Grace and the Guiltless Page 4

  As she rounded the corner and headed toward the alley, Grace could hear crashes, whinnies, and curses issuing from the stable. Two men screamed at each other above the clatter.

  “That crazy horse should be shot!”

  “Sheriff wouldn’t like that. Wouldn’t want that gal staying in town, stirring up trouble. Don’t want her reminding people he’s afeared of Hale.”

  “Afeared? Naw, he’s living high off Hale’s bribes.”

  No wonder the sheriff had ignored her. One hand gripping her gun and the other clenched into a fist, Grace sneaked along close to the stable wall, listening.

  “If that’s so,” the deeper voice said, “why isn’t Hale strutting around town? Folks say he’s hiding out in the Dragoon Mountains.”

  Grace’s ears perked up at this. She had seen the gang head toward the mountains — was it possible they were still out there?

  “Hale will be back when things settle down,” the other man replied. “Right now Behan’s covering for the Guiltless Gang. But if that new deputy finds out where Hale is, he’ll put together a posse and go after them. Word is this time the gang done killed some kids.”

  Not just any kids. Daniel and Abby and Zeke . . .

  “Oh yeah?”

  Their tones were so dismissive that Grace’s fury over Behan’s cowardice — and everyone’s acceptance of it — reached its boiling point. She rushed toward the open stable door and stomped inside, her eyes flashing with anger. But with Bullet’s hooves smashing against the stall door, the stable hands didn’t even hear her enter.

  “That little gal handled that horse, why can’t you?” the white-haired older man yelled with derision in his voice.

  The younger one’s hand slid to his holster. “Like I said, this horse oughta be shot —”

  He stopped short as Grace pointed her father’s revolver at his back and pulled back the hammer. “Shoot my horse, I’ll shoot you,” she said.

  Both men turned and stared at her, wide-eyed.

  The old man with gray stubble on his chin raised his hands as if in surrender, but a slow, mocking grin spread across his face. He nudged the tall, skinny man beside him. “Best get that horse for the lady.” He drawled the last word, making it sound like an insult.

  “I’ll get Bullet myself.” Grace strode toward the stall, keeping the gun pointed in their direction.

  As soon as she reached him, Bullet quieted. He neighed and snorted as she unlatched and opened the stall, and then he nudged her with his head, almost knocking the gun from her grasp. She saddled him up, checked the water pouch, and headed for the door.

  When she passed them, the younger man backed away, but the older one grabbed for the saddlebag to stop her, making Bullet shy away.

  His voice menacing, he said, “If I was you, young lady, I’d leave Tombstone. I hear tell the gang’s looking for someone fittin’ your description. One that got away? Hate for you to be the next victim.”

  “Yeah,” the younger one joined in now, his words laced with fake sympathy. “Wouldn’t want you or that horse shot. Accidents happen. Mistaken identity and all, you know.”

  Were they just trying to scare her, to pay her back because they hadn’t liked being shown up by a girl? Or were she and Bullet really in danger?

  She would take no chances. Mounting Bullet quickly and giving the men one last disdainful stare, Grace dug in her heels and galloped away, down the dusty streets. She had to get out of town. Away from the kind of men who wanted to shoot Bullet on sight. Away from a sheriff who was not only a coward, but crooked.

  Away from her nightmares.

  As she rode, the Dragoon Mountains rose in the distance, barren and rocky, dotted with patches of scrub and trees. The grief that had been simmering and bubbling within her finally overflowed, threatening to consume her. But now Grace focused on one thought, one goal. If she could somehow track down Hale and flush him out of those mountains, the deputy could administer justice.

  She and Bullet broke out into the open plains and were soon streaking across the desert. But although the freedom of the wide-open space filled her with relief at first, within an hour the heat was scorching her, drenching her clothes in sweat and soaking Bullet’s coat. The afternoon sun baked the clay and sand, sending waves of heat spiraling from the ground and puffs of dust clouding the air behind them.

