Margaret Brownley (13 page)

“He’s a wild man, all right,” someone said.

“What are you going to do with him, Sheriff?”

Everyone started talking at once. A nearby movement. He shifted his gaze. He wasn’t alone in the cell.

Someone leaned over him, blocking his view of the others. “I’m Dr. Myers,” the man said. “I removed a bullet from your leg. You lost a lot of blood, so you’ll probably be weak for a while.”

Wolf gaped at him. The doctor had two different colored eyes, one blue, one brown. He knew that face. The face was older, of course, twenty years older. Broader. Fine lines were etched in the forehead, traces of gray in the sideburns that hugged his jaw. Even if Wolf didn’t recognize the face, he would always know those eyes.

The doctor patted him on the shoulder. Wolf cringed beneath his touch but the doctor either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“I’ll be back in a day or two to change the bandage. Blink if you understand.”

Wolf continued to stare at Myers. He didn’t trust the man. Wasn’t about to take his gaze off him, not for a second. Hatred bubbled up like a hot tide, surprising him with its intensity. He never thought to harm another man. Never wanted revenge. That’s not why he came back to Rocky Creek after all these years.

But lying there helpless in that cell, dependent on the skills of a man who had caused him such pain, Wolf couldn’t help but feel anger. He wanted to make the man suffer for what he did. Make them all suffer.

Dr. Myers asked him again to blink and when he got no response, he picked up his leather bag and turned. “I don’t think he understands.”

“What do you ’spect from a half-breed wild man?” someone said.

The sheriff unlocked the cell and let the doctor out. Soon they were all gone, their voices fading away with their footsteps. Once again Wolf was alone with the ghosts of the past.

He drifted in and out of consciousness. The doctor’s face swam around in his head. One blue eye. One brown. Rough hands. Curses. Darkness.

Later, much later, he awoke. He felt like he was on fire, his mouth dry. His leg burned like someone had poured acid into it. It was pitch-black in his cell. The only source of light was a single star shining through the barred window overhead. He dragged himself across the cell and held on to the bars with both hands.

Doc Myers, they called him. So that was his name. All these years, he never knew his name. Only the eyes. One blue. One brown. Oh yes. You don’t forget eyes like that.

At long last, he’d come face-to-face with his past. It wasn’t the end. It was only a start. There had been four of them that long ago night. He had only to find the other three.

Ten

A man with an excess of self-portraits is deemed successful;
a woman simply vain.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

L
ucy arrived back in Rocky Creek late in the afternoon. The trip to and from Garland had been worse than she anticipated. The stagecoach was overcrowded and the roads rutted from the spring rains. The trip was a total waste of time and money.

Mr. Phelps was not one of the stagecoach robbers and, in fact, was insulted at the mere suggestion. He did, however, readily admit to shooting a man during a card game, a man he claimed “deserved to be shot.”

She suspected Barnes would find reason to blame her for the lack of success, though none of it was her fault. In no hurry to face him, she hoped the editor had not noticed the stage’s arrival. She was hot and tired and anxious to change out of her dusty traveling suit. She was in no mood to deal with her employer. Not today.

After supervising the unloading of her camera and equipment, she stooped to pick up her valise.

Her brother Caleb came running out of their father’s store.

“Lucy! You’re back! How was your trip?”

“I’ve had better,” she said.

He lifted the box of photographic equipment with enviable ease.

“Be careful with that,” she said, more out of habit than necessity. Caleb knew her camera meant everything to her.

“I know, I know,” he said. Hauling the crate in his arms, he headed toward the mule and wagon parked in front of the store. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to drive yourself home. I can’t leave the store. I’ll pick up the wagon when Papa returns.”

She groaned. “My back hurts, my head hurts. Every bone aches.”

Caleb gave her a look of sympathy. “You’ll never guess what part of the body has the most bones.”

She groaned.

“Give up?” he asked, barely able to contain his glee.

She sighed. “Yes, I give up.”

“The hand,” he said. “It has twenty-seven bones. And you’ll never guess how many bones are in the feet.”

“I don’t want to know,” she said. Her feet were the only parts of body that weren’t sore and she didn’t want to dwell on them for fear they would start hurting too. She followed her brother, valise in hand. “Where
is
Papa?”

“His horse threw a shoe. He’s at the livery.” He took the valise from her and set it next to the crate. He then turned to her with a grin. “I have something to show you.”

“What?” she asked, though she was anxious to get home.

“Follow me.” He stepped on the wooden sidewalk and ran into the store. The bells on the door jingled merrily.

She hesitated a moment before falling in step behind him. Her brother could be annoying at times, but his enthusiasm never failed to rub off on her.

The aroma of plug tobacco and freshly ground coffee greeted her. She followed Caleb to the counter, ducking beneath a hanging ham and sidestepping a keg of beans and a barrel of pickles.

Caleb reached for the newspaper behind the balance scale and held it up.

At first glance she smiled, hands clutched together in delight. Her photograph in a newspaper was a dream come true. However, her initial response soon turned to disappointment. The lack of exposure time and Barnes’ inexperience in printing photographs resulted in a dark, menacing image that did nothing to dispel the rumors. Thank goodness her carefully composed article made up for any pictorial lack.

Caleb’s grin practically reached his ears. “We sold every paper within a few hours,” he said. “Even people who couldn’t read bought one, just to look at the photograph. You’re lucky I could save one for you.”

She took the paper from him and quickly read the copy. “Oh no!” she sputtered. “This isn’t what I wrote.”

Not only had Barnes rewritten her article, he’d made it seem like Wolf was a monster. “This is terrible.”

