Chapter 1

 

 

1890 Virginia

 

 “There has to be more,” whispered Frankie McNeill as she studied the stars. They glittered like ice chips flung against a velvet night. She wondered at the seemingly haphazard placement as she flipped the collar of her wool coat against the frigid air. The gesture did little to ward off the biting temperature. Nothing hindered the prying fingers of wind as it invaded the folds of her clothing. A huge gust carried the campfire smoke and glowing embers heavenward. 

She clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering, but not even the cold diminished the heat of anger burning in her cheeks. It wasn’t that she minded taking the night watch. It rather suited her mood. The time alone gave her a chance to clear her head. She tried not to dwell on her older twin brothers curled snug in their warm blankets, but it would be easier if she could drown out the sounds of their obnoxious snoring.

Frankie blew on her freezing fingers and scowled. Who was she kidding? She resented the menial duty, as much as she resented being singled out as the only girl in the all-male outfit. It was never more apparent than on the eve of a big job. Why should it fall on her to take up the slack? The boys weren’t expected to lose their precious sleep— unthinkable. She, on the other hand, was expendable—at least, Big Stan McNeill thought so.

Big Stan’s insufferable breathing resounded in the chilled night air. She crushed the urge to smother him with his own pillow.  

It seldom occurred to Frankie to think of him as her pa.  He’d been Big Stan as far back as she could remember, and he certainly had no paternal tendencies toward her. Their relationship was complicated. It wasn’t that she minded his lack of affection—she’d never experienced the normal bond between a father and daughter. She couldn’t miss what she didn’t have. But oh, how she resented his attitude towards her. As if being born a girl made her inferior.

 Frankie loved her brothers, even if they were rough around the edges. They could be good-natured and quite likable most times. Big Stan took pride in his three strapping males and made no bones about his distaste with being saddled with a daughter.  She was like a pebble in his boot. 

The irony made her lips twitch in the darkness. Despite his prowess when it came to producing male heirs, her brothers lacked their father’s shrewdness—a point he dogmatically drove home. Frankie was by far the most capable of his children, inheriting his determination and grit—although she knew he would never admit it. The twins were twenty-six—six years her senior, but he humiliated them at every opportunity. Then there was Seth. Poor Seth . . .  her heart ached for the boy. 

 The hairs on Frankie’s neck bristled at approaching footsteps. She whipped around with her gun drawn, her eyes searched the shadows until the familiar hangdog slouch of her youngest brother materialized from the darkness.  She released a steady stream of air and straightened her shoulders.

  Frankie holstered the weapon and blew a thick and unruly strand of rich auburn hair from her face that had slipped from the woven braid.  She tucked it behind her ear, repositioned her hat, and arched a shapely brow at him.

“You should be asleep.” The words came out harsher than she intended. Adrenaline rushed through her body. The prospect of an approaching stranger frightened her more than she cared to admit. She had never shot anyone, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t if it meant defending herself.  She squatted and leaned her back against a tree, trying to appear unruffled.

“I-I brung you th-this.”  The moisture from his breath billowed out and formed a silver haze in the cold, night air.  He held out a tin cup of what she hoped was warm coffee.  There was also a horse blanket draped over one arm.

 Seth celebrated his seventeenth birthday three months earlier, but his maturity level was that of an eleven-year-old.  Her heart softened as it always did when he struggled with words. The boy’s shoulders sagged, no doubt from the weight of an overbearing father.

She accepted the cup. “Thank you, Seth. Want to sit with me awhile?” He was too delicate for this life.

The lanky boy sprawled beside her, offering her the blanket.  He remained silent as she settled into a sitting position and wrapped the throw around them both.  The fire crackled and sent new sparks flying as a log burned in two.  There was a comfortable silence between them.  Several shooting stars raced across the sky before Seth broke the stillness. 

“Fr-frankie, you th-think there’s a heaven?”

On a beautiful night like this, it was easy to believe anything.  “Maybe.”

“I-if there is a h-heaven, you r-reckon Mama is th-there?”

Frankie considered his question and weighed her answer. Their mother had been a prostitute, and as far as she knew, women of her reputation didn’t make it inside the doors of a church, much less the gates of heaven.

  “I’m not sure, Seth. I’m certainly no expert.” Frankie wasn’t one to sugarcoat a matter, but neither did she have the heart to dampen the hope she heard in his voice. 

The truth was Frankie wasn’t sure the redheaded beauty had loved anyone but their brawny father.  She had never understood Seth’s devotion to a woman that had so little to do with him.  He had been a sickly baby and often their mother had not wanted to be bothered.  She had been more concerned with her appearance and keeping tabs on her wily lover.  Big Stan’s devilish good looks and charming smile had a way of disarming the toughest cynic—male and female. Lanie Bowers had been no exception. He had managed to elicit four children from her, all the while escaping the matrimonial noose.

“F-frankie,” he repeated drawing her from her thoughts.  “I-I know what you’re think’n, Ma was a pr-prostitute, but Pastor Matthews told me that Jesus loves the pr-prostitutes too.”

 “Pastor Matthews?  Who is Pastor Matthews?” Frankie turned and faced her brother.

“D-don’t be mad. Y-yesterday when you and Big Stan went into the bank, I saw him at the church.  I-I just have to know Ma is okay, Fr-frankie.  D-don’t you think she is watch’n us from heaven, and protecting us?”

“Seth, you could have ruined everything.  Do you know how angry Big Stan would be if he found out?”

“I-I was r-real careful.”

“That’s not the point—you’re putting us all in danger. It’s a small town. People are likely to remember strangers. The less they see of us, the better.”

Frankie wasn’t proud of her part in Big Stan’s scheme.  She detested playing the role of an empty-headed heiress. But she had learned from her mother how to turn on the charm.  She possessed an innate instinct when to be coy, when to bat her eyelashes, and just how to finagle her way inside the bank vaults to get the layout. With finesse, she manipulated the managers to do her bidding. Big Stan liked to brag it was a wonder they simply didn’t hand her the key. It might be the only positive comment he had to say about her. Frankie dreamed of the day she would take the money she’d saved, and she and Seth would buy a small piece of property and put down roots. Some day—

Seth tugged on her sleeve.  “A-are you listening?”

“Yes, Seth, I’m listening.”

“P-pastor Matthews told me that Jesus kept the prostitute from being s-stoned. That means he cares for them too, r-right?”

Frankie saw the pleading in his soft, rheumy eyes, and her heart softened.  Seth’s face was delicate, almost pretty for a boy.  “Well, if that is what the pastor told you, then it must be true.  I doubt a man of God would lie.”

“Fr-frankie, I don’t have a good feeling about tomorrow.  I don’t th-think what we are doing is r-right.”

“What’s with all this religious talk, Seth?  Are you turning preacher on me?”  She punched him in the arm and gave him a wink.

“H-heaven sounds like a nice place.  I-I don’t want God or Mama look’n down at us mad.” 

“It never bothered Ma before she died, I can’t see it should bother her now.  Besides, I reckon God knows that things are what they are.  We won’t be doing this forever.  You just stop fretting.”

He smiled at her and leaned his blond head against her shoulder.  A contented sigh escaped his lips. He was a good boy.  He deserved so much more than this life. One day soon, she aimed to see he got it.

***

DANIEL MYERS watched the fingers of dawn stretch across the sky revealing a pale March sun. The wagon, pulled by two workhorses, crawled at a snail’s pace. He had been on the wheel-rutted road for hours. This trip would be the last into town before the spring rains.  Soon the ice would melt, and the way would be no more than a muddy stretch of land, breaking the axels off any wagon foolish enough to attempt it. A chill clung to the air.  He reached out and tucked the quilt around Misty’s lap.  It would be noon before they arrived in Sweet Briar.

Misty sat chatting away like a squirrel with a nut.  Her eyes sparkled like her Mama’s; her cheeks were rosy like winter apples.  She had his stubborn chin and straight, dark hair.  Nothing escaped the nine-year-old’s attention. 

Several people greeted them as they entered the small town. Daniel tipped his hat, somewhat embarrassed by the fuss his arrival seem to stir in the women.  They gathered in groups, whispering—no doubt pitying a lone man trying to raise his daughter. The Lord knew he had his share of dinner invites from well-meaning ladies.  He graciously refused them all, not wanting their sympathy.  It never occurred to him that half of Sweet Briar was smitten with his boyish good looks.  His piercing blue eyes and black hair made a striking combination—rare in these parts. 

He climbed off the wagon and encircled Misty’s waist with his wide, calloused hands to help her down. She shook her head.   

“I’ll sit here and wait.”

“You’ve been sitting all day—don’t you want to stretch your legs a bit?”

“No, thank you,” she chirped.  “Daddy, look at that boy over there.  I’ve never seen him.” 

Daniel glanced in the direction she pointed. Just a skinny kid, nothing special.  He looked all hat and boots, holding four horses.  “This town’s growing up.  I’m sure we don’t recognize everyone that lives here now.  You positive you won’t come in with me?”

She smiled at him and nodded her head.

“Suit yourself.” 

 

Daniel finished paying for his packages and walked out of the Sweet Briar Mercantile.  His boots clomped against the sun-bleached planks that made up the sidewalk.  He was halfway to the wagon when he realized he had forgotten Misty’s peppermints.  The child had an exceptional love for the sweets, and he enjoyed indulging her whenever it was within his means.  He swiveled around to return to the store but stopped short at the sight of Mandy Perkins.

