Paperback
-
SHIP THIS ITEMIn stock. Ships in 1-2 days.PICK UP IN STORE
Your local store may have stock of this item.
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781601548603 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Wild Rose Press |
| Publication date: | 10/14/2010 |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.73(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Don't think about it. Don't think about it. U.S. Deputy Marshal Richard Bennick repeated the words in his mind as he lay hidden in blue stem already tall enough to reach his chest. Even his bones ached for a swig of bourbon from the bottle of Old Crow in his saddlebag. Just one swallow would calm the anxiety which ate at him. One swallow would curb the restless energy which flowed through his body and pulsated from every nerve ending. He could almost smell the faint whiff of caramel and vanilla as he popped the cork. Feel the tingle along his tongue as the familiar burn crept up the back of his nose when he swallowed.
With his horse ground tied out of sight, he was forced instead to draw a deep breath of warm, morning air. Slowly he exhaled, reminding himself to focus on the crumbling sod dugout in front of him and wait for fellow deputy, Martin Brady to give the signal to advance.
He peered through the swaying prairie grass at the open door of the outlaw hide-out less than one hundred yards away. In front of the dug-out, three bedrolls lay spread in the grass as low snores rumbled from beneath the colorful mounds of quilts and blankets.
Resting his finger on the trigger guard of his Winchester, he shifted his hip off a lump in the ground. A single bead of sweat trailed slowly down his forehead, and though he itched to swipe away the annoyance, his left arm — a casualty of a war long over — had been amputated just above his elbow, leaving only his right hand to support the weight of his rifle.
Another bead of sweat worked its way along the length of his nose, hung for a moment from the very tip, then dropped. He glanced down at the tiny splat, dark on the gray metal breech of his Winchester. A black fly wandered up the barrel and stopped to drink from the tiny spot.
While lying in this grass was hot and uncomfortable, he'd gladly choose dripping sweat and whining mosquitoes if only to avoid the inevitable gunfight should Brady wait until the outlaws were awake and armed, before demanding their surrender.
He could almost hear the shooting in his head as dark images pushed their way forward from the back of his mind, obscuring the reality before him.
Tears blurred his vision to protect his eyes from the sting of the thick gray haze while his heart thumped painfully against the wall of his chest.
No, he admonished himself, squeezing his eyes tight. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. He drew a deep breath, released it slowly then took another and expelled the unwanted memories. The sky was blue once more.
Perhaps Caroline was right. His new job as second assistant to her father, District Attorney Benton Caldwell, was just what he needed. There would be no more killing. He would still be part of the judicial system, helping, as Caroline said, "... to rid society of its undesirable element, yet without the ugliness." Such a change, she'd insisted, could only be what was best for him.
He cocked his head, and with a roll of his left shoulder, wiped a bead of sweat from his cheek. A mosquito whined in his right ear. He ignored it.
Ahead, a young boy crawled from the farthest bedroll and stretched. With practiced efficiency, he rolled up his blankets and carried them to the sod house where he tossed them down and picked up a battered wooden bucket from where it sat on a bench beside the open door. Wearing his wide brimmed hat pulled low, he wandered toward the stream where Richard lay hidden. The bucket swung from the boy's left hand, as he whistled tunelessly under his breath.
Another bead of sweat began its long journey down Richard's nose. Twin beads slid down either side of his face to twist through the thick stubble of his beard. He frowned, realizing that despite the heat, the boy wore an oversized, white-linen duster. The garment hung to his ankles and swallowed his hands inside long tattered sleeves.
Squatting at the edge of the water, not twenty feet from where Richard lay, the boy reached up and removed his battered hat, revealing short, shaggy blond hair. Shoving up the voluminous sleeves, he leaned forward to splash water on his face and neck. For several minutes the boy stared out across the tips of the swaying grass, seemingly lost in some daydream.
"Johnny!" bellowed an angry voice from inside the sod house. "Where the hell's the water for my coffee? Get your sorry little ass in here!" Muttering under his breath, the boy scooped up some water, plopped his hat on his head, and tromped back to the crumbling dug-out.
The commotion roused the other men in their bedrolls. Where was Brady? They could still catch the outlaws unaware if they moved in now. But there was no signal. Had the deputy dozed off? Richard cursed under his breath. This was one of the many reasons he preferred to work alone.
No sooner had the boy reached the soddy when a large, burly man, clad only in sagging underwear, stepped through the open door. Richard had seen the craggy features and narrow eyes of that face staring back at him from the flat plane of a hundred wanted posters.
Pierpont Bodine.
The outlaw had started his career during the war riding with the notorious Bloody Bill Anderson. After Anderson was killed, Bodine wandered through the western frontier taking what he wanted when he wanted it, without regard for human life. He'd held a reputation for ruling his men with an iron hand and using his long barrel Colt swiftly, without feeling or conscience.
Two weeks ago, Marshal Upham received word from the Chickasaw Indian Police that Peirpont Bodine was in the Nation. Richard immediately volunteered to bring him in. Though the area west of the Boggy was the wildest part of the Chickasaw Nation, he knew it like the back of his hand.
