Cindy Holby (3 page)

Yes he did. But what exactly did he say? Cade found he could not remember the words.

“Maybe God knew what you needed before you knew what to ask for.”

“Are you like this with everyone you meet?” Cade asked.

“God said to feed his sheep.”

Cade looked incredulously at Timothy. Not because he didn’t believe him. It was because his father had said the same thing before he packed up his wife and three young children and brought them out west to minister to the Cheyenne.

“I take the responsibility personally,” Timothy added.

As usual, if God was listening to Cade, it was only because he needed a laugh.

The fire popped again. A log broke and sparks sprayed up. Timothy turned toward the deadfall and stared into the darkness. Cade sensed movement in the woods and his hand went instinctively to his hip. His gun wasn’t there, but it was within reach. He yanked the belt over and pulled his weapon from the holster.

A shot rang out. The impact of the bullet hitting Timothy’s chest spun him around. He looked down at his chest, at the blood spurting out from where his heart had been struck. He looked up at Cade and spoke three words before he fell, facedown, into the fire.

“Feed my sheep.”

Cade rolled to the side and fired. The first bullet missed. He grabbed the saddle and scrambled behind it. Timothy’s horse jerked against the hobble.

“I knew I’d run you down eventually.” A man walked into the circle of light cast by the fire.

“It took you long enough Davis.” He had two bullets left and a fever that made him shaky. Plus the smell of burning flesh wasn’t making things any easier for his stomach.

“Fitch said to bring you back alive. He’s got plans for you.”

“Tell him no thanks.” He had to draw Davis in closer if he wanted a good shot at him. He also had to hope that the gunfighter was on his own. He probably was. Davis was a selfish bastard. He’d want the bounty Fitch offered all to himself. “Tell him I was dead when you found me.” If Davis thought he was weak enough he’d come in real close. The man never was one to take chances. “Dead from that gut shot one of you gave me when I ran.”

“I’m betting you’re out of bullets too,” Davis said. He paused by the fire and nudged Timothy’s leg with his boot. As if Timothy could be playing possum with his face in the fire.

“That’s an easy bet,” Cade said. “How many did I take out?”

Closer…

“Enough that my cut is going to be real nice. You’re good with a gun Gentry, I’ll give you that. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But an empty gun ain’t going to do you no good now, no matter how fast you are.”

Cade slowly settled back against the saddle. He had to make Davis think he was done. It took every bit of his willpower to stay still, to be patient until Davis took the last few steps toward Cade. Davis had the audacity to smile at him when he finally came face-to-face.

Cade dropped him with the first shot to his chest. He followed up with his last bullet just to make sure. Davis fell backward against the rock from the close and sudden impact, and slowly slid to the cold, hard ground.

Standing up was harder than Cade anticipated. Dizziness just about put him back down, but he fought through it. When he could finally stand without the world spinning around he kicked Davis in the ribs. He was dead. Cade took Davis’s gun and stuffed it in his belt.

“Damnit!” Timothy’s body smoldered in the fire. Another
one of God’s jokes. Cade grabbed his ankles, pulled him out and flipped him over. His face was burned and unrecognizable. Gone. He didn’t deserve to die, especially not like this.

It could have just as easily been me…

A sudden thought hit him. Was it divine intervention or straight from the devil himself? With his fever it was hard to tell if he was thinking straight. Timothy’s hair, what was left on the back of his head was the same dark brown as Cade’s. The preacher had to have been close to his age, perhaps a little older. His eyes were definitely the same basic color. He might be a few inches shorter. It was hard to say since Cade couldn’t recall standing next to him. Whatever discrepancies there were could be taken care of by the fire, the coming snow and the pack of wolves he heard howling in the distance. They could always smell death.

“I should bury him.” It was a weak protest at best. The ground was frozen hard, he had no shovel and the snow would start at any time. Cade looked at where Davis lay. Even with his fever he realized that it was feasible. Whoever found the bodies would think he and Davis shot each other. All he had to do was put Davis’s gun in Timothy’s hand.

Cade shucked off his jacket and traded with Timothy’s corpse. Timothy’s black frock coat was a bit charred around the collar but it would have to do. He’d think of some lie to cover it. Hell, he was great at lying. He flipped Timothy back over and was about to return him to the fire when he realized there was one more thing he had to do. His jacket had a bullet hole in the back. Cade had no choice. He flipped Timothy over and shot him in the general vicinity of his own wound. A trickle of blood oozed out. Something else he could only hope nature and time would take care of. The bullet wouldn’t go through but he figured no one would take the time to look and see if it was still in him. All that was left to do was put his gun in Timothy’s hand and place him back in the fire.

Cade wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as he crouched by the fire. Timothy’s clothing began to smolder but that did not stop him from placing his gloved hand on Timothy’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry brother. Sorry that you got caught up in my problems. But like you said, maybe God put you in my path for a reason. I’d hate to think that this was it. But like
I
said, when it comes to me, God doesn’t exactly listen. So maybe our prayers kind of canceled each other’s out. Whatever it is, I know you’re standing before him now with a big old smile on your face as the devil will be with me when I finally get down to his place.”

That was as close to a benediction as he was going to get. As Cade turned away he saw Timothy’s Bible, open on the ground with the pages flipping rapidly with the growing wind. Cade picked it up and stuffed it in the pocket of the thick long coat that Timothy had covered him with. He placed Davis’s gun back in his hand, and with the last ounce of his strength saddled Timothy’s horse. He put on the heavy coat and managed to drag himself into the saddle. He pointed the horse’s nose up the trail and dug his heels into the animal’s sides. The snow started just as he lost sight of the fire.

