A Gown of Spanish Lace (30 page)

Silence again.

“Yer pa got shot. His horse was shot right out from under ’im. He had no place to go. Caught two bullets. I…I got him out but he was hit bad. We grabbed another horse an’ lit out. We made it back. But he only lasted a few hours.”

Sam clamped his mouth shut and chewed on his mustache. He had said his piece. There was nothing more to say.

Laramie sat silently, letting all of the pieces fit together. White Eagle had said that it wasn’t his pa’s horse. He’d been right.

Laramie could imagine the scene of the robbery. He’d been there himself on more than one occasion in the past. But he had never walked into an ambush. A double cross of one of their own men.

“Why didn’t ya put his name on the cross?” he asked Sam softly.

Sam snorted. “His name? Which name? Which one of the five or six I knowed about was I gonna put on there?”

Laramie nodded. He had not realized his pa had changed his name so many times. Maybe he was one of the men listed in his mother’s Bible. For some reason he could not bring himself to ask.

He stood and set aside his cup. “I’d better git,” he said. “I’ve some ridin’ to do.”

“What ya gonna do?” asked Sam. “Thought ya might stay. This is still the safest place—”

“Not lookin’ fer a safe place,” Laramie responded. “I’m fixin’ to turn myself in.”

Sam jerked upright. “Did you come here to—?”

“I said, myself. Not you. Not anyone else. I came here to see my pa—thet’s all.” He looked evenly at the older man. “I’m not runnin’ anymore, Sam,” he said quietly.

“They’ll lock ya away—iffen they don’t hang ya,” Sam said brusquely.

Laramie nodded. “They likely will,” he agreed.

“Yer crazy, boy,” spat Sam. “Plumb crazy.”

“I was sorta hopin’ thet you’d decide to join me, Sam. I hate leavin’ ya here—all alone.”

Sam shook his head. “Got a feelin’ I’d rather finish my days here then at the end of a rope,” he said firmly.

“Maybe there wouldn’t be a rope. Maybe—”

“They’d be a rope,” said Sam, and he spit to the side of the coveted chair with its many-patched wobbly legs.

“Sheriff wouldn’t be in his right mind iffen he let me go,” went on Sam simply.

Laramie nodded. Maybe it was so. He hated to think of it. He hated to leave the aging man all alone in the forsaken camp. It didn’t seem right. But Sam had chosen his life. There was little that Laramie could do to right the wrongs. Still, he did at least owe him a glimpse at the truth he had found. The man would have to make up his own mind.

“Ya know, Sam,” he said softly as he lifted his hat and fingered the hatband, “when ya found thet there trunk of my ma’s…ya opened a whole new world fer me. A world of…good. Of law and order and…faith in God. I didn’t know where it would lead at the time, but I’ve followed the trail…an’ it led me to…forgiveness. It feels good, Sam. It feels mighty good.”

Sam only stared.

“An’ thet’s what I came back to speak to my pa about,” Laramie finished. “Now thet he ain’t here—not much reason fer me to stay. But I want you to know about it, too, Sam. It really works. God can forgive. He can turn a man’s life around. One has to ask fer the pardon He offers. It’s as simple as thet.”

Sam said nothing. He spit again, the brown liquid making one more stain on the already darkened wood of the floor.

“Think on it, Sam,” Laramie prompted gently.

Sam didn’t even acknowledge the words that were spoken. Laramie rose to his feet. Reluctantly he moved to go. He nodded toward the older man. “Thanks, Sam…fer the coffee an’ fer…carin’ fer me…as a boy. An’ fer…lookin’ out fer my pa.” His voice threatened to break on the last words. He settled his Stetson back on his thick hair and turned to leave.

Just as he was stepping through the door, Sam called out after him.

“He wasn’t really yer pa, ya know.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Reunion

Heart thudding in his chest, Laramie swung around. “What are you sayin’?”

