Mary Connealy (25 page)

“Poor baby,”
Gertie called him.

“Ashamed to call you my son,”
his father said.

“A poor excuse for a man.”
That’s what Red had said in front of nearly the whole town.

He couldn’t fight his father or the cowhands, and Gertie meant no harm. And anyway, all he wanted was to get away from them. They had nothing he wanted.

But that wasn’t true of Red Dawson. Red Dawson had Wade’s woman. His china doll. Wade needed to save her from a life like the one Wade lived. She’d asked him today to take her with him and go to Denver.

And there was only one way the china doll would be free to go with Wade.

Red Dawson needed to die.

Cassie kept getting better at the chores, and Red was less afraid she was going to kill herself. Or him.

He let her do more without supervision. As winter closed in around them, Red brought all the cattle down from the rugged high pastures to the grasslands that opened up in front of his home. He’d saved back the lush prairie hay that grew there and let it cure on the stem. It simplified his chores in the bitter cold and kept the cattle fat and contented through the winter.

Red scouted more carefully around his holding than usual and found a dozen spots where Wade had stood for long stretches of time and watched the house. He never caught Wade lurking around and he didn’t see any new tracks—which would have been impossible to hide in the almost daily dusting of snow. Red stayed as close as possible to the cabin, but he made a quick check of his cattle every day and no more water was poisoned.

He kept up his guard until the next Sunday, when on their ride home from the church service, Cassie said, “Muriel saw Wade get on the stage for Denver. He’s gone for the winter, the Sawyer hands all said. Maybe for good.”

Cassie turned to look at Red, holding her on his lap like always. Red had offered to take the buckboard, but it doubled the time it took to reach Divide, and Cassie found it no hardship to be held in Red’s arms. “Muriel said he was so battered she could barely recognize him. He’d taken a terrible beating.”

Red closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. “Mort. I know Mort raises his hand to Wade. I’ve heard talk.” Red’s eyes flickered open. “Can we say a prayer for him, Cass honey? I know he’s a bad man, Wade, but I—I shouldn’t have turned Mort against him that way. That’s my fault. What is wrong with a man that he could do that to his son?”

“Mort’s a strong man, Red.” Cassie rested a hand on her husband’s cheek. She’d made herself some bright red mittens, taught by Muriel, and the yarn earned with her own work. She loved them, but the joy went out of her when she thought of Mort turning those huge hands on his son.

“Everyone thinks of Mort as strong, but he’s not. He’s a weakling.” Red looked angry and troubled.

“No he’s not. How can you say someone with his wealth and power is weak?”

Red leaned down and kissed Cassie on the forehead. “It’s pure weakness to hurt someone smaller than you. It’s a weakness of the mind and the soul. It has no bearing on how strong his back is.”

They rode silently for a moment, then Red looked down at her. “Let’s pray. I know we’re scared of Wade, and I’m glad he’s gone, but it’s right to pray for your enemy. It’s right to bless those who curse you.”

Cassie lifted her shoulders a bit. “Sometimes the Bible doesn’t make much sense.”

Red’s grim expression lifted and he managed a small smile. “That’s when I like it best, honey. When it makes no sense, that’s when it’s telling us something really important.”

Cassie frowned. “Well, that makes no sense either. But I’ll be glad to pray along with you.” It was the least an obedient wife could do.

Despite his compassion for Wade, knowing the man had left the back country was a relief. Red finally began to relax.

Wade had taken Cassie’s hint and left for Denver, or that’s what he told everyone. Truth was, he’d climbed off the stage at the first stop, untied his horse from the back of the stage, bought a pack horse and a winter’s worth of supplies with the money he’d saved up, and rode back to Divide.

He settled in with a spyglass high above the Dawsons’ place. Dawson had increased his vigilance for a while, and Wade had stayed far into the back country. He’d even found a line shack not too many miles from the china doll and set himself up for the winter.

Wade watched carefully and he could tell when Dawson finally relaxed and began staying away from the ranch for longer stretches of time.

The occasional glimpses of the china doll were like drips of water to a man dying of thirst, and the day came when Wade couldn’t stand it anymore. He took a long draw on his whiskey to try and quench that thirst and reached into his pocket to stroke the handkerchief he’d stolen from the Griffin place. He longed for it to be her he touched.

Wade had gotten his hands on the china doll in town for just a few seconds before Dawson had humiliated him. His fingers still burned from that touch. The need to feel her again was a fever in his blood.

She’d never agree to come away with him. The enormity of leaving her husband would stop any respectable woman. He would make the decision for both of them. After awhile she’d thank him.

Often enough he’d watched from a hill near the Griffin place. He knew plenty about how the china doll had suffered under Lester Griffin. Just as Wade had suffered under his father’s brutal hands.

Wade had found a way out. He’d get her out, too. She’d thank him when Dawson was dead.