“Well, hello Daniel.  It’s been a while since you were in town.” 

Daniel’s glance fell to the pretty blond.  Her saucy curls bounced around her cheeks as she tilted her head upward. She gazed at him with soft, jade eyes.  “Mandy.” He touched the brim of his hat. 

He didn’t want to be rude.  His mama had taught him to treat a lady with utmost respect, but he knew from experience this particular lady would set him off schedule quite a bit.  He tried to sidestep her, but she threaded her arm through his and followed him back into the store. 

***

The noon sun bore down on Frankie. The horses pawed at the ground with nervous agitation.  What was taking so long, she thought.  Sweat trickled between her shoulders, despite the cool day.  Her stomach rolled. She chewed the inside of her cheek, waiting for the doors of the bank to burst open.  They should be done by now. Time inched by. 

Her eyes flickered between the clock tower and the bank doors. She held her breath, willing them to come out.  Deep in concentration, she didn't notice the approach of a young girl about half her size until she was right on her.  The youngster thrust out a hand in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Misty.  What do they call you?” 

Clad in worn breeches, and a wool jacket, she might have been a boy if not for her long, dark hair. Frankie’s mouth worked nervously, but no sound came out.  Any minute her brothers would rush out the bank and this child would be in danger.  She had to send her away.

“Look, kid, scram!”

“How old are you anyway?” Misty continued, unaffected by the rebuff.  “I never saw you around here. Is that red hair you got peeking out under your hat?  I never saw a boy with red hair.  ‘Except maybe Albert Pinkerton.  He has red hair and freckles, and he’s—”

“Did you hear me—I said, git.”  The words came out through clenched teeth. “You see these horses, here?  They don’t like nosy little girls, now go!”

Misty cocked a dark brow.  “I’m not afraid of horses.  It looks to me like you’ve got a handle on them . . . although you are a might skinny.  Why do you have so many horses anyway?” 

Frankie was incredulous. Shouldn’t this girl have gone running back to her mama by now? Was there something wrong with her? Her hands itched to grab the child and shake her, scream at her, anything to get her away from the danger to follow. Under different circumstances, she may have found the little imp charming, but right now, she was putting Frankie as well as herself in a dangerous situation.

Just as Frankie was about to do something desperate, help came from the most unlikely source—a dark-haired man with a blond in tow.

“There you are, Misty.  I thought you were going to wait in the wagon.”

“Oh, I was, but I wanted to talk to this boy and see his horses.” 

The man looked from his daughter and extended a hand.  “My apologies, son.  The name’s Daniel Myers, and this chatterbox is my daughter, Misty.  She can sure talk the bark off the trees.”

The stranger turned his eyes on Frankie. Her already pounding heart lurched as if it might jump clear out her chest. Mercy! She had never seen eyes so blue.  She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice.  “No problem, mister.”

“He don’t talk much,” Misty commented to her father. 

“Doesn’t talk much,” he corrected.  “You probably haven’t given him a chance.”  He placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and steered her towards the wagon.  “Let’s let this young man get back to his work.” 

For a second, the stranger hesitated—stared at her, pinning her with those brilliant blue eyes.  He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed for the briefest of minutes.  Did he know?  Did he suspect?  Then he smiled, nodded, and shepherded the group back to their waiting wagon.

Frankie felt like a bolt of lightning had shot through her.  Her cheeks burned.  For goodness sake, he had only smiled at her.  What on earth had caused her to react so?  She marveled at the deflated sensation in the pit of her stomach. Family. Was that what was missing from her life? She watched the man speaking with the woman and wondered what it would be like to have a husband and child.  She wouldn’t treat them like—but she didn’t have time to finish the thought.

The sound of gunfire jerked her from her reverie—the strange incident forgotten.  Smoke and bullets whizzed by as the door to the bank flew open, and her twin brothers filled the frame.  They fired off several shots as they ran towards her. 

“Go, Frankie!” Edgar yelled. 

Frankie stood, planted on the spot. The horses pulled on the reigns. Where was Big Stan? Where was Seth?  Like magic, Big Stan barreled through the door.  A limp form tossed over his shoulder.

No!

“Dang it, Frankie, you hear me?”  Edgar yelled, as he grabbed the bridle from her and swung himself into the saddle.  “Mount up, let’s ride, gal.”

Big Stan ran at her with a shower of bullets whizzing by him. “Go, go, go.” He stumbled and caught himself. A shot nicked him in the shoulder, then another, but he kept running.

The sight of blood spurred her into action.  She ricocheted her body into the saddle, watching horrified as Big Stan slung Seth’s body up to Ernest, before mounting his own.  Seth’s lifeless head rolled and fell backward against his brother’s barrel-like chest.

“Is he . . .” she couldn’t say the words. 

“Just grazed.” Big Stan grunted.  “He passed out.” He dug his heels into the side of the horse.  “Yah!”

She had to believe he was all right.  How was she going to mount on legs that felt as shaky as seedlings in a windstorm?  Reflexes took over as bullets came sizzling by her.  She nudged her mount to run, casting desperate looks over her shoulder. 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

The McNeill Gang raced out of town and into the cover of the nearby woods. Branches tore at them.  The brown and green colors passed in a blur. Distance. They needed as much distance between themselves and the law as possible. They rode in silence through the forest, along fields, passing few farm houses, careful to avoid people.   

 By the time they slowed the horses and allowed them to drink from a muddy stream, the trees stood silent and black against an orange sky. The Blue Ridge Mountains appeared purple in the distance. They followed the creek as it tripped over and cascaded down rocks until they turned aside and climbed a sharp ridge.  Day faded into night. It was completely dark when they approached a formation of rocks. 

 The others had already dismounted by the time Frankie caught up with them. She saw the outline of her brothers as they attempted to get Seth to his feet. Their voices sounded muffled.  She swung her feet to the ground and tried to find her own footing.  No easy task after riding all day. She sensed the horse's movement as if it was still beneath her.  The saddle creaked as she slid down and walked her mount toward them.  Turning her head, she listened for the possible warnings of lawmen in pursuit. To her relief, only the sound of the creek lumbering over ice, rocks, and leaves greeted her ears.

  "We'll settle here for the night," Big Stan announced.  "The stream will give us plenty of water for the horses, and the rocks should provide a bit of a shelter until we can move again at daybreak.”

 "How's Seth?"

 "He'll live.  We’ll make a man out of him yet," Big Stan replied with a hoot.  "If not, next time Seth can look after the horses and we'll bring the gal with us.  She can shoot a darn sight straighter than he can anyways."

 The three men enjoyed a good belly laugh, as Edgar stood Seth to his feet and clasp him hard on the shoulder.  "Wake up, boy." 

 Seth groaned but didn't come fully alert. 

 "I say we toss him in the creek," jeered Ernest. 

 Frankie's eyes flashed.  "Don't you dare! Put him over there—I need to check his injuries.”

 When Edgar made no move, she stormed toward him. "Get out the way! I'll do it myself." 

 She wedged her shoulder beneath Seth's wilted figure.  Bearing his full weight, she forced him to take his first awkward steps.  "Come on, Seth, you can do it . . . just a little ways." 

 Frankie stumbled on roots and rocks, almost falling before she maneuvered him to a large, flat boulder.  "Don't stand there with your mouths hanging open—go to the creek. I need water.  How do you expect me to clean these wounds?"

 Ernest stomped away on his mission, muttering to himself.  "I liked my idea better."

 "Edgar, start a fire." 

 "Hold on a minute, gal!" Big Stan said.  "We got the law on our tail. You don't wear the pants in this outfit, I do." 

 "That's great."  Frankie sighed. "I guess you're too proud to have me stitch your arm up as well. Would you rather we watch you bleed to death?" 

 Big Stan looked down at his wound for the first time.  His sleeve was stiff and rust colored.  Fresh blood oozed out to mingle with what had already congealed on his shirt.  "Fine, but not because you say, but because I say."

 Frankie rolled her eyes and busied herself by removing Seth's jacket.  When Ernest returned with the water, she poured it on her handkerchief and began washing the blood away.

 "I-is it bad, Fr-frankie?" he asked.  His eyes reflected fear in the dim moonlight. 

 "I can’t be sure until we get the fire built, but I don't think so.  Looks like it went clear through." She smiled.  "You're lucky." 

 "G-guess Ma was l-looking out after me, huh?" Seth whispered.

 Frankie gave him a wink. He rewarded her with his beautiful smile. 

 "Want me to get that fire started, Frankie?" Ernest asked. 

"That would be a big help." Her expression softened as she watched him bend down to gather sticks.  Ernest reminded her of a wayward child. They twins did their best to mimic Big Stan's rough exterior, but at heart, they were decent men. "Thank you, Ernest."

 "Not a big one, mind ya," Big Stan groused.  He propped himself against a rock with his feet crossed and his hat over his eyes.  "Need to have my head examined."

 "You'll need more than me for that."  Frankie laughed.  "But I'll be happy to take a look at that shoulder when I'm done with Seth here." 

Seth's wound was superficial. By the time she bandaged it, the blood flow had stopped. Big Stan’s were going to require more effort. No matter what she did, she couldn't stanch the flow.  The bullets had gone through, but she had no way of stitching it together. There was only one thing to do.