  Against the clear blue sky, the mountains had appeared close, but hours later the granite peaks seemed no closer. The landscape shimmered. Tufts of grass and small rocks wavered. Grace’s eyes stung; her stomach cramped.

  Water. She had been so anxious to move toward the mountains, she’d been ignoring her growing thirst. She needed a drink and so did Bullet. She slid from the saddle and reached for the hide water bag — but it was flat.

  How could that be? She had filled it last night at the stable.

  Grace ran her hands along the sides and the bottom, trying to find the source of the leak. Was it an accident, or had one of the stable hands sabotaged it?

  Grace slowed Bullet to a walk and led him toward a lone cottonwood tree that trembled in and out of her vision. She hoped desperately that it wasn’t a mirage. Thirst was making her so weak she couldn’t keep her balance. Her face was on fire, and the inside of her mouth was dry and dusty. Too shaky to remount, she staggered along beside Bullet with one hand on his neck to keep her balance, but after a few more steps, Grace stumbled and fell.

  Bullet nudged her with his nose, but lethargy kept her pinned to the ground. Waves of acid rolled in her gut, cresting and splashing higher into her throat. Tight knots of pain twisted her belly. The sun was roasting her, draining every drop of energy from her body, every drop of moisture from her mouth.

  She tried to say “I’m sorry” to Bullet, but her cracked, dried lips refused to even shape the words. Her eyelids drooped. They were heavy, so heavy . . .

  She heard growls on her right. Through the haze closing around her, she could just make out gray bodies wavering in and out.

  Mexican wolves.

  The small, fierce creatures usually preyed on cattle, trapping the weakest of the bunch, but even in the fog of her brain, Grace knew they wouldn’t hesitate to attack her. She had to stand, get away before they tore at her throat, but she couldn’t. She lay helpless, exposed, too weary to move as the wolves circled and closed in.

  CHAPTER 5

  A bullet skittered through the sand just past Grace’s head. She barely flinched, unable to do anything more, but Bullet screamed and reared.

  They’ve found me . . . the gang . . .

  Pa’s gun lay under the bunched folds of her skirt, but heaviness weighed her arm down. She just couldn’t lift it.

  Several more shots squeezed off in rapid succession. Why didn’t they hit her? How many bullets would it take? Death would be a welcome relief. She would be with her family; she would be at peace . . .

  No!

  If she died now, the Guiltless Gang would get away with everything they had done.

  She struggled, trying desperately to move. She heard a horse snort, and suddenly a low voice came from above her as she lay on the hot ground. Grace struggled to open her eyes, but her lids seemed to be glued shut. Did she want to see her killer? Surely he wouldn’t miss from this close.

  A shadow fell across her face, and a figure leaned over her, blocking the relentless waves of heat. A hand slid under her head, tilting it up.

  Did he plan to strangle her?

  She should fight, but her arms flopped bonelessly, like the limp arms of Abby’s cornhusk doll. Grace finally managed to pry her eyes open to a squint, but blobs of swirling color danced in front of her. Gradually, the brim of a black hat came into focus.

  “P-Pa?” Her parched lips could barely form the word. Reality came crashing back, and Grace shivered in spite of the broiling heat. She jerked as something brushed her mouth.
/>
  Water. Precious drops of water. She gulped another mouthful and chased the drips with her tongue.

  “Careful now,” a deep voice said. “Drink slowly or you’ll make yourself sick. Small sips.”

  The hand behind her head slid down to support her back and eased her into a sitting position. A hazy figure dressed in black blurred Grace’s vision. A white band danced up and down on his neck. She struggled to focus, and eventually she could see a man smiling.

  “I hope I didn’t frighten you with those bullets. The noise scared off the wolves. They were probably only curious though. I don’t believe they eat people, but I didn’t want to take a chance.”

  Spots whirled in front of Grace’s eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the dizziness.

  “When did you eat last?”