“No, it’s not,” Caleb said, moving from behind the counter to join her. “Because of the photograph, they caught him.”

Lucy lowered the paper. “Did you say caught? They
caught
Mr. Wolf?”

Caleb nodded. “He’s in jail.”

Lucy gasped. “But why? He’s done nothing wrong.” She blinked. “Has he?”

Caleb looked surprised by the question. “According to that article, he’s been terrorizing everyone around here, including you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You didn’t tell me you met the wild man,” he said, sounding hurt. “You could have been killed.”

“There was nothing to tell,” she said. Well, almost nothing. “And neither is he wild or dangerous.” It all began to make sense now. The trip to Garland. Barnes paying her way without a fight. All for the purpose of selling newspapers. “Why that . . .”

Flinging the paper on the floor, she whirled about and headed for the door.

“It won’t do you any good to go to the jailhouse,” Caleb called after her. “The wild man is in the county jail.”

That was even worse news. Marshal Armstrong was a fair and honest man. The same could not be said for the county sheriff, who would sooner hang a man than see that he got a fair trial.

“I’ve got to go and explain to him what happened,” she said.

Caleb shook his head. “The sheriff won’t allow visitors. Only Doc Myers and Reverend Wells are allowed to see him.”

“Then you’ve got to go in my place,” she said.

“Me?” Caleb scrunched up his face. “What makes you think the sheriff will let me see the prisoner?”

“You’re the doctor’s assistant. You have a good reason for being there.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Please, Caleb. He’s not what the others say he is. What Barnes wrote is a bald-faced lie.”

Wolf had no way of knowing that the editor changed her copy. How he must hate her. “You must go to him and explain that I didn’t write that article. While you’re there, tell the sheriff that Mr. Wolf stopped the bandits from robbing the stage and the stories about him being wild were started by an over-imaginative boy and—”

“Whoa.” Caleb held up his hands, palms out. “What makes you think the sheriff will listen to anything I have to say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should go myself.” Even if she wasn’t allowed to see Wolf, she could talk to the sheriff and convince him that what Barnes had printed was untrue.

Caleb shrugged in resignation. “I’ll go, but I don’t think it will do any good.”

“Perhaps I should talk to the marshal,” she said, though she doubted that would do much good either. Marshal Armstrong was critical of the sheriff’s vigilante type of justice and the two were at loggerheads.

Caleb shook his head. “You’ve had a hard journey. Go home and get some rest. I have to make a delivery to the Foster ranch this afternoon.”

Lucy brightened. “That’s perfect.” The county sheriff’s office was only a few miles down the road from the Fosters’.

“If the sheriff won’t listen to me, then you can talk to Marshal Armstrong,” Caleb added.

“Thank you!” She moved to hug him but he held her off with a can of peaches.

Laughing, she playfully punched him on the arm and turned to leave.

“Twenty-six,” he called out.

She glanced back at him. “Twenty-six what?”

“Bones in the foot, silly!”

Leaving the shop, she picked up her skirt and ran the short distance to the newspaper office, her high-button shoes pounding like hammers on the wood plank sidewalk. Without slowing down, she burst inside, arriving in front of the startled editor in a flurry of flying ribbons and swishing petticoats. Extra the cat dived under the desk for cover.

For once Barnes looked pleased to see her. “Ah, there you are,” he gushed, wringing his hands like an old miser counting his money. “You were right. The photograph on the front page sold more newspapers in a day than I sold all last year. I had to go back for a second and third printing.” He laughed. “What was it Napoleon said? A sketch is worth a long speech. The same can be said for a photograph.”

She glared at him. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“We sold papers.” He pounded a fist against his desk. “By cracker, you’re hired permanently.”

The words she had waited so long to hear bought her no pleasure. “I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last—”

“Say no more.” He lifted his arms, palms outward in an act of surrender. “How much do you want? Not that you’re going to get it, mind you. But I’m a fair man.”

Fair? Fair!
She drew back. “I don’t want your money.”

He rose from his chair like one of those gas balloons Redd kept raving about. “Then what do you want, woman? Speak up.”

Placing both hands on his desk, she leaned toward him. “I want you to retract the article.”

“Retract?” His eyes bulged. “Retract? Are you out of your mind? A retraction is as good as death. I’ll lose all credibility.”

If she wasn’t so angry she might have laughed out loud.

Barnes had as much credibility as a thief. “Not only is the story not true,” she stormed, “it’s a lie!”

“I’m the editor,” he bellowed back, stabbing his chest with his thumb. “True is what
I
say it is.”

She straightened. “Even though it puts an innocent man in jail?”

His eyes glittered. “The only reason he’s still in jail is because he was shot.”

Lucy stepped back, stunned. “Shot?” Caleb said nothing about Wolf being shot, but it did explain why Doc Myers was allowed access to the prisoner.

“As soon as he’s fully recovered, the sheriff plans to run him out of town. Now about your salary—”

“Keep your salary,” she said, whirling toward the door. “I quit!” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Quitting the newspaper meant giving up a long-held dream and a much-needed source of income. But how could she work for such an underhanded man?

Fuming, she hastened along the boardwalk toward the mule and wagon, anxious to get home.

“Yoo-hoo. Miss Fairbanks.”

Hearing her name, she spun around. The thick British accent belonged to Mr. Garrett, a sheep rancher from York, England. Following the death of his wife, Catherine, he came to America intent upon starting a sheep ranch. He soon found out that Texans considered sheep men the lowest of the low, as sheep tended to strip grasslands clean and foul the water. No self-respecting steer would step foot in sheep land. Garrett now toyed with the idea of going into the cattle business instead.