 "I can't get the bleeding to stop, and you've lost a lot of blood." Frankie caught her lip between her teeth as she waited for him to understand her meaning. 

 "Why are you sitting there jawing? You know what needs to be done—do it!"

 Her fine brows dipped with concern.  "Edgar, Ernest, you want to hold him for me?"

 "Ehhhh . . . no need for that."  He waved the twins away.  "Do it!" Whatcha' waiting on, you ain't getting all girly on me, are ya?"

 Her green eyes flashed with determination.  "Course not."

 She got to her feet, went to the fire, and held the blade over the dancing flames.  Satisfied it would do the job, she returned to his side. 

 Their gaze met and held.  Then, without a word, she went to work. He let out a string of vile curses that made her ears ring as the stench of burning flesh assaulted her nose. When she had finished, she stood back and clenched her jaw, the only outward show of repulsion. "If we pack the other bullet wound, I believe it will heal on its own." 

 He fell back against the rock, sweat dotting his brow.  He didn't utter a sound.  A quick jerk of his chin indicated his only sign of approval.

 "Get some rest," she told him.  "I'll take first watch."

***

 A movement startled Frankie.  Her eyes searched the predawn sky.

 "Alright boys, come out where I can see your hands." 

The words jerked Frankie fully alert.  She scrambled to a crouched position.  From there she glanced over the boulder that she'd used for cover the night before.  Confound it, Edgar! He must have fallen asleep during the last watch. Now they were surrounded. 

 A pale yellow light spilled between the trees. Her eyes recognized Big Stan beside her.  The barrel of his gun rested on the boulder. His good hand ready on the trigger.  "I ain't going down without a fight, Sheriff."

 "Aww, come on, boys," the sheriff drawled. "Ain’t no need for bloodshed. Besides, the wife's got breakfast waiting for me back at the house.  I'm starved­­, and I’ll bet you are too. You, boys, come real peaceful-like, and we'll get you a plate of nice, hot vittles. Sarah Sue at the diner cooks up some pretty tasty grits and eggs."

 "This isn't going to end well," Big Stan hissed to no one in particular.  He made hand motions for Edgar and Ernest to be ready.  Seth lay on his belly with his gun drawn too, but fear etched his boyish face. Big Stan gestured to Frankie that she and Seth should get on the horses. Frankie shook her head no.

Her own reluctance surprised her. Here was an opportunity. She could take Seth and start their new life. Yet now the occasion arose, she remained rooted to the spot.  Her head told her to run, but her heart rebelled.  This was her family—a family of thieves—but family all the same.  This didn't seem the time to run.  Big Stan and the boys needed her.  When she hung up her guns, she didn't want to slink away like a coward.  She would do it on her own terms.  No. She shook her head. They would stay . . . and maybe . . . they’d make their escape without anyone getting hurt.

That idea exploded as Frankie watched Big Stan squeeze off a shot.  It knocked the Sheriff's hat in the dust.  The man hit the ground and scurried behind a rock for shelter. 

"Now that was a warning.  Next time I won't be aiming for your hat."

"Okay, okay. Have it your way." The voice sounded more annoyed than scared. "At least give me the pleasure of knowing who I'm about to bring down."

"The name's McNeill—Big Stan McNeill."

"Stan McNeill . . . well . . .  this is a treat. You've got quite a price on your head, Mr. McNeill."

Frankie swore she detected a measure more respect in the man's voice.  The elusive McNeill Gang. There were posters everywhere, but only rough sketches. The figures barely resembled any of them. Oddly enough, there was little comfort in the thought. She had no idea how they would escape now that they were pinned against this rock.

 "Yes, sir, I'm real honored to be taking down a sought-after criminal like you.  Been looking for you a long time."

 "Well, shoot, Sheriff, I'm afraid you're going to have to wait a little longer."  Big Stan said.  "I ain’t got any intention of being caught today."

 Frankie noticed drops of sweat rolling down Big Stan's face despite the chill. He didn't look well. His skin was pasty. His hands trembled. 

 "Let's just get on with it," cried an annoyed voice from the shadows of the forest.  "If you two are finished exchanging pleasantries, I've got work to do back at the ranch, Sheriff."   

 "Quite right," replied the sheriff.  "What say you, McNeill? Give up?"

 "Not a chance!"

 "I figured you’d say that.  Looks like we have ourselves a stand-off." 

***

 Frankie watched Seth chew his nails and spit them into the dirt. He had gnawed most of them down to the nubs. Once more she waffled.  Was she making the right choice by staying? With the money she and Seth had earned in their share of the bank heist, plus the funds she'd saved, they might do all right. Yet a niggling sense of loyalty wouldn't allow her to leave. Thieving wasn't right, to be sure, but again, she came back to one thought. Family. The word resounded inside her brain, and this was the only family she'd ever known. How could she run away and leave them? She wasn't a coward.   

As if sensing her indecision, Big Stan eased over to her, low, so as not to be seen.  "Girl, I've been thinking . . . the way I figure, you and the boy are young. They'll go easy on you—once they find out you're a female and all.  And him . . ." He jerked his chin indicating Seth.  "Well . . . you know, him being all simple-like. You two give yourselves up, and they'll go soft on ya."

Frankie blinked. "That's your plan?  Are you insane?  What about you, Edgar, and Ernest?"  Frankie shook her head.  "Uh-uh. I'm staying.  I'm no coward—and I'm not afraid to fight."

 "Don't you see, gal?  Tell ‘em I forced you.  You surrender, and the boys and me . . . we'll slip out and be gone before they know it." 

 Frankie choked. "You mean you want Seth and me to give ourselves up just so you can get away!  And here I—"

 "Now don't get your dander up.  I ain't going to run off and leave ya.  We'll meet up again in the next town.  They ain't going to lock up no girl and simpleton."

 "Don't call him that? You’d give us up to save your own skin!"

 Big Stan's eyes narrowed.  Frankie could almost see the wheels spinning behind his steel orbs. “Okay."  He nodded.  "I understand how it’s going to be—and I thought you was the smart one. You’re going to turn all girly on me. Don’t you get it . . . it’s a matter of common sense—they ain't going to do nothing to no boy and girl. You rather we all go down? This would give the boys and me a chance to get away. You'll get off Scot-free while we hang."  He sniffed with disgust.  "Just like your mama."

 Frankie's eyes glittered.  "You take that back. I'm nothing like her.  I'm twice as smart as she was. As a matter of fact . . .” She jabbed her finger in his chest. "I'm smart enough to realize that every time you want something from me you think that calling me a girl is an insult.  You're not going to manipulate me into doing something stupid."

 "Well, now . . .  that so.  You'd rather sit here and let us all get shot!"

 "Sh-shot!  Fr-frankie, I don't want to be shot."  Seth trembled.  He didn't cry but rocked back and forth.

 Frankie didn't realize their voices were loud enough to carry. "Hush, It won’t come to that."

 "N-no shooting.  N-no shooting." The words tumbled out of Seth's mouth in a sing-song chant.  His eyes glazed as he swayed.  

 "Seth," Frankie said in a soothing tone.  "Calm down and let me think." He was working himself into a state.  It was never good when he became this agitated.  He was unpredictable. 

 He chewed his nails and fidgeted.  "Pl-please, l-let's surrender.  Can't we . . . I-don't want to be shot again.  So-sorry, Frankie, but I gotta d-do it."

 Frankie wanted time to think. Time to formulate a plan. Confusion gripped her when she caught sight of him rising. What was he doing?  "Seth, don't—" She rushed to stop him, but before she reached him he was on his feet—the gun still in his hand. 

 "I-I want to su-su—"

 "Put the gun down, son," yelled the sheriff.

 "I—I—what?"  He looked confused.  "N-no, I—"

It happened so fast there wasn't time to react. Frankie hardly knew what followed, but heard the sickening blast.

Thump.

The bullet made a dull sound, like thumping a ripe watermelon, as it hit Seth full in the chest. The front of his shirt sprouted crimson.  They watched helplessly as he fell in slow motion—as if an invisible hand guided him to his knees. 

 Frankie gasped. “No!” She scrambled toward him, pulling him in her lap. No, no, no!  Not Seth—not Seth.  "You're going to be alright," she told him.  "You're going to be all right."  Even as she said the words, life was draining from his eyes.

 "Fr-frankie, I'm going to see that Jesus." His eyes grew distant.

"No, you're not, Seth!" Frankie snapped.  "Don't you dare leave me." But she knew there was no use.  There was nothing she could do to hold him here.  "Seth, I love you, you hear!  Please, don't leave me," she pleaded. 

 It's okay, Fr-frankie.  D-don't cry, I—" but his words trailed off as he stared blankly.

What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he talking to her? She shook him, the horrible truth slamming into her gut. Frankie choked back a sob as she gathered his body to her.  Oh, why was she so bullheaded—why hadn’t she left when she had the chance?  It was her job to protect him. She'd failed. She'd never forgive herself.  What idiot had fired?  Didn't they see he was trying to surrender? 

 Around her, Frankie was aware that her brothers were firing back.  Bullets exploded against the rocks, trees, and dirt where Frankie sat still cradling Seth.  She didn't care.  She picked up her gun, eyes blazing, and began squeezing out round after round. How she wished the cowards would come out from behind the trees so she could shoot them. 