  When had she eaten? The bordello . . .

  “Yesterday.” Her voice came out hoarse and whispery.

  “I don’t have much, but I’ll share what I have.” The man reached into the rawhide pouch at his side and drew out a small ball of food. “It’s pemmican. I buy it from the Indians.”

  He held it out, and Grace opened her mouth like a baby bird, helpless, her arms limp at her sides.

  He broke off a piece and fed it to her.

  Grace chewed slowly, savoring the tart dried berries, bits of beef jerky, and melting fat. The raging acid in her stomach began to calm.

  The stranger gave Bullet some water, then knelt beside her again. “We need to get you into the shade. Think you can stand?”

  Her arms and legs wouldn’t cooperate, so he picked her up and carried her to the cottonwood tree she’d been heading toward before she collapsed. He settled her under the low-hanging branches, where the air felt several degrees cooler.

  “Who are —” She croaked out the words.

  “John Byington, at your service.”

  John Byington? The name sounded familiar, but Grace’s mind was so addled she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it before.

  “The good Lord must have directed me this way today. What are you doing way out here?”

  What was she doing out here? Why had she come? A thick cloud obscured her thoughts.

  “Are you a runaway?”

  Grace shook her head. Her tongue was still too thick in her mouth to answer.

  John Byington lifted a thick black book from his bag. A Bible.

  Now Grace knew who he was. The saddlebag preacher. Ma always insisted they ride into town when he came through once a month to preach. That white band at his neck was a clerical collar.

  Clutching the Bible in one hand, Reverend Byington knelt beside her and took her hand. “Why don’t we pray? Thank God that He spared your life?”

  “Spared my life?” The words barely trickled out, as if her throat were an unprimed pump. “Wh-what about my family?”

  Then the rusty tap opened, and tears gushed out along with her words.

  Byington held her hand while Grace spilled the whole story of what had happened at her home, concern etching a frown into his forehead.

  After she finished, he remained silent for a long time, his eyes filled with empathy. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I’m mighty sorry you’ve been through so much pain.” His voice sounded husky, as though he were holding back tears himself. “But God spared you — twice. He must have a special purpose for your life —”

  “The only purpose I have in life is to see those killers brought to justice,” Grace spat. “God has nothing to do with it.” The fog in her brain was clearing, leaving her with a terrible headache.

  The reverend sighed. “I don’t blame you for being bitter, child. But the hostility in your heart will poison you more than those you hate.”

  He let go of her hand, opened his Bible, and thumbed through the pages. “The Good Book says, ‘For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.’”

  “My sins? What about theirs?” Pent-up fury choked Grace’s words.

  “It is not for you to judge. Leave justice up to God.”

  “How can I trust God? Was killing my family His idea of justice?” The sun shimmering on the rocks made her eyes sting and increased the pounding in her head.

  The creases in Reverend Byington’s weather-beaten face deepened. “No one knows God’s plans or purposes. And though it may not seem like it, He loves you and cares about you.”

  Grace sucked in a sharp breath that seemed to pierce through her shattered heart. “I used to believe that until . . .until . . .” She pinched her lips together to stop them from trembling.

  When she spoke again, she made her words short and sharp, to hide the hollowness she felt inside. “I don’t need God’s love. Or anyone else’s. Love only leads to heartache. Do you know what it feels like to see everyone you’ve ever loved . . .” She closed her eyes and fought off visions of the cross on the hill. Her voice, when it came, was shaky and filled with hurt. “I’ll never love anyone ever again.”

  “My dear, that’s your pain speaking. Not you. Not your heart.” He held out a hand to help Grace to her feet. “Let’s head back to town. I’ll see you get a proper meal, and I believe I know someone who might be able to take you in.”

  His kindness in spite of her outburst brought tears to Grace’s eyes. “Thank you for the offer. But I have . . . there’s something I have to do.”

  The look the preacher gave her — part pity, part judgment — made Grace squirm. But she wouldn’t give up until she brought every last one of that gang to justice.

