Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (32 page)

He had yet to see Pearl since returning to Austin, and he didn't know where they stood, or if she would even see him. He hadn't even sent her a letter in all of the time he'd been away.

Taking up with Billie, running off into the night for a moment of pleasure, no matter how desirable, was a mistake he was not about to make. He had enough new regret to wear, he wasn't about to add more, if he could help it.

“You could've had anything you wanted, Josiah Wolfe,” Billie continued. “Anything, I tell you. I would've loved you till the moon fell out of the sky. But now you ain't gettin' nothin' . I never want to see you again. Ever, you understand me? I never
ever
want to see you again.”

Before he could answer, and before he could reach out to touch Billie to try and calm her down, she tore away from him in a full run, disappearing quickly into the darkness. The only remnant of her presence was the echo of her sobs, rising into the air and mixing sadly with the saloon music that played on as if there was not a care in the world.

Josiah did not chase after Billie Webb. He stood there for longer than he should have, staring after her, wondering if that was truly the last time he would ever see her. It felt like an end, one that he wasn't all that sad about, more confused than anything else.

Darkness engulfed Josiah, and as tempted as he was to chase after Billie, he knew it was best that he didn't. They both shared a weakness that, if breached, could cause them both a lot of problems. Problems neither of them needed. Billie was still grieving, still trying to find her way after losing her husband, Charlie, and for some reason, she thought Josiah was her way to a new life, or, at least, a direction to take.

What Billie didn't know was that Josiah carried his own grief. Not only from losing his family—that was always there—but from being responsible for Maria Villiareal's death, and for leaving Lyle for such a long stretch of time.

One thing was for sure, Josiah was done with spy duty, with long assignments. He would make that clear to Captain McNelly the next time he saw him. It would either be agreeable, or that would be the end of his Texas Ranger career, plain and simple.

After taking one long and deep look down the street, into the darkness as far as he could see, making sure Billie was truly gone from sight, Josiah turned and headed back to the house on Pecan Street.

His pace was slow, and he was able to focus on the steps ahead of him. He was a couple of blocks away from home, and the street he was on was lined with houses, all built about a foot from one another. None of them had yards, and like his own house, each one had a simple porch that faced the street. Hitching posts dotted the street, and there was no boardwalk, just the dirt from the road. Most of the houses were dark, and being aware of the lack of privacy and how it felt to be invaded by curious eyes, Josiah ignored the goings-on in the houses as he passed by if there were lights in the windows.

About a half a block down, Josiah caught a whiff of smoke. Not chimney smoke, or smoke like Scrap's quirlies, but cigar smoke. He was certain of it. When he looked behind him, just passing an alleyway, he was just as certain that he saw the shadow of a man skirt away, just out of sight, and disappear into the darkness.

Josiah picked up his pace, and just as he was about to turn onto Pecan, he glanced over his shoulder again. The hair on the back of his neck was raised, like someone was watching him, trailing him. It was a well-defined sense, born in the War Between the States, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Josiah trusted his intuition more than his sight at times. This was one of those times.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glowing red orb, and the figure of a man about a half a block behind him. Now he was sure someone was following him. Instead of turning left on Pecan Street, he turned right, and eased his hand down to grip his Peacemaker. A quick jerk up, since he wore a swivel rig, and a spin, and he'd have the man covered—as long as the man didn't shoot first.

Maybe there was more than one
, Josiah thought, fearing he might be walking into a trap. He stopped then, the barrel of the gun aimed automatically at the figure's chest.

The figure, almost certainly a man, stopped, too. They were about fifty feet apart, facing each other. The stub of the cigar glowed deep red as the man drew a drag from it.

“You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you, Wolfe?”

Josiah recognized the voice but couldn't place it right away. “How do I know you're not armed?”

“I suppose you just have to trust me.” The cigar dimmed like a shooting star fading from sight. But there was no question that the man was coming closer now, moving toward Josiah.

With his thumb, he eased back the hammer of the Peacemaker. “I'd stop right there, fella. I've got my gun on you.”

“I figured as much, but you'd be making a big mistake shooting a newspaper reporter, out for a stroll, just doing his job.”

The man continued to walk forward, and his features were coming dimly into view. A splash of light fell on him as the clouds parted and the moon shone onto the ground briefly, then disappeared, offering up another dose of darkness.

It was then that Josiah fully recognized Paul Hoagland, the short, mousy-looking reporter from the
Austin Statesman
, who had pursued him out behind the capitol building after Josiah had given his testimony to McNelly, Jones, and the adjunct general.

“You owe me a story, Wolfe,” Hoagland said, coming to a stop about a wagon's length from Josiah.

“I'm not sure I owe you anything, sir,” Josiah answered, easing the hammer back to its place. He kept his hand on the grip of the Peacemaker, though, just in case . . .

“I saw you to freedom in exchange for an interview, or have you forgotten?”

“I've been away for a while.”

“Trust me, Wolfe, there are those in this fair city of ours who are still interested in knowing what has become of you. You were gone, but not forgotten, as they say.”