Sam eyed him coolly. He took another cut from his chewing tobacco. “He weren’t yer real pa,” he repeated.

Laramie stepped back into the room, moving slowly toward the little man. “You knowin’ somethin’ ya haven’t come clean on—or are ya jest talkin’?” he asked tersely.

“Oh, I knowed all right,” replied Sam. “I was there.”

Laramie felt the strength draining from him. He fought for control, easing himself back to one of the log stools that had served the camp for many years. Sam now claimed the boss’s chair.

Laramie swallowed, his eyes intense.

“Are ya sayin’ thet wasn’t my ma’s trunk?” he asked Sam.

Sam fingered the tobacco before returning it to his pocket, spit in the corner, and tipped his head. “Oh, thet were her trunk, right enough,” he said slowly. “Not much doubt ’bout thet.”

“Then—” prompted Laramie.

“Thet scar ya got—” said Sam with a careless wave of his jackknife.

Laramie waited.

“Thet came in an Indian raid. Reason yer pa hated the redskins so.”

Unconsciously Laramie’s hand reached to the scar. One finger traced it back into the depth of his hair.

“We’d been out on a raid,” Sam went on, finally seeming to warm to his subject. “Came upon this wagon train. Jest been ambushed. They’d done a good job of it too. Everybody dead—all over the place. Men—womenfolk—kids—all dead. Scalps gone—faces slashed. It was an awful sight. Near made a grown man sick to his stomach.

“They’d set the wagons afire—but the rain stopped some of ’em from burning outright. Well, we didn’t much like what we saw. Some of the fellas was pokin’ through stuff—seein’ iffen there was anythin’ worth takin’, an’ then I heard this—little mew sound. Thought it was a wounded animal of some kind. I looked in this here wagon—an’ there ya was—yer head split open by a tomahawk—yer clothes soaked in blood—but still alive.

“Well, I didn’t know what to do. I called to yer pa and he come an’ took a look. Then he—”

Sam stopped and seemed to choke on the next words.

“Anyway, he picked ya outta there. I asked iffen he’d lost his senses, but he said we couldn’t jest leave ya there to die. He told the fellas to see what they could find—fer yer care, an’ Rowdy found thet trunk. It had some things fer a young’un an’ we figured thet it’d help—so yer pa ordered it brought. Near killed the pack horse gettin’ it back to camp. We shoulda jest took the things ya’d need, but we didn’t have time to sort through it there on the spot.

“Well—he brought ya home and patched ya up the best he could—an’ ya made it.”

Laramie’s head was spinning. He could not take in all that the man was saying.

“I told yer pa you’d never make an outlaw,” Sam went on as though in argument. “Ya jest—never had the stomach fer it—ya could see thet from when ya was a kid. I mean—” Sam waved the jackknife in the air. “Ya was always patching up hurt things and cleanin’ things an’—ya jest weren’t made fer it. But he said he’d make ya what he wanted ya to be. Thet ya’d never survive elsewise. Someone would up and shoot ya in the back, or somethin’. He says—”

“How old was I?” cut in Laramie.

Sam looked startled, then annoyed. “How should I know? I don’t know nothin’ ’bout kids. Around two, I s’pose. What difference—?”

Then Sam stopped and stared at the young man before him. “Ya don’t remember nothin’—?” he began, straightening up in his chair.

“Nothin’,” replied Laramie, a frown creasing his brow.

“Well—I ain’t surprised. Ya was hurt real bad. Ya didn’t even start to talk fer a good piece after it. We wondered fer a time iffen ya’d ever git any sense. Shock—yer pa said. When ya came outta it—ya seemed bright enough.”

“An’ the trunk—?” insisted Laramie, leaning forward.

“Outta the same wagon.”

Laramie managed to lift himself to his feet. “Is it still here?” he asked hoarsely.

“In thet cabin—where the girl was.”