Seeking information in a small village, he and Brady were told Bodine and his men were holed-up, two days ride, northwest of Smith Pauls Valley. Once they located the hideout, they waited until dark before taking up their positions on either side of the soddy then bided their time until dawn.
Bodine snatched the bucket from the boy's grip, sloshing water over the sides. "Go check on them horses." He gave the kid a shove that had the boy stumbling backward, barely able to catch himself from sprawling in the grass.
"Yes sir, Paw." The boy gave the man an obedient nod before scurrying off to the make-shift corral attached to the side of the soddy.
Paw? Richard frowned. This boy couldn't be any more than fourteen. Maybe Johnny was a younger son. Richard shifted in the grass. God, he didn't want to believe someone not even old enough to shave could be sentenced to hang.
Judge Parker hadn't known the name of Bodine's son, but he'd been seen with the gang during a few of their stage robberies, so the warrant included a detailed description; average height, blond hair, blue eyes, early twenties, seen wearing a white duster, riding a large brown and white paint horse.
Smoke curled from the crooked stove pipe as the aroma of coffee drifted through the open door. The two other men were awake now, joking good naturedly with each other as they rolled up their bedding and headed inside. Any moment now Bodine would send someone to relieve the sentry and all hell would break loose.
Earlier, after the last guard change, Richard and Brady had crept up on the sentry who'd been dozing against the narrow trunk of a lone hackberry tree on a knoll less than a quarter mile away. Brady knocked him unconscious, then he and Richard tied the man up and dragged him back to where he and Brady had hidden their horses.
Damn it, Richard cursed to himself. How long was Brady planning to wait?
Having finished his chores, Johnny tromped back toward the front of the dug-out, where a lean man with long blond hair stepped into the early morning light. A cup in one hand, he paused for a moment to scratch his shirtless belly. As Johnny approached, he set his cup on the bench then turned and urinated against the crumbling wall of the dug-out.
"You best get in there, your pa's pissed." He chuckled at his crude joke while he buttoned his fly. "We're ridin' out soon to meet Calvin, and I want somethin' to eat before I gotta spell Willis from guard duty."
"We ain't got no supplies."
"Don't give me none of your sass, you little bastard." The outlaw drew back his fist to hit the boy, but Johnny ducked and darted inside.
Immediately, the muffled but irate voice of Pierpont Bodine penetrated the thick sod walls and drifted through the grass to Richard's ears. The tirade was punctuated a few minutes later by a loud thump and the splintering sound of breaking wood. After lengthy silence the smoky scent of bacon wafted outside. His stomach rumbled.
All the outlaws were now inside. Finally, Brady issued a low, soft whistle, signaling Richard to move closer. Adrenalin pumping, he dashed across the clearing to take up a new position at the corner of the corral. Again he waited.
The clank of buckles and the uneven scuffing sound of someone walking toward him through the grass tightened every muscle in his body. In one smooth motion, Richard shouldered his rifle and dove behind a broken barrel, praying he hadn't been seen.
Head down, Johnny rounded the corner of the soddy with a bridle looped over his shoulder, lugging a saddle and blanket in his arms.
The boy tossed the saddle onto the top rail then ducked between the poles. For the first time Richard caught a glimpse of Johnny's face.
Something undefined in the boy's features momentarily captured his attention, but he didn't have the time to wonder what, for he became distracted by the ugly bruise which marred the boy's left cheekbone. The deep purple and black bruise had evidently been there a day or two for the skin around it held a yellowish cast which spread all the way up to Johnny's eye. In addition, fresh blood oozed from a cut in the corner of the boy's lower lip.
In that instant, an urge to barge into the cabin and confront Bodine over his mistreatment of the boy washed over Richard, but he quickly shook it off. Johnny certainly didn't deserve any pity. His father was one of the most notorious outlaws in the territory, and from all reports this kid was following him straight to hell.
"Damn it all, Jack," the boy muttered softly as he smoothed a Navajo blanket over the back of a big brown and white paint. "I don't want to join up with Uncle Cal. An' I sure as hell don't want to be a-robbin' no stage." He swiped at the blood on his lip with a quick shrug of his shoulder, before heaving the bulky saddle onto Jack's muscular back.
"Why in hell does Paw want me to go?" he asked the horse as he rubbed his left elbow. "Prob'ly 'cause he ain't got Henry to tend the horses no more. Shit, Paw don't even like me. 'Course he weren't none too fond a Henry neither."
Johnny reached under the horse to grab the dangling cinch, then threaded the long leather latigo strap through the ring on the saddle, pulled it snug, and dropped the stirrup back in place.
"Prob'ly end up a-ridin' hell bent fer leather with some damn posse doggin' our heels. Jest promise ya'll see to it I don't get left behind, an' I promise to take real good care of ya."
Johnny patted the horse's neck. He lifted the bridle off his shoulder and offered Jack the bit. "Reckon we ought'a jest be glad Paw ain't a-leavin' us here alone." Johnny dropped the reins, leaving the horse ground tied while he climbed through the poles and returned to the soddy. After a moment he reappeared, the stirrups of another saddle bumping against his shins.
