Twenty-two

The stairs to Dr. Dalton’s office creaked. Glory stumbled once when her foot failed to clear the upper step. His firm grip kept her from falling. The care he took of her stirred the dying embers of times past.

And yet, his presence jumbled her nerves.

If she couldn’t trick Patience, what luck did she have with a man of learning?

Here she’d worked herself into a frazzle to stave off the inevitable and the effort could be for naught. She failed miserably in the pretending lessons.

The turn of the knob told her they’d reached the top.

“You ladies have a seat and tell me what I can help you with.”

Locating the chair edge with the back of her legs, Glory sat down. “It’s our mother. We recently discovered she’s consuming an unhealthy amount of laudanum.”

Hope took over. “Sick headaches consume her to such a degree she’s grown dependent on the drug. Mama talks in riddles. Most times she can’t remember that our papa is…away and has been for a long time.”

“You are right to seek help. That addiction carries grave effects.” The young doctor paused for a second, tapping his fingers on the desktop. “This clears up another puzzle though.”

A curious thing to say. Glory tried to curb the peculiar pinpricks running the length of her spine. “A puzzle?”

“It pertains to your last visit, Miss Day. I couldn’t quite understand why you’re so desperate to hide your impairment. I didn’t know about your circumstance and how your father’s leaving dumped the family’s entire survival on you.”

“Don’t sit in judgment, Doctor, until you’ve been there.” Glory hadn’t meant to spit the sharp rebuke from her mouth. Not in that way. But it irked her to see how fast a body jumped to the wrong conclusions.

“My sister didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Hope apologized.

“No, the regret belongs to me. I should mind my manners. Will you believe I only wish to help?”

Those offerings were a dime a dozen. No one could return the thing she most needed. Still, he meant well even if he could use a bit more prudence.

“We both spoke before thinking.” Glory allowed a wan smile. “A problem I have quite often.”

“Getting back to your mother—how long has she taken the laudanum and how much?”

“Though we don’t know for certain, we believe she began shortly after my father left,” Hope said.

“That’s when we started noticing she had trouble separating fact from fiction. Her headaches grew increasingly worse and kept her abed for days.” Glory wrinkled her brow. The truth was there all along had they chosen to see it. She’d not filled Papa’s boots very well.

Worry likely created the catch in her sister’s breath when she helped complete the picture. “Yesterday, Uncle Pete confessed how he’d secretly supplied the laudanum for years. Could that account for the symptoms?”

“Absolutely.” Dalton sighed heavily. “It’s nothing more than a liquid form of opium and extremely hazardous when taken frequently. In large quantities, it kills.”

“Oh dear!”

The gasp came from Hope and gave noise to the shudders inside Glory. “What can we do?”

“Taking it from her in one fell swoop poses an equally vexing problem. Many patients die in the throes of the horrible shakes that develop.” The sound of him scratching his chin met Glory’s ears. “The only thing you can do in my estimation is to wean your mother off it gradually. Hide the bottle and dole it out in small quantities. I suggest one spoonful a day for a week, then begin every other day, and slowly taper off.”

“Thank you. It relieves our minds to confide in someone.” She hated that the bulk of the task would fall on Hope’s shoulders yet again. Hell’s bells!

Dr. Dalton’s next question came softly, but with the blunt force of a hammer. “Would you mind if I examine your eyes? Purely to satisfy my professional concern of course.”

* * *

Miles from Santa Anna, Luke sniffed the smoke of a campfire floating in the breeze…and coffee?

Just what he needed to drive the chill from his bones. Last night’s storm had drenched him. Or maybe he’d died from longing and the good Lord hadn’t told him yet.

Folks claim nothing but death creates such mind-numbing cold. He could put up an argument to the contrary.

He slid from the saddle for a look-see. Didn’t pay to ride into a fellow’s territory uninvited. These days especially. Luke didn’t mind a trip to the Promised Land; in fact, he welcomed relief from the utter misery gripping his gut, he just didn’t care to be helped there with a rope.

Rain-dampened grass silenced his movements. He pushed aside the low branch of a Texas redbud. Scents from the small fire had his belly rumbling. Not a soul in sight. Whomever it belonged to—

“Hold it, pistolero.”

Someone cocked the hammer of a weapon. The metal poking into the back of his head assured Luke the person wasn’t asking for directions. The stranger took his Colt, slipping it easily from the holster. The hackles on Luke’s neck rose. He never developed a fondness for sitting ducks. Especially if he was in the duck’s shoes.

“Smelled your coffee. Didn’t mean any harm.”

“Turn around slow and easy.”

Thank his lucky stars the man hadn’t shot him on the spot. Luke swiveled and got his first look.