 No one was going to get away with killing her brother.  She couldn't see much for the blue clouds of smoke billowing from the rifles.  The acrid smell of gunpowder and jolt of the rifle was satisfying. She didn’t know if she was hitting anything, but the force of the gun in her hand somehow gave her a sense of control.

She emptied her Winchester and scratched around for more cartridges. Nimble fingers loaded the chamber gate, worked the lever to bring up the round, and lifted the gun to her shoulder. She fired two shots before a bullet struck her and slammed her backward against the stone; it felt like her entire shoulder was missing. The impact stunned her.

 "Dang it, Frankie, move!" Ernest barked.  She was vaguely aware of being dragged.  Gray sky and rock exploded around her.  Instinctively, her hand went to her wound.  It was wet and sticky, covered with blood.  Earnest yelled something—she couldn’t understand. There was dirt, dust, and pain—so much pain.  Was Seth out the way?  She didn't want him to get shot again. No, she couldn't protect him now. He was gone. Her thoughts were running together. She heard Seth's voice. He was asking her if there was a heaven. Maybe—she didn't know. If so, he would be there. Would she? Was she dying? She tried to rise, but something struck her head.  An explosion. Frankie's world went black.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

A blustery gust caused Daniel to burrow deeper into his jacket. He jammed his hat on his head in a vain attempt to keep the wind from snatching it away. Despite the afternoon sun, the day was raw. Concern knit his brows as he noticed vultures gliding in a low, sweeping arc overhead.  He turned Sadie, his chestnut mare, in the direction of the birds. She plodded along in a four-step gait, approaching the flock. The sight of the scavengers made shivers of revulsion run up and down his spine.

As Daniel drew near, he saw the predators had alighted on something. He fired several shots in rapid succession and watched as they scattered to nearby trees. They loomed sullenly overhead as he investigated their gruesome discovery.

What he saw sent a jolt through him—two motionless bodies, a young man on his back and another face down in the dirt. He slid off the horse and approached the first figure. His jaw clenched and unclenched. The boy wasn’t more than sixteen. He’d been shot in the chest. Gray eyes stared at him unseeing. With a reverent silence, he stooped over and closed the boy’s eyelids. Clearly, he was beyond help.

He turned to the second figure, a few feet away, and studied the dark blood pooled around the head and shoulders. Daniel concluded this poor soul had met with a similar fate. He checked for a pulse. His heart skipped. He checked again—barely, but yes, a faint, steady surge of life beneath his hand.

He eased the body over, taking note of the injuries. Wincing slightly, he did not like the look of the wound to the shoulder or the other across the temple.  He frowned as he noticed something else—smooth skin.  Why, the boy wasn’t even old enough to shave! Again, who would shoot two boys? 

Father, what is this?

Daniel’s lips flattened to form a grim line as he noted the loss of blood. He studied the delicate face. A flicker of recognition danced in the back of his mind.  Did he know this lad? He nodded. It looked like the same boy Misty had been talking to the day of the robbery. Was it possible? Had this youth had something to do with the gang of bank robbers?

He thought of the nervous young man they’d met on the street. He was almost sure it was the same fellow. Had he been holding the horses, waiting on the outlaws to run from the bank? Sympathy twisted to anger as he remembered their close call. They had just made it inside the general store before the shots began. Misty might have been injured in the crossfire.

At that moment, he didn’t feel much like playing the part of the Good Samaritan.  He wrestled with his temper.  He couldn’t very well leave the boy here for the vultures and coyotes to finish, but he hated to bring trouble back to his house—he worried about Misty.  Father, what would you have me do? Daniel couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything right. The rough cry of a crow broke the silence of the afternoon.

As he gazed into the sky, snowflakes blew through the air, swirling around in the strong wind. They were in for bad weather—was this his answer?  Best to take care of the dead, then decide what to do with the living. He needed to return home and secure the animals for the night. 

 

By the time Daniel piled the last rock on the shallow grave, the sky had grown much darker. He did his best to dig a place deep enough the wild animals wouldn’t disturb the boy’s remains. Bowing his head, he said a few words over the mound, then turned his attentions to the injured lad.  He checked once more for a pulse.  Yes. Weak, but still there. 

The boy didn’t appear to weigh much. He could easily lift him over his shoulder to mount.  As he picked up the slight figure, the boy’s hat toppled in the dust.  A cascade of red hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Dirt and matted blood clung to the thick strands, but there was no quenching the fire in the pale, afternoon light.  Daniel’s breath caught.  Sweet Lord! It wasn’t a boy at all. 

Despite the filth and grime, she was breathtaking—the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  It shamed him to admit, even lovelier than his own sweet Elizabeth.  How had he been so blind?  Hadn’t he sensed something that day on the street?  He shouldn’t judge, but what self-respecting female rode with a band of outlaws?  His mind raced with questions. It wouldn’t be right to leave her.  He would have to take her back to the cabin, and when she recovered—if she recovered, he’d turn her over to the authorities.  They would handle her.  A woman under his roof presented a whole new set of problems.  He supposed he’d have to sleep in the barn.  It was an idea he did not relish.

***

It was late in the afternoon when Daniel guided his horse toward home.  His mind centered on Misty. What should he tell her regarding the young woman?  He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing.  Snowflakes fell in earnest now, swirling around and transforming the dull ground white.  Despite his misgivings, he would give her the best care.  Why did you bring her here, Father?

An acrid smell of dried blood and perspiration wafted up from the figure slumped in front of him.  He remembered Elizabeth smelling of honeysuckle. He wasn’t sure why he compared the two; this girl was a common outlaw.  No matter how pretty, she was still a thief.  The sooner he patched her up, the sooner he’d hand her over to the sheriff.  She’d never hold a candle to his Elizabeth—Elizabeth, who he’d loved since childhood. Elizabeth, who’d died as a result of his carelessness. Guilt assaulted him as it always did whenever he thought of her.

He lifted his eyes to the pewter skies and tried to form a prayer, but the words refused to form on his tongue. He trusted the Lord in every aspect of his life, and yet he could not bring himself to forgive the decision to leave Elizabeth when she needed him most.  Certainly, God blamed him for not using better judgment.  It was his duty to protect his wife. 

Misty must have been watching from the window. She suddenly darted out the cabin, wrapped in her mother’s old shawl. Her dark eyes grew wide with wonder, and her mouth formed a dainty O-shape as she noticed the strange girl with flaming hair.  “Who’s that, Daddy?”

“Misty, I’ll talk to you later about who she is. Right now I need you to bring me water from the well.  She needs fixing up.  She’s hurt bad.”

The child’s eyes grew cloudy with concern. “Is she going to live?”

“I can’t say, honey. All we can do is try.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Run along, and get the water.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Daniel eased the unconscious woman from the horse and carried her into the house. Gently, he placed her on his own bed.  While he waited for the water, he tossed several logs on the fire and stoked it until it blazed brightly in the room. He noted the delicious aroma of a beef stew bubbling on the stove, and a fresh loaf of bread cooling beneath a crisp, white linen cloth.  It would have to wait.

“I want to help,” Misty stated, appearing by his side.

 “Are you sure you can stomach it?  This isn’t going to be easy.”  He studied his daughter, measuring her with his eyes. His expression softened. “I could use the extra hands if you’re willing.”

Daniel had never treated her as a child—a fact he sometimes regretted, seeing as she hadn’t had much of a childhood. She had grown up taking care of most of the household chores.  There was no woman to do the usual cooking and cleaning.  She even helped him outside with the ranch tasks, working alongside him from sunup to sundown.  He wasn’t much of a farmer and life was hard, but she never complained.

She nodded. “I can do it.”

“Let’s get started then. First, set the water to heat on the stove. We’ll clean her up so we can see what we’re dealing with. Fetch my medical bag and one of your mama’s gowns. She’ll need something to wear once we remove these filthy clothes, and I’ll need a pan of warm water.”

Misty froze, her eyes raised in surprise, but dutifully she ran to do his bidding. 

Daniel pulled out his pocket knife and began cutting through her soiled clothing.  His years of training kicked in.  She was no longer a woman, simply a patient in need of immediate care. Dirt and mud caked the wound in her shoulder. With carefulness and practiced gentleness, he cleaned the area. He saw the bullet and was thankful she had not regained consciousness.  It would be best if she remained asleep while he removed it.

Together they worked cleaning and checking for further injury.  Except for the occasional command to retrieve a needed object, neither said a word. The wound in her temple wasn’t deep—a graze across the skin, but it concerned him she had not responded in any way to their probing. He feared the bullet might have caused more damage than he initially suspected.  What would they do if the young woman never awoke? He brushed the thought aside and picked up his scalpel. 

Daniel’s hand trembled. The metal felt cool against his palm. He swallowed hard, fighting the lump that had formed in his throat. Breathe, he coached himself. He released a shaky breath. You’ve done this a hundred times. He filled his lungs once more and cut the first incision. To his relief, his training took over. While he removed the bullet, his mind swirled with emotions. He made quick work of removing the bullet and sewing the wound closed. When he finished, he stepped back, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

Misty’s eyes glowed with admiration. “You did real good. How did you learn to do that?” 