Laramie nodded and left the room in a daze. Inwardly he was being torn in two with separate identities. What could he believe? Was Sam right? Was he really not the son of an outlaw? Had his mother really been the sweet-looking woman in the picture? Was he the little boy?

He pushed his way into the cabin, memories of Ariana bending over her open Bible flooding through his mind. He made his way to the trunk and slowly lifted back the lid. The things were still all there. The garments that Ariana had worn, carefully folded on the top. He lifted the gown and stared long and hard. His mother’s dress. She had been real. She had loved him.

Laramie buried his face in the soft garment, and for the first time since his babyhood he allowed himself the expression of tears.

When his inner storm had passed, Laramie lifted himself from beside the trunk. It was over. He had emptied his soul of all bitterness, anxiety, and conflict. He was satisfied that he was who the book said he was. Burke Lawrence, son of Lavina and Turner Lawrence. He might never know more than that about his heritage—but at least he knew to whom he had belonged. It was something precious—a treasure to carry with him for the rest of his days.

He rose, folded the gown carefully, and placed it back in the trunk.

“Thank you, Mother,” he whispered. “For yer…love. Yer prayers. I’m gonna be all right.”

He closed the lid, gently, firmly, and left the room without looking back. He would call at his pa’s—no—at his foster father’s grave one more time. The man had saved him from certain death. He had raised him in the best way he knew how. He owed him respect—and one final goodbye.

“Will Russell’s gang, ya say?”

The crusty sheriff leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet up on the wooden desk.

Laramie nodded silently.

“Don’t recall seeing ya when the bank got robbed,” said the sheriff.

“I wasn’t there,” replied Laramie.

“Where was ya?”

“I had left—some time earlier.”

The sheriff frowned. “Why?” he asked simply.

Laramie stirred. This was going to be harder than he had imagined. “There was a girl,” he began. “She was kidnapped from Smithton. She was a prisoner in our camp. I took her—to her kin.”

The sheriff’s head lifted. He looked long and hard at Laramie, as though searching for his own answers, or looking for flaws. “What changed yer mind?”

Laramie frowned. “I never changed my mind—really,” he replied. “I hadn’t been in on the kidnapping.”

“Who was?”

“My—the boss. Will Russell.”

“What changed his mind?”

The man sure had a lot of questions. Laramie squirmed. Why didn’t he just get on with it? Get a confession, or whatever it took, and lock him up.

The sheriff was still waiting for his reply.

“Well…he didn’t change his mind…really. I…I took her without him knowin’,” Laramie confessed.

“This girl—?” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed and he lowered his feet. “Ya…harm her…in any way?”

“No, sir,” Laramie was quick to reply. “I jest took her to her uncle’s farm—in Montana.”

The sheriff seemed to relax. “Why?” he asked as he lifted his feet again.

Laramie could feel the anger flushing his cheeks. He was annoyed with all the senseless questioning. “Because, sir,” he said heatedly, “she didn’t belong in a camp with a bunch of outlaws. She had done nothin’ to deserve it. She was innocent and good and God-fearing. An’ there was trouble brewin’.”

He wondered if he had said too much. If he had become too vehement. He forced himself to cool down. He’d be getting the hangman’s noose for sure with such action.

The sheriff looked at him steadily, then nodded, lifted his feet from the desk, and opened a drawer stuffed with papers. “Don’t recall seein’ yer picture,” he mused.

“No, sir. Likely haven’t,” said Laramie in a softer tone.

“Why not?” asked the sheriff, putting his feet up again.

Laramie shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Well…I reckon I haven’t earned a poster, sir,” he replied. “I was mostly left to hold the horses.” He flushed as he spoke the words.

“So,” said the sheriff, not looking up. “You haven’t killed a man—you don’t have a bounty on yer head—ya don’t even have yer face on a poster?”

Laramie nodded.

The sheriff’s feet returned to the floor with a heavy thump.

“Don’t look like I got any reason to hold ya, then,” he said simply.