Richard hunkered down as Johnny moved in his direction. Damn. As soon as the kid moved to the next horse Richard would be spotted for sure. Unsure if the boy had a weapon hidden in his baggy duster, Richard waited until the boy had turned his back to heave the saddle onto the horse. Richard leaned his Winchester against the side of the barrel and slipped between the rails of the corral fence. The thick dust made his footsteps silent, as he crept up behind the unsuspecting boy.
Just as Richard stretched his arm out to clamp his hand over the boy's mouth, Johnny whirled around.
Frozen, they did little more than blink at each other for several heartbeats. Richard found himself mesmerized by eyes so intensely blue they were violet. They drew him into their depths and held him captive, though he didn't comprehend how.
That moment of insanity cost him. Johnny bolted. The abrupt movement jarred Richard from his daze. He realized his mistake and threw his body forward, ramming his shoulder into the kid's lower back. The pair slammed into the ground, with Richard on top of the thrashing boy.
"Posse!" Johnny yelled as they hit the dirt and rolled across the corral.
The scrappy little outlaw kicked Richard's legs and pummeled his back with small fists. The startled horses danced around their rolling bodies.
"Pos —"
Richard clamped his hand over Johnny's mouth, pressing the back of the boy's blond head firmly into the ground. But doing so left Richard vulnerable to the kid's clawing fingers.
A shot rang out from the front of the sod house. Brady's deep voice carried across the prairie. "Pierpont Bodine! This is U.S. Deputy Marshal Martin Brady! I have warrants for you and your men. Put down your guns and come outside!"
Johnny tried to scramble free, but Richard yanked the kid down and straddled his hips. Leaning forward, Richard pressed his right hand against Johnny's left shoulder, pinning him to the ground.
Gunfire began in earnest.
"Give it up, Bodine!" Brady ordered above the din.
With his free arm, the boy landed a weak punch to Richard's jaw, but because of his missing arm, he was unable to block further onslaught. With gritted teeth, he suffered pounding abuse to his ribs, back, and head.
"The water's out here, and we got you surrounded!" Brady yelled. "Surrender or we'll fire the house!"
Just as the boy heaved his upper body toward Richard's face, Richard lifted his head. Instead of Johnny driving his forehead into Richard's nose, the kid slammed into Richard's chin instead, knocking his teeth together with a sharp click.
"Okay, Marshal!" Bodine's gravelly voice rang out. "We give up!"
At that moment the kid turned his head and chomped down on Richard's forearm.
"Sonofa —" Richard reared back, releasing the kid's shoulder, while still managing to maintain his position across the boy's hips. Spots of blood had already seeped through the sleeve of his faded blue shirt.
The instant Richard lifted his weight off the kid's shoulder; Johnny twisted onto his stomach and tried to crawl away. Richard forgot about his bleeding arm and lunged for a fist full of linen duster. "Oh no, you don't."
"You men," Brady commanded. "Line up right along that wall. Hands up. Bennick! Get over here!"
The kid snatched up a fistful of loose dirt, churned up by the horses and threw it over his shoulder into Richard's face. Immediately, he slapped his hand over his burning eyes as Johnny squirmed to free himself from beneath Richard's weight. At the end of his patience, he grabbed the kid by the back of his collar and hauled him to his feet.
Spewing curse words with every breath, Johnny wriggled around under his layers of baggy clothes, trying to escape, even as Richard, while maintaining his hold, pushed the boy across the corral.
"Give it up, kid." Richard squinted through the well of tears, against the painful glare of the sun. Then, whether it was fatigue or resignation, Johnny ceased his struggles. At the corral fence, Richard grabbed his Winchester and used it to gesture the kid toward the front of the sod house.
Johnny glared daggers at him.
Though tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, Richard found himself strangely exhilarated by their little tussle. As he met the spitting-mad glare of his opponent, he couldn't suppress the mischievous urge to provoke the kid a little bit further. He flashed him a quick grin and winked.
Johnny's eyes narrowed into slits. He drew his small frame up, shoulders square, his chin high.
"What the hell are ya a-laughin' at lawman? Ya didn't whup me. Why yer friend there had to call ya off afore I ripped off the rest a yer sorry hide. So stop a-standin' there a-lookin' so ... so ..."
"Smug?" Richard finished, amazed that he was enjoying himself.
"So goddamn happy." Johnny whirled around and stomped off.
"Give 'em hell, Johnny." The blond outlaw cheered as the pair approached.
Another man, older and heavier than the blond, leaned against the sod wall of the house. He held his right hand pressed against the muscle of his left bicep, as blood dripped from between his thick fingers.
"Didn't know you was such a scrappy sonofabitch." He grinned as Johnny approached.
"Why the hell didn't ya use yer knife?" No lighthearted teasing inflected Bodine's harsh voice, only cold condemnation. "Why didn't ya grab his gun, 'stead a hittin' him an' throwin' dirt like some goddamn girl? I swear, I don't know how I could a sired a bastard as a dumb as you."
"That's enough," Richard snapped when he noticed the kid's shoulders slump and his gaze lower to the ground.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Lost Hearts"
by .
Copyright © 2010 Kathleen H. Johnson.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.