“I have been serving the Texas Rangers, as I have done for nearly a year now.”

The smell of the cigar was pungent and thick as Hoagland stepped even closer to continue the conversation with Josiah.

Josiah stepped back, not wanting to have the conversation at all. His mind was still buzzing from the emotional confrontation with Billie. The last thing he wanted to do at the moment was have an exchange with a man whose business was the use of words and, as far as Josiah was concerned, the spreading of lies and gossip.

“It seems so,” Hoagland said. “Your whereabouts were obviously considered a secret once General Steele issued his statement clearing you of any wrongdoing.”

“What is it you want from me, Hoagland? Can't you leave me and my family to ourselves? I'm a simple man.”

“I only want what you promised me—the story from the horse's mouth about what happened to Captain Peter Feders. Was it really self-defense?”

“I have answered that question to the only court that matters.”

“You most certainly underestimate the court of public opinion. They ran you out of town once, and they surely will again.”

Josiah stepped forward, ignoring the cigar and his repulsion to it. Hoagland stood his ground. He didn't flinch, didn't show a quiver of fear.

“Who do you really work for, Hoagland? Who really wants me run out of this town once and for all? The Widow Fikes?”

Hoagland chuckled. The bowler he wore trembled and almost fell off. “Really, Wolfe, you have been away for a long time. The Widow Fikes has no power of persuasion in this city. She has no property. No standing at all. She's lost everything, or didn't you know?”

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the world. Josiah's thoughts immediately turned to Pearl. There had been no communication between the two of them the entire time he was in Corpus Christi. To be honest, he didn't know if Pearl Fikes was dead or alive—but he suddenly wanted to run to the estate and beat on the door, rouse Pedro, and prove the newspaperman wrong.

“Oh,” Hoagland said, “you didn't know.” Obviously judging by the look on Josiah's face.

“No,” Josiah whispered.

“You have enemies here, Wolfe. Enemies that hold more power than Elvira Fikes could ever hope to hold.”

“I have enemies everywhere.”

“You sound proud of that.”

“It's a talent I have, acquiring enemies.”

Hoagland chuckled again. “I like a man that's not afraid to make enemies. Maybe that's why I find you so interesting.”

“I'd rather be left alone.” Josiah turned to walk away, and got a few steps off before realizing Hoagland was just going to follow him. “You're not going to give up, are you?”

“No. I'm not.”

“Then here's what you need to know: I killed Pete Feders. It was self-defense. Him or me. And it was one of the worst days in my life . . .”

Morning pushed into the green blanket covering the window. The edges around it glowed with soft golden light. Beyond the window, the world began to wake. A few horses clip-clopped down the alley that ran behind the house. A rooster crowed, even though the sun had already poked up over the horizon an hour or so before, and the ground rumbled with the power of a train waiting on the tracks as it built up steam, preparing to depart the station two blocks away.

Josiah sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The smell of coffee, of really good coffee, greeted his nose, and he knew immediately that he was home, not on the trail with Scrap, whose coffee was weak and nearly tasteless. Complaining about such a thing never have crossed Josiah's mind, but he had sure wished Scrap had taken some coffeemaking lessons from Ofelia.

Lyle was still buried in a bundle of blankets in his bed. The boy was breathing slowly and steadily, nothing to give Josiah any more concern than he already felt. The only other noise in the house was Ofelia as she shuffled about quietly in the kitchen.

Standing hesitantly, pushing the night fully away with a stretch and a reach to the ceiling, Josiah was not too anxious to start the day. The run-in with Hoagland had left him feeling unsettled and unsure of what to do next. In the end, the man had left Josiah standing on the street with no promises and his demand still in place. Josiah owed him a story. It was that simple—even though Josiah didn't feel like he owed the man anything, much less a story about shooting Pete Feders or what had happened since. The past was the past. As haunting as it might be, Josiah wanted nothing more than to move on now that he was home, in the same room with Lyle, who, when he was well, knew nothing about the past. The present was the boy's only concern.

Josiah was anxious, however, to make a visit to the outhouse. First, he checked on Lyle, peeked over the lump in the blanket to see his son's face. Before he could catch a breath, he yelled out, “Ofelia, come here!”

Josiah immediately plopped down on the bed next to Lyle and, carefully as he could, rolled the boy over to face him. The bed was wet from top to bottom. Perspiration dripped off Lyle's forehead as he flickered his eyes open.

“Papa,” Lyle whispered, struggling to pull his arms from underneath the heavy trap of blankets piled on top of him. “Papa, Papa, Papa. I dreamed you were here.”

“What is it, señor?” Ofelia asked, rushing into the room, wiping her hands nervously on the apron she always wore.

“He's soaked,” Josiah said, a worried tone in his voice.

“Move, move,” she said, more demanding and authoritative than normal.

Josiah stood up out of her way, and Ofelia slid into his spot, her hands removing the blankets, running over Lyle's face and chest like an expert prospector looking for, and finding, gold. “His fever, it broke, señor.”