Her voice surprised him.  He’d forgotten she was in the room.  “What? I—”

“I know you use to be a doctor before I came.” And then, without the slightest bit of disrespect she added. “Why did you give up doctor’n to be a farmer—you aren’t very good at growing things.” She regarded him with innocent eyes.

Daniel’s lips twitched, despite himself as he looked at her scrunched up nose. As usual, her keen observations were spot on. If there had been a woman around, maybe it would have curbed her precocious nature, but he rather enjoyed her refreshing honesty, and seldom thought to correct her for it. “Be that as it may." He attempted a stern demeanor. "Have you ever heard no one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for God’s service?”

“Yes . . . didn’t you read that from Luke just last week?”

“Maybe I’m stretching the meaning a bit, but it doesn’t do any good to look back.  There are things better left in the past.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“And you don’t need to. It’s not a subject I care to discuss.”

For a moment, she opened her mouth to respond but swallowed her objection.  Instead, she dared touch the long, red hair, gently stroking it as she spoke. “God brought her here.”

Her answer took Daniel by surprise, he rubbed the back of his neck while he thought how he should respond.  “About that . . . Misty, I don’t want you getting attached to her. I have reason to believe she ran with the gang that robbed the bank.  Almost sure of it.” 

“I knew it!” She beamed, with excitement.  “I knew that boy was too pretty.  He wasn’t a boy at all.”  She sobered. “But why would a girl ride with bad men?”

Daniel laid a calloused hand on his daughter's dark curls.  “I’m not sure, darlin’. That’s none of our concern.  I’m going to do what I can for her, and then turn her over to the sheriff.” 

“But—”

“That’s the way it has to be,” he interrupted. “How about you dish us some of the stew? I’m starving. I have chores to finish and then I’ll move my stuff out to the barn. You ladies sleep in here.”

“But Daddy,” she protested. “It’s so cold—you’ll freeze.”

“Sh-h-h, I’ll be fine. It wouldn’t be proper for me to stay under the same roof.” Besides, the more distance he put between himself and the fiery redhead the better. Something told him she was going to be trouble.

Chapter 4

 

Early morning light pushed its way into the dark cabin, slowly inching up the walls to paint them dismal gray. Daniel woke with a start and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned from lack of sleep.  "Misty?"

His tongue felt thick and tasted stale. He arched his back and spotted his daughter snailed up with a quilt in the rocker across from him. She must be exhausted. They were awake half the night laboring over the feverish stranger.

Daniel placed a hand along the woman's cheek and frowned. Still hot. Not raging, but far too warm.  He hadn't expected her to make it through till morning. Her tenacity surprised him.

"Daddy?" Misty bolted upright. Instantly alert, she looked ashamed for having fallen asleep. "Is she . . .  she's going to be okay, right?"

He regarded her and sighed. "She's very sick. I don't know, but we'll do our best." He attempted a smile for her benefit and gave her a wink. "It's early. Get some rest. You're going to need it." 

Concern crossed Misty’s features as she studied the still figure of their patient.

"It’s okay, Misty. She's fine for now. I'll cook breakfast, and you keep an eye on her while I get chores done."

***

Over the next few days, Daniel and Misty fell into a pattern. Most of the care settled on her small shoulders during the day. She seemed to relish her new role as nurse, prattling to her patient while she tended to her. The young girl changed bandages, spooned warm broth between dry, cracked lips, and brushed and preened the woman's hair until it gleamed and lay into a curtain of curls against the pillow.  Misty read to her from the Bible, taking pains to find the particular ones on healing.

Daniel took the night watch when heat from her slender young body radiated hot enough to swell blisters on her otherwise flawless skin.  He labored over her, bathing her flesh with the foul smelling vinegar to keep down the temperature. His heart filled with pity as he watched her battle delirium-induced demons. Her anguished pleas cried out in the night for the unknown Seth. The slip of a girl was a fighter.

The first few nights he hardened his emotions. Anger burned towards the young woman and her band of renegades. He clenched his jaw when he thought of how close Misty had been to danger. But there was something in the stranger’s raw cries for the unknown Seth that clawed at his soul. He wondered if Seth was the name of the boy he’d buried on the ridge. An unwelcome jealousy snaked through him.

***

Spring rains rolled in later in the week, pelting the small windows of the cabin. Unable to work in the fields, Daniel excused himself with the explanation of mending harnesses, oiling equipment, anything to put distance between himself and the beautiful redhead. She stole into his thoughts more than he cared to admit.

Daniel opened the barn door breathing in the scent of animals, leather, and hay. The dampness intensified the loamy smell. It was a familiar odor although he’d never managed to embrace it. Farming was not the dream he’d envisioned for himself, but it was honest work that left him too tired to think. Regret couldn’t change history.  

The ghost of the past had no place in his life. Better to bury them along with the dead and focus on the present. Daniel gathered his tools and proceeded to the stall where Mabel stood placidly chewing. Jamming his hands inside the gloves, he approached the Holstein with a rope, secured her, and begin the odious task of trimming her hooves. His voice was soothing as he worked, starting with the hoof knife to remove part of the toughened soul, working from the heel to the front.  Satisfied the toe was sufficiently pared down, he went to work with the rasp smoothing the rough edge.

He expelled a mirthless laugh. How easily the sharpened instrument cut through the unwanted growth. He wished his uninvited demons could be just as effortlessly removed. Despite his best effort, his mind drifted. Feelings had a way of invading when he least expected them, but dwelling on the past made him weak. He had no use for feebleness—not when Misty’s life was at stake. It was a self-indulgence he could not afford. His last mistake had been fatal.

Mabel's bellowed protest drew him to the present.  "Sorry, old girl. I got a little carried away." He patted her on her rump. She rolled her brown eyes at him and went back to her chewing. He finished with the task and worked on the remaining hooves as the afternoon passed. Before he knew it, Misty was ringing the dinner bell. He’d just up his gear and bring in fresh milk. 

Daniel entered the cabin, shaking the rain from his hat and coat. "Good day to be a duck," he commented. He hung his dripping slicker on a peg on beside the door. "What smells so wonderful?"

"Beans. Figured pinto beans and cornbread would taste mighty fine on a day like this."

"You’re right about that." He smiled broadly and cupped Misty's chin. She stood on the small stool he had made for her and stirred with a wooden spoon.

"There’s fried ham too."

The muscles worked over the lump in his throat. She presented a miniature replica of her mother dressed in the oversized apron. "I'm a lucky man; that's what." She was growing up too fast.

"How's our patient?" He washed his hands in the sink and accepted the towel Misty offered.

"Better, I think.  Her color's improved."

"You say that every night."

"See for yourself."  Misty pointed with the wooden spoon. She poured the beans from the pot to a bowl, releasing a fragrant aroma and trotted towards the table. She careened to a stop. "Look."

Daniel's quick reflexes kept dinner from crashing to the floor, as Misty came close to allowing the dish to slide from her hands. As it was, the beans sloshed over the side burning his hand. He winced, choked down a word he didn't regularly use and deposited the hot bowl. Misty held out a towel to him, which he wrapped around his throbbing injury and followed her gaze.

His stomach did a somersault when he spotted the green eyes staring at the ceiling. He hopscotched across the room. Close up, his brows knit with concern. At once he noted something wrong.

Daniel squeezed the pale, cold fingers. "Miss?" No response. "How are you feeling?" Still no answer. Her eyes fixed blankly with no indication she was aware of them.  "Misty, hand me that candle." He waited until he had a firm grasp on it before bringing the light close to her face.  Her gaze never wavered.

"What is it . . . What's wrong with her . . . is she awake?"  Misty fired off questions from his side.

"I'm not sure, sweetheart."  He continued the examination. Her pupils responded slowly. "I think, perhaps, she is improving.  But the brain is a funny thing." He looked at his daughter with a grim expression.  "I wish I knew."

This small sign was proof enough for the young girl.  Her faith took wings, and she refused to be denied.  "God wouldn't bring her here just to die."  

"I hope you're right."  His voice softened as ran his knuckle along her flushed cheek.  "We'll pray she continues to make progress." 

"Oh, I'm praying every night. I know she's going to get better. Wait and see."

"Misty, she isn't a stray puppy." Daniel cautioned. "We can't keep her. As soon as she is well enough .  . . We'll have to turn her over to the sheriff. I don't want you getting attached."

"Everybody deserves a second chance."

"Agreed. But, honey, this girl was running with outlaws. She robbed a bank. God forgives, but there is still the law of the land."

"If He forgives that's good enough for me." She folded her arms and jerked her chin.

Daniel pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. "Like I said, don't get too attached. Now run and fetch me the ointment." 

She sniffed but obeyed.

What was he thinking? His words were for Misty, but he should be preaching to himself. In the beginning, he prayed she'd improve for his daughter's sake, but as the days passed, he discovered a growing concern for her welfare. It was hard not to as she lay there so weak, so helpless, so beautiful.  How easy to forget the circumstances of their meeting in town.  He hoped he was wrong. But the truth nagged him.  Trust in the Lord and lean not on thy own understanding. The inner voice startled him.  How long had it been since he heard it?

 

Over the next few days, she grew more responsive.  Involuntarily, she moved her arms and legs, although she seemed unaware of her surroundings.  When they gripped her hand and squeezed, she responded in kind.