  “I can’t leave a young girl wandering the desert alone,” he insisted. “If I hadn’t come along, you would have died.”

  “Maybe that would have been best.”

  Reverend Byington frowned. “Untimely deaths are never good.” He softened his sharp tone. “As you well know.”

  She hung her head. “No, they’re not.”

  “And despite what you think of God at this moment, He has a special plan for your life.”

  Grace bit her tongue to keep from arguing and kept her eyes averted so the preacher couldn’t read defiance in them.

  When she didn’t answer, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Things may look different once you’ve had some rest and more food. Are you still dizzy? If so, I can walk beside your horse instead of riding.”

  “I’m not going back to town.” She knew if she told him exactly what she planned to do, he wouldn’t let her go. But Grace intended to track down those criminals. If she had to, she would lead the deputy and posse back to their lair herself.

  “Well, you can’t stay out here, child.” The preacher rubbed his chin. “If you won’t come back to town, then the Joneses have a ranch just east of here. They’d be glad to take you on if you’re willing to work.”

  He squinted up at the sun. “You can probably make it there with your horse within the hour. Head due east on that trail there. If you’re sure you’re all right to go it on your own.”

  “I — I am. Thank you,” Grace murmured, keeping her gaze on the ground. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, all the more so after the way the people in town had treated her. She couldn’t tell him she had no intention of heading that way.

  “They’ll be pleased to have you. Martha’s been ill for a while now, and taking care of six children has just about done her in. I’m sure she would be glad of an extra hand. They have horses too.” He pulled at his lower lip and looked thoughtful. “Not sure they would let a young girl help with their horses, but they’d stable yours. You’d have a roof over your head. And both John and Martha are fine Christians, raising their children to love the Good Book.” He smiled as he tucked his Bible into his saddlebag. “Light drives out the darkness in our hearts.”

  “Perhaps, sir.” She couldn’t sa
y anything more.

  “You had better take this.” Reverend Byington handed her his water pouch.

  “But you’ll need it, won’t you?”

  “Not as much as you do.” He also held out his leather bag. “I’m afraid there’s not much pemmican left, but you can use this to store your things.” He pointed to the gun and the tintype.

  Grace was overwhelmed by his kindness. “But I . . . how can I repay you?”

  “By forgiving those who have wronged you.”

  Grace felt the heat of the sun again, beating down on her head. She pursed her lips to keep the words from bursting out. Those criminals? Forgive them?

  He looked at her dubiously. “Perhaps I should accompany you . . .”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine.” She had to get away before he dragged her to the Joneses. “Uh, didn’t you say someone was waiting for you in town?”

  “Yes, but he’ll understand that I must be about the Lord’s business.”

  “Well, as you said, it’s not far to the ranch, right?” Grace had to convince him to head to town so she could get on with her plans.

  His eyes still held reluctance, but he sighed. “Yes. And remember, the Joneses are good people. I’ll be out this way after the Sunday sermon, so I can check on you.”

  “Yes, yes — thank you,” Grace said hastily.

  As soon as he bid her good day, she rode off in the direction he’d indicated, riding until the granite outcrops near the foot of the mountains hid her and Bullet. Then she turned and headed straight up the mountain.

  After hours of climbing, Grace stopped for a rest. Hadn’t the preacher mentioned he had filled his water pouch at a stream in this direction? Or had she gotten turned around when she had pretended to ride toward the ranch? She pulled Bullet to a halt and dismounted, then opened the pouch to nibble on some more of the pemmican the preacher had given her.

  As she chewed, she realized something. Pa’s pistol was in the pouch — but where was the tintype? She took out the pemmican, turned the bag upside down, and shook it. She felt around inside for holes or a lining. No! She couldn’t have lost it. Grace stood up, searched all around the rocky ground. She’d slid the tintype into the pouch. She knew she had. Where could it have fallen out?