Wade emptied the flask down his burning throat then switched to drinking straight from the bottle as he waited for Dawson to ride away after the noon meal. He’d be gone for at least an hour. Wade watched the china doll stand at her door, then she turned and seemed to stare right at him. Wade gasped, jerked the spyglass away from his eye, and dropped behind a rock, breathing hard. But then he realized she’d known he was here. She was saying, “Come for me.”

He lifted himself up, looked through his spyglass, and saw she’d gone inside. But he knew it was time.

Wade didn’t hesitate.

“Can I speak with you, Anthony?” Belle had been working up the courage to talk with her husband for quite a while.

It went contrary to everything she knew about husbands to try and speak honestly with the man. But she felt goaded into trying by what she’d seen between Cassie and Red Dawson.

Anthony looked up from where he sat, morose and sulking, under the Husband Tree. “My back hurts, Belle. Don’t start in nagging about chores. That’s all I ever hear—”

“I’m sorry you’ve got a bad back.” Belle swung down from her horse and tied the animal to a low branch of the Husband Tree.

She was pretty sure her bay was standing on top of Gerald.

She sank down onto the cold ground, wondering how Anthony could endure it up here for hours. Surely working would keep him warm.

“I didn’t come up here to nag you.”

Anthony arched his brows in surprise.

Belle didn’t blame him. She’d never gotten this close to him before by choice. Even now she didn’t touch him. She didn’t even consider wanting him to kiss her like that strange Cassie had spoken of.

“Well, what else would you ever have to say to me, Belle?”

Belle looked sideways at him. He was a beautiful man. The curls were out of control on his head and shining black in the cold sunlight. His eyes were a gleaming blackish brown, his nose strong and straight. Belle had seen a picture of a statue chiseled by some ancient Italian artist once, and Anthony, true to his Italian heritage, looked like that carved stone.
David,
that had been the name of the statue. King David from the Bible.

God, why did I marry him? Not because he’s so handsome. Please, dear heavenly Father, don’t let it have been for something so shallow.

After Gerald died and the men had come a-courtin’, she’d balked and said no and done her level best to discourage the stream of suitors. Then one day she’d been tired of it all, worn out from running the men off. And Anthony, who’d been persistent, had come along, and she’d said yes just to make them all stay away. She’d married Anthony because he’d been the first to come along that day.

She rested her hand on her growing baby and knew this child—
please, God, let it be a girl
—would be beautiful. “I came up here because I want us to try and figure out a way to get along.”

Anthony wrinkled his perfect brow. “Since when?”

Belle shrugged. “I’ve never given you much of a chance. I know that. But I quit even pretending to care when I caught you coming out of the Golden Butte stinking of perfume.”

Anthony picked up a stick and began poking at the hard ground. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, scowling, refusing to look at her. The very picture of a sulking child. “I told you that was your fault.”

“Yes, you did. And I told you we were done. I meant it. I won’t be with a man if he’s not faithful to me. So we live here, and I do as I please, and I don’t care what you do.”

“So why are you up here?”

Belle sighed. Why indeed? Because of Cassie Dawson wanting advice on how to get her husband to kiss her. Because Red Dawson acted so worried that Belle’s house might be cold in the winter. That visit left Belle with the terrible knowledge she was missing out. She couldn’t be a true wife to Anthony, not when he’d betrayed their vows. But was Anthony right that it had been her fault? She’d only met his manly needs grudgingly and infrequently, she knew that. She didn’t like that part of marriage. Had she driven him to unfaithfulness?

Ultimately it didn’t matter. She’d done what she’d done and Anthony had done what he’d done, and now they were left with the third wreck of a marriage in Belle’s life.

She didn’t trust him for good reason, and she had no intention of starting. But they could be civil. She could try to make their marriage some tiny bit normal. Having him lurk up on the roof or on that hill like a huge bird of prey was unsettling.

“Come on down and join the family. We won’t make you do anything that’ll hurt your back.” Belle had to fight to keep her voice sounding sincere. Anthony’s back had started hurting the day after their wedding and he’d never done a lick of work since. “Maybe you could just talk with us, even ride out with the herd with us.” “Riding hurts.”

Belle didn’t mention that the man managed to ride hours to the Golden Butte at least once a week. She also knew they were snowed in now. He wouldn’t get out again all winter. She wished fervently he’d have been snowed on the wrong side of the gap.

“Fine, no riding. But Anthony, I’d like a chance to make our marriage better.”

He finally looked up. Something flared in his eyes and he reached for her hand. She flinched away.

Anthony’s hand clenched into a fist. “I thought you said you wanted to make things better.”

“There are other ways things can be better. As far as …” Belle rested her hand on her baby and held his gaze. She was used to looking a man in the eye, and it didn’t come natural to be submissive or act demurely. She only knew how to take charge and speak her mind. And those skills weren’t of interest to most husbands.

“I get it.” Anthony’s hand lifted to rub his head. “The skillet stays beside you.”