Daniel was hopeful she might awaken with a plausible excuse why she'd been running with outlaws, why she'd been on the ridge, and who was the boy was he found shot beside her.  Regardless, he wanted the woman out from under his roof. Misty was growing far too attached. Yeah, it's Misty you're protecting, he told himself as he looked down at those delicate features and coppery curls. He tried to ignore the bitter twist in his stomach. The sooner she woke up, the faster life could return to normal. 

Chapter 5

 

Frankie groaned. She tried to move, but her bruised muscles refused to cooperate. A heaviness in her limbs weighed her down. Her head hurt like nothing she’d ever experienced. She opened her eyes. Why was it so dark?  Had she died and gone to hell? The blackness surrounded her, seeming to suffocate her. 

“You’re awake.” A small voice from somewhere in the murkiness spoke.

Frankie strained to make out a face in the darkness. Why couldn’t she see? Panic threatened to seize her until cool fingers pressed inside her own. 

“You’re okay.  I’m here.”  The voice sounded young, reassuring.

 Here? “Where’s here. Who are you?” The words crashed inside Frankie’s head like thunder but were little more than a cracked whisper. Each moment that passed her anxiety rose.

“I’m Misty. My pa found you and brought you back to the cabin. Don’t worry, you’re getting better every day.”

The pain racking her body said otherwise. “What happened to me? Why can’t I see?”

“You can’t?  I-I don’t know . . . . you were hurt real bad.  Pa didn’t think you’d make it. You were shot twice, but I knew God wouldn’t bring you here just to die. Pa and I fixed you up.  I pray—” 

“Shot!” Frankie attempted to raise her head, but searing pain exploded through her skull. The word bounced around her mind as awareness filtered through her pain-fogged memory. The shootout. Seth.

Seth!  She eased her head against the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back tears. 

“I’m Misty,” the young voice repeated. “Do you remember me from the day at the bank? You were the one holding the horses.”

What? What was the child babbling about? Through grief, Frankie felt small hands patting her arm.  She jerked away from the touch.

“No, I don’t! Leave me alone!” She tried to shout, but the effort made her head hurt worse. Why was it so dark?  She moved her hands to her face. Frantic, she clawed at whatever blocked her vision. Nothing hindered her—her eyes were opened wide. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it.

“I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to  . . . upset you. Please don’t get angry. It’s a miracle you’re alive.  I’ve been praying for you every day.”

Frankie nearly strangled on the word. Miracle! “Some miracle. Save your prayers, kid. I don’t believe in them.”

The sputtering silence told Frankie she’d made her point. It felt good to strike at something. The ache in her heart demanded revenge. Her targets were limited for the moment.

“Let me fetch, Pa.”

“Yeah, you do that!” Frankie tossed at the sound of running feet.

A door slammed. Frankie listened to the tearful voice calling for her pa. It grew fainter as the child’s feet carried her to some unknown destination. 

Get up—run before they realize who you are an internal voice urged. Why was she still lying here?   Frankie forced her body upright, but nausea started her heaving.  She clutched her head and fought back bile. It seemed to take forever, but at least she’d struggled to a vertical position with her feet on the floor.  She muttered a curse that would have scorched Big Sam’s ears.

Big Sam! He’d left her to die—the mangy coward!  Anger and hate swelled inside her chest combining into an intense urge for revenge.  She’d make sure he paid, so help her. The rage, the pain, it was too much. Suddenly the meager contents of her stomach hurdled upward. There was nothing there, but the spasms wracked her body, leaving her weak. Her crumpled body slid to the floor.

Frankie must have passed out. She had the sudden awareness of being lifted and placed on the bed. 

“There now. What were you trying to do? You’re hardly in the shape for getting up just yet.”

Despite the darkness swimming before her, the image of the bluest eyes she’d ever seen appeared in her mind. 

“I left Misty outside, so we might talk. She’s pretty upset.”

Frankie sensed the weight of the bed dip as he sat down. “You’ve been through a lot. I get that, but you’ve got no cause to be rough with the girl. She’s just trying to help.”

“I don’t want anyone’s help.” She turned her face away from him. “Why can’t I see?”  

She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Nothing?” 

“Nothing,” she replied.

Silence. 

A log sputtered from the hearth. A clock from somewhere in the room counted off the silent minutes.  One. Two. Three. “I’m not sure. The fever may have caused a temporary blindness, let’s hope your vision clears.”

“What are you saying? You can’t mean this might be . . . permanent.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s too early to know.  Miss, you’re lucky to be alive. I . . . well, I had to bury that young fellow you were with. I thought I’d have to do the same for you. Looks like you’ve made it through the worst of it.”

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t do flips around the room.”

“Look  . . . miss—”

“Frankie. The name’s Frankie.” 

“And the young man . . .”

Her heart ached at the mere mention of her Seth. What was it to him?

“Was he a  . . . sweetheart?”

Sweetheart!  “No! My brother.”

“Brother!” She detected a note of surprise in his voice, as he continued, “I-I’m sorry.  So how did you and your brother find yourself up at the top of my ridge? Why were you posing as a boy that day in town? I know you were with those men that robbed the bank.”

“So.” She kept her face turned from the sound of his voice.

“You aren’t going to deny it?”

“Sounds like you’ve already figured things out, mister.” Her tone sounded flat.

He blew a stream of air out and tried again. “I’m giving you a chance to tell your side of the story. I just want to hear the truth. Why were you with those outlaws? How did you and your brother get shot?”

Frankie picked up on a subtle plea in his voice. It was impossible to read his expression, but she heard an undertone that whispered for her to deny the obvious. Why disappoint him? “They forced us, okay? We were kidnapped and made to help them.  Once they got what they wanted, they shot us.”  The lie rolled off her tongue as easily as it did when she charmed her way into those vaults. Survival skills took over. The first thing this do-gooder would do is turn her over to the sheriff.  And she wasn’t about to rot in some cell while Big Stan ran free.

“Who were these men? Did they . . . harm you?”

Was this guy for real? “No, nothing like that. They used us and disposed of us.” That part was true enough. “Look, mister, I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about it. If you don’t mind . . .”

“Daniel.”

“What?”

“My name is Daniel. Daniel Myers. And I apologize if I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I needed to know your involvement. I’ve got Misty to consider. You know how it is . . . a father needs to protect his little girl.”

A stab of something like jealousy flickered through her. Frankie didn’t know. Frankie had no idea. She wondered what it would be like to have a parent who cared about someone other than his own stinking hide.

“Just one more thing . . . did you get any clue who these men were? I mean what outfit they’re with?”

Frankie’s tongue darted out to wet her cracked lips. “I can identify him, alright.  Stan McNeill.  He’s the parasite that killed my brother and left us for dead.”

***

The words punched Daniel like a fist to the gut.  Not possible! Blood drained from his face. His thoughts flew to Misty outside alone.  Common sense told him the gang would be long gone, but he couldn’t afford to make the same mistake.

“I’d better check on Misty.” He rose with abruptness and hurried to the door. His shoulders sagged with relief when he spotted her sitting in the dirt. The flock of chickens pecked around her skirt as she petted and crooned over them.

Exhaling a breath he’d been unaware he’d been holding, Daniel measured his steps, and walked outside to join her.  With a booted foot, he shooed several of the hens away and took a moment to collect his thoughts before easing himself beside her.  “Here you are.”

She dropped a line of corn on the ground and watched several hens snatch up the kernels before answering. “I’m fine.”  The red splotches on her cheeks told him she’d been crying.

“Let’s give her a little time.  She’s been through a lot.”

“I know.” She sniffed.

“I need to tell you something.” He waited until he held her attention before continuing. “I didn’t want to upset you before . . . especially when it didn’t look as if she’d make it. Misty, I buried her brother up on that ridge. There was nothing I could do.”

“Oh!” Her eyes welled with fresh tears. “Does she know?”

“She does. But she’s going to need our patience. She told me those men kidnapped her and her brother.”

“How awful.” Her hands flew to her cheeks. “I ought not run off like that.”

“Well . . . I’ve always heard hurting people hurt others. We may need to give her space for a while.”

“Oh, I will, Pa.  I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure she’ll come around once she’s had time to reflect. That’s a lot to wake up to. Give her a wide berth for now, okay?”

Misty nodded, drying her eyes with the back of her hand. “Is she going to be blind?”

“I’m hoping it is temporary. It’s possible the high fever caused it. I hope that’s all it is. You let me worry about that—you just keep praying for her.”

A cloud passed over her face. “She told me to keep my prayers. I don’t think she wants them.”

He chucked her under the chin. “Darl’n, that’s when folks need them the most. They just don’t recognize it.”

“I guess.”

He cocked his head and expressed mock surprise. “This isn’t the same girl that’s been lecturing me on God’s purpose. I can’t believe you’d let a little redhead's sharp tongue steal your joy?” 

She laughed. “No.”

“There’s that smile. How about getting together dinner while I finish up what I was doing.  Can you do that?”

She nodded; her face brightening.

“That’s my girl.”  He smiled for her benefit, but the expression melted to a frown once she entered the cabin. Lord, what are you doing?  Daniel didn’t believe in coincidences. Why had He brought this woman here? Something didn’t ring true. The bigger question: what was Stan McNeill doing back in these parts? One thing’s for sure, he’d keep his shotgun ready. The next time he saw the man he’d kill him.

