surprisingly calm as she laid her hand on the shroud. She closed her eyes, tried to summon the words of a prayer.

“Dear Lord…”

For the first time in her life, she couldn’t find words to say to Him.

Why bother? He isn’t there.

Surely if there was a God in heaven, He would have heard her pleas. He would not, could not, have taken Evan this way.

“Evan is all I had,” she whispered. “And You’ve taken him.”

She stood beside her brother’s horse, beside Evan, as the hot Texas sun beat down upon them. She didn’t know how long she stood there. All she knew was that she couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave his side. Her heart was as empty as her mind was void of words to say and thoughts to think. As empty as her soul.

Finally, after a while, her tears dried. She let her hand fall away from Evan’s body and slowly turned. Hank was still there beside her. She didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t meet his eyes.

She gazed around the yard. Harroway’s men were busy cleaning up broken glass, tending to the house, the livestock. Oswald Caldwell was nowhere to be seen. He’d taken his posse and ridden off.

Charlie Scout sat on the edge of the veranda, clutching his wounded right arm with his left hand. He stared woefully in her direction. She noticed someone had set her medical bag beside him.

Sigrid came through the back door and hurried across the yard.

She hovered uncertainly at Amelia’s elbow. “I got some tea ready for you, Doctor. Come vit me.”

Disjointed thoughts floated through Amelia’s mind. She pictured Sophronia’s grand silver tea service. She thought of the jumble of things always strewn about Fanny’s room. She remembered today’s summons to the ranch. She turned to Sigrid.

“Where is Isaac? I was told he was wounded.”

Sigrid’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s dead, Doctor.”

Isaac is gone, too.

Isaac, the old cowpuncher who’d never done anything
to hurt anyone. He’d been loyal to the Harroways, first the father and then the son, for the last thirty years of his life. He’d told Amelia more than once how lucky he was that Lemuel had kept him on, how lucky he was to live out his days on the ranch tending to things the younger men wouldn’t or didn’t have time to do.

Now he was gone.

“I’ll see to Charlie Scout,” she told Sigrid. “And then I’m going home.”

“Vat about da tea?”

“No…no thank you. Maybe just a glass of water.” She doubted she’d be able to taste anything but sorrow for a long time to come.

Somehow she survived the trip home. She’d insisted on riding back to Glory alone, but after she’d patched up Charlie Scout’s wound, he’d trailed her all the way—no doubt at Hank’s insistence. No one else paid her any mind. Thankfully Hank hadn’t insisted on accompanying her himself.

She made arrangements with Max Bratton, the undertaker, before she went home. Once there, she somehow found the strength to walk into Evan’s room, open the armoire. She chose a shirt with a fine blue and burgundy stripe on a field of white, along with his only suit. It was three years old. No doubt the sleeves were too short, but there was nothing she could do about that. No one was going to see her brother laid out anyway.

Not if she had anything to say about it.

Later, she argued with Max Bratton and refused to hold a viewing. Folks would demand it, he told her. No one, she insisted,
no one
was going to gawk at Evan—which was also what she told the traveling photographer
who was crass enough to knock at the door offering her a goodly sum of money for the opportunity to photograph Evan’s body. The man had already taken pictures of the Perkins brothers. She was adamant about not putting Evan on display merely to satisfy the curious.

She made certain Evan was laid out properly, that his hair was combed and his suit pressed by her own hand. The last time she would see her brother was the day the undertaker nailed his coffin shut. Every blow to every nail pierced her heart.

Brand and Charity were the first to come calling late that afternoon. They begged her to move in with them for the time being. She refused. She also refused a church service for Evan’s funeral, which shocked them both. She didn’t care anymore. God had turned His back on the Hawthornes. She didn’t need Him anymore.

She finally agreed to let Brand speak at the grave site, just so they would stop badgering her. When the McCormicks finally went home, they left behind a crock of ham and scalloped potatoes. The food went untouched. Neighbors came and went.

She didn’t answer the door.

Hank came morning and night. He was the easiest and hardest to ignore.

The heat became unbearable before a summer lightning storm hit. Two long and tedious days of rain and waiting passed before the funeral. Amelia locked herself inside, pulled down the shades and refused to answer the door. Not until nightfall did she slip outside to feed and water Sweet Pickle.

When the rain let up, the heat returned with a ven
geance. Her gardens became parched and dry. Soon they would be as dead as Evan.

The morning of the burial, she dressed carefully, donning the one formal black gown she owned. The lace cuffs and collar were a bit worn, but she couldn’t care less. She walked out the front door, head high, her face shaded by a black veil draped over the wide brim of an equally black hat that had been her mother’s.

She’d heard folks knock, heard their footsteps as they crossed the porch. She walked past the covered dishes they left, ignoring them just as she ignored a copy of the
Glory Gazette
near the front door.