“Feed my sheep.”

He would, if he could find them. He heard them calling, heard them bleating, but the wind howled and the snow swirled and he couldn’t find them. They were lost.

He was so cold. But he was hot. His body shook and the sweat poured beneath his hat and coat, mixing with the snow that hit his face. He wanted to take off the coat; it weighed him down but he was too weak to shrug it from his shoulders. All he could do was hang on to the reins with his
fingers twisted in the horse’s mane. It wasn’t his horse. His horse was lost.

“A lost sheep,” Cade mumbled. “The shepherd will leave the ninety-nine to search for the one who’s lost.” A scripture he recalled from his childhood. From one of his father’s sermons. He could see his father, standing in the smoke, his hands covered with his mother’s blood. Then he couldn’t see anything. The snow was too thick. The horse kept moving, plowing onward, in hopes of finding shelter from the storm.

“Gotta keep moving. No hope. No sheep. No shelter from the storm.” He kept it up. Kept talking because it was the only way to keep the ghosts at bay. The only way to keep the horse moving through the storm. He talked until his voice was gone, barely rasping out the words.

The horse stopped. Cade realized they weren’t moving and looked up. His lashes were frozen to his cheek and he had to blink several times to break them loose. He untangled his hands from the mane and slid from the horse into snow deep enough to cover his ankles. He kept his hands on the reins and struggled forward, his feet dragging through the snow as if each one weighed a ton, until he stood by the horse’s head. The animal stood with his head down, blinking against the snow, and blowing from his labors. Cade looked up and saw an angel standing before him with its hands reaching for him, as if it would swoop him up into her arms and fly him to heaven.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “I’m going to hell.”

“D
odger! What are you barking at?” Leah Findley wiped her hands on the towel tucked in the apron she wore around her waist and walked down the narrow hallway to the front door of her house. Dodger, her black and white dog, whose mother was a shepherd and father was a traveling man, stood on his hind legs with his nose pressed to the glass. He looked over his shoulder and wagged his tail as Leah approached. He wanted out. Now.

Leah looked through the glass. Snow poured heavily onto the small town of Angel’s End and made it impossible to see anything out in the street. The roads would be impassable by morning if not already. With the rate that the snow piled up outside, the small valley where Angel’s End was located would be cut off for a while. Luckily this was not Leah’s first winter in the Colorado mountains. She had worked very hard through late summer and into early fall to make sure she was well provisioned for the winter.
Firewood, nearly half of it split with her own hands, was neatly stacked and close at hand, and her root cellar was full of enough food to last until spring. Or so she hoped.

“If you want to go out and freeze your tail off then be my guest,” Leah informed Dodger as she opened the door. “Just make sure you wipe your paws before you come back in.”

Dodger, who was very used to her wry humor or immune to it, took off with a grateful yelp and bounded into the street. Thank God for Dodger. With him around she didn’t feel quite so vulnerable. His barks sounded over the howl of the wind and the rattling of the windows. No doubt he was after some sort of creature looking for a place to ride out the storm. Dodger. Her protector. She was blessed.

I hope it’s not a skunk…. 
The wily critters were notorious for coming out when the weather changed. If one was looking for a place to winter in town, they’d all suffer in the coming months.

“Thank you God, for Dodger and for this warm shelter from your storms,” Leah said by way of a prayer. She tried to make it a habit to be grateful for her blessings every day. Some days it was easier than others to find things to be grateful for. However there was one very special blessing that she was consistently thankful for.

Leah stood in the doorway that led into her small parlor. Her six-year-old son, Banks, stretched out on the rug before the fire. He played with a battered set of painted wooden soldiers, busily lining them up only to shoot them down again with a toy cannon. His book lay forgotten on the floor next to him. The firelight cast an angelic glow upon his tousled golden hair. In Leah’s vast experience with Banks, and his father, dead for four long years, firelight could be very deceptive.

“Did you finish your schoolwork?”

“Yes ma’am.” He didn’t look up from his play.

“Do your reading?”

“Five pages, just like you said.” Banks looked at her sideways with a half smile on his face. It was so much like his father’s that Leah’s heart flipped in her chest. It wasn’t fair that Banks would never know his father or that Nate was murdered before his son was old enough to remember him. At times it was hard to be grateful. But at least she had Banks. She would never forget Nate or the love they shared. How could she when she saw him every time she looked at her son’s face.

“Clean up your toys and get ready for bed.” Morning would be here soon enough, especially for her, since half of the town would be expecting their breakfast at the Devil’s Table café where she worked as a waitress and cook since Nate died. Being the widow of the town’s sheriff didn’t come with a pension. At least Nate had the foresight to ask for the rights to a piece of property in town and to build them a house which he finished right before Banks was born. It was a sturdy house with four rooms, two chimneys and a loft, along with a shed that housed a small flock of chickens and a root cellar. It wasn’t the same as having a husband, but it was a comfort to know that as long as she stayed in Angel’s End, she’d never be out on the street.

Instead of going about his tasks, Banks went to the parlor window that looked out onto the street. “What is Dodger barking at Momma?”

Leah lifted the curtain and peered out the window. The snow blew sideways now. Even though the snow was thick, Leah saw the glow of lamplight coming from the rooms above the café where Dusty, her boss, and owner of the Devil’s Table, lived. Down the street the light from the Heaven’s Gate Saloon was brighter. Leah couldn’t see Dodger but she heard him, barking earnestly, as if he had something treed.

“I better get him before Bettina complains about the
noise.” The grocer’s wife was prone to complain about everything, from the temperature of the coffee Leah poured into her cup, to the color of cloth she bought to make a new apron.