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

 

 

 Despite her instincts to run, Frankie realized she’d never get far in her present condition. Her world consisted of two things now, darkness and pain. The empty void served to heighten the intensity. A throbbing in her skull kept tempo with the pounding of her heart, and the tiniest touch ignited a crushing ache throughout her entire body. It was all she could manage to lie on the bed and hope her stomach didn’t start convulsing again.  Worse than the physical discomfort was the burning loss of Seth. His death would not go without retaliation. It fueled her will to fight, and it kept her from caving to the insurmountable obstacles that kept her from achieving her goal—revenge.

The story she’d told the farmer bought her time. She’d lay low, recuperate, and when she was able, she’d leave and hunt down Big Sam. She despised weakness of any kind. Forced to depend on the kindness of strangers was a predicament that didn’t set well with her at all. She resented it and lashed out at the girl to show she wanted no part of their sympathies. No way would she stand for losing her sight. Vision or no, she’d get better, find the man who’d left her and Seth for dead, and when she did he’d pay with his life.

The door to the cabin groaned open. Frankie pretended to sleep to avoid having further confrontation. The less contact she had with these Appalachian mountaineers, the better. She well remembered the chatty girl from the day at the bank and her father with eyes the color of an April sky. Impossible to forget. They’d almost gotten themselves caught in the cross-fire.

 Frankie recalled a woman being with them too. She bristled with unexpected dislike. She didn’t know who the perky blond draped across Mr. Blue-eyes was, but she didn’t like the looks of her. Didn’t matter. Her plans didn’t include being here long enough to get acquainted with any of them.

Frankie listened to the unmistakable sounds of pans and cutlery. Metal against metal, scraping, liquid sloshing and the clatter of plates told her someone was preparing a meal. The soothing chorus of food preparation and sharp aroma of pine logs burning in the hearth took the edge off, giving her something else to focus on besides the discomfort that coursed through her extremities. She’d never before realized there were so many noises she taken for granted.

A particular sound set her teeth on edge. The off key crooning of the kid.  Great! She was just tuning up with a rendition of Oh! Susanna.

She tolerated a few bars before speaking up. “Do you mind?”

 “Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away.”

Frankie groaned and expelled a short snort. “You don’t say.”

“I was trying to be quiet.”

Frankie closed her eyes again in response.

“I’m kind of glad you’re awake. I wanted to ‘pologize for before. We got off to a bad start.”

More clattering of dishes and pans.

Can’t this kid take a hint?

“I’m real sorry about your brother. I always wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister. It’s just Pa and me.”

Despite herself, Frankie found her curiosity piqued. What about the other woman? What do you care? Frankie’s mind challenged.

“Pa told me those men kidnapped you. That must have been awful. I don’t know what I’d do if someone tried to do that to me. I’d be scared to death . . . Is that why you were just standing there not saying anything that day at the bank? Bet you were afraid?”

“I wasn’t scared!” Frankie snapped.  “Didn’t your Pa ever tell you children should be seen and not heard?” The tension-filled pause told her she’d made her point. There!

“Well, no, I guess he didn’t. But he did teach me to be kind to others. Didn’t your ma ever teach you that?”

Something in the stiff little words caused Frankie to wince. The girl had spunk. Seth had a way of putting her in her place when she least expected it too. She swallowed and surprised herself by commenting. “My ma’s dead.”

“Well, that gives us one thing in common. My ma died too.”

Frankie considered the admission. If that was true, who was the woman in town? Another awkward silence filled the room as the girl moved about with what Frankie assumed to be dinner preparations. Neither spoke.

Frankie pressed her head against the pillow, trying to pick out familiar sounds: fat sizzling in the pan, water boiled, the metallic voices of pans bumping together. Soon the heady scent of fried potatoes hung heavy in the air. Her stomach flopped. It appeared, the kid had gotten the hint and left her alone.

That suited her fine. Frankie burrowed deeper under the quilt and tried to make peace with the hand she’d been dealt. She squeezed her eyes shut determined to capture a few moments of sleep. Every part of her hurt, an ache that went far beyond the physical. Regardless of her outward wounds, she knew her heart would never heal from losing Seth. He’d always been the bright spot in her life. As she thought about happier times with him, she must have drifted to sleep.

A cold blast of air rushed into the room startling her awake. The heavy tread of boots on the porch alerted her that the kid’s father must have entered. He’d introduced himself twice now, and all she could think to call him was blue-eyes.

“Looks like we’re in for another storm,” she overheard him comment to the girl.    

            “I could have told you that. Penny and Henrietta were clucking about worse than usual this morning. The air has a bite to it too.”

            “You really shouldn’t name those chickens. You get too attached and then I feel guilty for consuming your friends. 

            The girl giggled. “They’re my best laying hens. You won’t be eating them for a spell. If anything, I’ll feed you that tough old rooster, Mr. Drumstick. He comes after me every time I get near one of his old biddies.”

            “He sounds delicious. I’ll look forward to his demise . . . we’ll plant him right here in my chicken graveyard.”

Frankie wasn’t able to see what he was doing, but it made the girl laugh.

“With mashed potatoes and gravy,” he added.

Their light-hearted teasing puzzled Frankie. It never occurred to her a parent and child might have such affection for one another. Something akin to guilt pricked her conscience for eavesdropping. Maybe she should clear her throat to make them aware she was awake. Yet she found herself drawn to their banter. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, although she grew conscious of an urgent need to relieve herself. She loathed the weakness that made her dependent on anyone. Still  . . .

“How’s she doing?” His voice lowered to a conspirators tone.

The question was followed by a snort. “Like a sore-tailed cat.”

The rumble of a chuckle. “I warned you she’d need space. Let that be a lesson. Don’t fret. You’ll have her eating out of your hand in no time. You have a way with animals . . . and people.”

Frankie wasn’t sure she liked being the topic of their discussion, especially in such unflattering terms.  She stirred and cleared her throat.

The timber of his voice changed at once, waning from teasing to serious. “You’re awake. I hope we didn’t disturb you. How are you?”

His tone sounded more pleasant when it held a hint of humor, Frankie noted. She’d wished she’d waited a little longer to speak.

 “I’ve been better.” Pushing herself on her elbows, she let a wave of dizziness pass and eased herself higher. “I’m not much on laying around.”

“I understand, but given the circumstances, it may be best for the moment.”

She could tell by the sound of his boots he headed in her direction, and she wasn’t at all comfortable by his nearness. He made her nervous in a way she didn’t like. 

The mattress dipped when he sat on the edge.  “Mind if I check you?”

She lifted her shoulder with a noncommittal shrug and instantly regretted the choice as a searing pain shot down her arm.

“Yeah, that’s going to take a while to heal. I’ll fashion a sling to remind you not to use it.” He checked the bandage on her head. “You did a good job, Misty.” There was a note of tenderness in his voice when he spoke to the girl. Frankie noticed right away the kindness did not extend to her. Although his touch was gentle on her cheek, she found it unnerving. He sat so close she detected the scent of leather and outdoors that clung to his clothes.

“I’d like to get up,” she informed him.

“I wouldn’t advise it. A few more days here won’t . . .”

She sensed he started to say wouldn’t kill her, but then thought better of it.

“Look, mister—”
            “Daniel. Remember? My name is Daniel. Since you’ll be our guest for a while, you may want to learn it. I’m not comfortable with mister.”

She bit back a choice retort. “Daniel, then. As much as I appreciate your advice, the sooner I get on my feet, the sooner I can move on. I don’t wish to be here anymore than you want me, and I really need to go—”

“I never said I didn’t want you here. It’s our Christian duty to take care of a stranger in need.”

Christian duty. She was no one’s Christian duty. “As welcoming as that sounds.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I’ll be moving on as soon as I’m able. At the moment, I need the use of your—”

“That come out wrong. I didn’t mean to suggest our hospitality stemmed from a sense of obligation. Our home is yours until you recover your health.”

Frankie detected a note of sincerity in the statement, but it didn’t matter.  This was the last place she wanted to be. She’d bide her time and play nice, but some situations required throwing civility to the wind. “That’s reassuring, Daniel . . . but if you don’t help me up this minute you’re going to have more than just a guest in your bed.  I need to use the privy now!”

 

 

Chapter 7

 

 

 Daniel cast a look of disbelief at the red haired beauty. His emotions swung like a pendulum when it came to the frustrating woman. On the one hand, he pitied her—he knew what it was like to grieve. At the same time, his gut warned him to be cautious, and he was seldom wrong.

Despite his hasty decision concerning her association with the McNeill gang, he couldn’t shake the sensation there might be more going on than mere happenstance. He didn’t believe in chance. Her demeanor suggested she was anything but a victim. He hadn’t been around her long, but she didn’t strike him as the passive type. From what he’d seen, the good Lord would have to help the sap who’d lock horns with her. He’d learned to size up people pretty well. Something about her story still didn’t mesh.

For one thing, her personality didn’t fit. There was nothing shy or wilting about this girl. She hadn’t even blushed when she told him she needed to relieve herself. He, however, had been embarrassed for them both. The tips of his ears must be singed pink. Maybe it had been his imagination, but she’d seemed almost pleased with herself.

Daniel hadn’t been able to leave the cabin fast enough. The stinging drops of frozen rain were a balm to his burning skin.  Lord, help me. I’ve never come across any female quite like this.

He lowered his frame into a weathered rocker, enjoying the satisfying creak as it accepted his weight. With the ease of his dusty boot, he set the chair in motion while he mulled over his dilemma regarding the saucy stranger.

Frankie. What kind of name was that for a girl? One that brings trouble, no doubt. She’d been conscious less than twenty-four hours, and already he regretted bringing her to the house. Despite her abrasive personality, he’d done the right thing, he assured himself. Still . . . the quicker she regained her health and headed back to where she came from, the better off they’d all be.

The latch lifted and the door swung open. Misty paused in the doorframe looking perplexed. “Pa? She says she wants to eat at the table.”

“Stubborn female,” he muttered.

“Pa?”

“Never mind.” He pushed himself up and headed inside the house.  To his surprise, the petite woman stood beside the bed, leaning on the bedpost for support. “I told you to rest.”

“I told you, I needed to get back on my feet. You don’t do that by lying abed all day.”

“You do when you—” He stopped mid sentence realizing he was wasting his breath and crossed the space between them. “Here! You’re so anxious to move around . . . right this way.” 

She took several steps. Her already ashen pallor drained to a sickly green. She bit her lip but didn’t stop.

Alarmed by the sudden change of color, he regretted snapping at her.  “Here. You’re almost there.” 

“Thank you.” Her reply sounded weak. Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip.

“Misty, the chair.” Daniel motioned with his chin.

The child was quick to understand his meaning and pulled out the indicated furniture. He eased Frankie into it. 

Daniel breathed a little easier. “There. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I told—”

Her gaze didn’t reach his, but it didn’t need to. The slight flaring of her nostrils sent the message loud and clear.

“Dinner’s ‘bout ready.” Misty spun and headed for the frying pan. She used the spatula to scrape the stubborn potatoes stuck to the bottom of the cast iron skillet.

 An awkward silence filled the cabin, interrupted by the grating of bowls as his daughter transferred dinner to the table, and the occasional pecking of ice pellets against the window.

“I’ll pour the milk.” Daniel slid from his chair, anxious for something to do.  He wasn’t comfortable sitting across from her. It was impossible not to stare at those stunning eyes and flawless complexion. It seemed wrong to watch her without her knowledge.  Even deathly pale and looking as if she might topple over any second, she took his breath away. It was unnerving.  Best to keep busy. 

When everything was in place, five minutes later, Daniel extended his hands towards Misty. “Ma’am, we say grace before we eat.”

“Go ahead, I’m not stopping you.” She attempted to sit aloof, but Daniel noticed the walk had taken much of the starch from her.

“Pa . . . may I say it tonight?”

Surprised, he glanced at his daughter’s hopeful face and nodded. “Very well.”

Misty cautiously touch the sleeve of Frankie’s gown. The young woman jerked at the light tap. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. We hold hands while we say the blessing.”

Daniel held his breath while indecision played across Frankie’s features. To his surprise, she placed a thin hand on the table, palm up. Only one. For Misty.

He caught a hint of a grin before his daughter tucked her head and began to speak. “Father, God we’re thankful Miss Frankie is with us tonight, and mighty grateful you let Pa find her. We thank you for your healing and ask your blessing upon this here food. In Jesus name, Amen.”

“Amen,” he repeated. His daughter glanced at him for approval.  He winked and they both cast a wary eye to their guest.

She sat stone-faced. It was impossible to read her expression.

“I put the broth in a cup for you. Figured it might be easier to hold than trying to fuss with a spoon and bowl. Didn’t think your stomach would handle fried potatoes tonight. But soon, right, Pa?”

“She’s a determined young lady.” He picked up his fork and speared a carrot.

“Here you go.”  Misty eased the cup into Frankie’s hand.

The woman wrapped slim fingers around the mug, brought it close to her face, and took a hesitant whiff. 

“It’s chicken broth,” Misty volunteered.

Frankie sampled the brew. “Not bad. Thank you.”

Daniel smiled, relieved to see she didn't entirely lack gratitude.  Perhaps Misty would win her over yet. 

 

*****

 

The insides of Frankie’s gut quivered as the warm liquid slid down her throat. It tasted good, but her intestines had been without food too long—it needed to adjust to the sensation least she throw it back up.  She swallowed, almost picturing the soup winding its way down into her stomach.

Frankie realized she hadn’t minded the prayer as much as she expected. The hand inside hers offered comfort. Even if it was from a stranger. Although having her name brought before the Almighty made her a bit skittish.  She wasn’t certain there was such a benevolent being, but if so, she didn’t want to be singled out. She’d just as soon remain anonymous. 

“So Frankie, tell us where you’re from? Is your ranch far from here?”

The timbre of Daniel’s rich voice snapped her from her thoughts, catching her off guard. She hadn’t planned past the first lie. Had it suddenly grown warmer in the room? In an attempt to stall for time, she brought the cup to her mouth, took a sip, and swallowed.  “Shenandoah Valley.”

“Shenandoah? That’s quite a distance.”

Frankie figured it was far enough away that no one would dispute her story. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t be familiar with the area. “My brother and I have a dairy farm . . .” The lie stuck in her throat. The ruse she and Big Sam used to gain knowledge of the bank’s layout always left a bad taste in her mouth, but now that it included Seth, it felt worse.

“I hear it’s beautiful land up there.”

“Yes. I suppose.” The soup landed like stones in her belly.

“Do you have family back there . . . anyone we can send word to?  They must be worried sick.”

“No.” That was true enough. There was no one now—no one left to care about her. The realization left her drained. “I’d like to lie down. Like you said . . . wouldn’t want to overdo.”

“Of course!”

Daniel’s chair scraped the floor in his haste to be by her side.  He helped her up, measuring his steps to match her slow ones.  She loathed the weakness that left her shaking and out of breath. Despite herself, she leaned on Daniel’s arm for support. Oh, wouldn’t Big Stan have a belly laugh if he could see her now. She steeled her backbone and set her jaw. 

“Just a few more steps. That’s it,” Daniel encouraged. 

The concern in his voice puzzled her as they reached the bed and he eased her down to a sitting position. 

“There. Better?”

She nodded, reluctant to admit he’d been right. The hammering in her head made it hard to think. He swung her feet around and tucked the warm quilt around her. How comforting to have someone take care of her for a change. The gentle attention and his nearness caused a brief stirring of something she’d never experienced. Frowning, she questioned the sudden urge to prolong the exchange. What was wrong with her? She must have some sort of brain damage, she reasoned.

 When he brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her face, she drew in a sharp breath.

He jerked his hand away. “S-sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t mean to . . .” When he spoke again, his voice held a distant tone. “Well . . . I’ll let you get your rest.”

She listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps and joined the girl at the table. The one room layout didn’t offer much in the way of privacy.  Their muted conversation which included topics of farming, animals, and spring planting drifted to her across the small space.  The subject didn’t much interest her. After a while, she nodded off once more. 

The next thing she heard was the sound of movement about the cabin. Heavy boots tramping back and forth. “I wish you didn’t have to . . .” Misty insisted.

“It’s for the best,” Daniel replied.

“I still don’t see why you have to—”

“Sh-h-h, you’ll wake her. Trust me, it’s better this way. It’s only temporary. Be a good girl and bar the door behind me.” 

Frankie caught a click and wood scraping against wood as the lock fell into place. What was going on? Frankie couldn’t imagine. The girl’s soft steps padded about the cabin.

As much as she wanted to feign indifference, she had to know. “Misty?”

“Yes?  Do you need something?”

“Where’s your father going? Is he leaving?” An unusual discomfort accompanied the thought.

The girl laughed. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. He’s moving to the barn.” 

“Barn? Why on earth would he do that?”

“I’m not quite sure. Something about it not being proper and not wanting to tarnish your reputation.”

“Tarnish my reputation?” Oh, my! That was rich! Her lips twitched with a combination of emotions—both amused and warmed by his gallantry. She had little experience with men who wanted nothing from her. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“I’m getting ready to go to bed. Do you need anything before I climb into the loft?”

“Hmm . . . what? No, I’m fine.” Frankie’s mind was churning.

“Okay, good night, then.”

“Night.”

Dazed by the turn of events, Frankie lay awake intrigued by the behavior of this odd man. She realized she’d never been afraid of anyone, but something about this stranger unnerved her. He had the ability to throw her off balance, and she didn’t like it. He made her feel weak, vulnerable . . . two things she couldn’t stomach. He muddled her thinking. This fellow was a different kind of dangerous. He got under her skin, making her uncomfortable.

It went against common sense to sleep outside in an icy barn when he might be snug inside his own home. Guilt caused her to squirm beneath the thick quilt—a prickly sensation she’d seldom experienced. She marveled at the prospect. Why would he put her needs above his own comfort? For a moment, she considered what it would be like to care about someone like Daniel. But quickly brushed aside the thought. What was wrong with her!

Obviously, this nonsense she felt resulted from her injuries. She’d just ignore her heart’s whisperings and curiosities about this unusual farmer. She still had to track down Big Sam, and she had no intention of being sidetracked. From this point on, she’d be more careful. Of all the obstacles she would face in finding Big Stan, Daniel Myers would not be one of them.

 

                                                        

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 23.11.2015

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