“Dan? You old son of a gun.”

“That’s Captain Roberts to you. You’re getting sloppy, McClain.” The Ranger handed back his pistol. “Time was you’d have snuck up on a man, made him eat some lead, and sent him to his Maker before he knew what happened.”

That was in the old days when a certain lady hadn’t occupied his thoughts.

“Care to share a cup of that brew?”

“Not if you don’t mind shedding some light on the urgent telegram you sent. I met the necktie party when I rode in. Pretty riled up. You’re in a mess of trouble, boy.”

“Seems so.” Luke rubbed eyes that burned from lack of sleep. Felt bloodshot and raw, just like his insides. A night of blinding rain and intolerable grief tended to do that to a man. He wondered how Glory fared this Sunday morn. Better than he had, he hoped.

“Anything to do with the gang robbing the stages you told headquarters about a week or so ago?”

“You guessed it. Only it’s worse now. Where’s Major Jones anyway?”

“He died last month. That’s how I got your telegram.”

“Sorry to get that news. None better than the major.”

“Yep, mighty big shoes to fill. Don’t know that I’m able.”

“You’re a good man, Dan. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’ll do what I can. You’d best fill me in, I reckon.”

A few hours later, Luke watched Captain Roberts disappear through the brush. Relief settled some of the turmoil knotting his belly. They’d arrived at a plan that could work, given that everything would go accordingly.

He scooped a handful of mud, smearing it on his face. His hair got a generous helping as well. Then, he took the black eye patch from his pocket and rigged it in place. A few tears in his clothing, a liberal splashing of rotgut, and he reckoned his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.

Soldier pawed the ground when Luke reached for the reins. He watched the animal’s eyes grow wide when he climbed instead on the strange mount the captain had brought.

“Hate to do this, boy, but you’d give me away. Folks around here know I ride a paint.”

Luke stashed the horse near a stream in a secluded spot where no one was likely to stumble across him.

At least he hoped they didn’t. Soldier was family.

The broom-tail mare sidestepped when he headed for Camp Colorado. After scouting the area the last few days, he knew for a fact the gang made use of the abandoned military fort.

“Cotton-pickin’, girl! What’s the matter with you?” Luke scratched his head.

Crazy horse. He’d never seen an animal trot sideways.

The rolling motion made him think he’d go off any second.

“Where in hell did the captain find you—a reject at an animal graveyard?”

The mare tossed her head from side to side as if to say she was most proud of the way she walked. Fire and damnation! If he wasn’t so hard up, he’d turn her out to pasture and walk. Course, that might get him tossed out of the hideout on his ear. No self-respecting outlaw went into a den of thieves afoot. Better a flea-bitten nag than none at all. He reckoned he was stuck with Miss Gut Twister.

Across Jim Ned Creek, he found a small wash and kept in it until he spied the old fort. Tall thistle would let him get within shouting distance before a lookout saw him.

With the land now officially owned by Henry Sackett, he wondered whether the man was in cahoots with the gang.

Regardless, his gut said Vince Foster led them.

The muscles in his jaw twitched. Nothing he could prove yet, but he meant to find out one way or another. The run-in he’d had with the man left a bad taste in his mouth.

“You have one hell of a nerve coming onto my property and accusing me of robbing stages,” Foster had yelled, his face a mottled red. “And I damn sure didn’t frame anyone.”

“A very reliable person claims otherwise.”

“Who would that be?”

“Why, so you can keep him quiet?” Luke had asked quietly.

The relay station owner had shoved him, then drew back his fist. “Get off my land.”

“Or what?”

“Consider this a final warning,” Foster had snarled.

The recollection of that day tumbled, dead weeds carried by the parched Texas wind. Luke hadn’t figured on Foster silencing the woman to keep her from talking. Old Mrs. Tucker might still be alive if not for his own carelessness. He’d underestimated the man. But he learned fast, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Luke would bet everything he owned that either Foster or one of his henchmen did in the woman. Had to. Come hell or high water, they’d pay for that and the other crimes too.

“I know you framed Jack Day, and I aim to prove it,” he muttered into the wind.

Glory would get her father back. He just prayed it wouldn’t be in a hearse. It all depended on him. A weighty burden for sure. Still, he couldn’t live with himself if he rode off for parts unknown before he tried. The tally of his losses made quite a list—his job, his reputation, the parcel of land he’d saved for, and…

He had trouble getting air into his lungs.

The biggest sacrifice of all—the woman who’d given him lessons in pride and strength.

His Glory.

Giving her up staggered him. The way he saw things, he had nothing else to lose. Truth to tell, he truly was second to Duel. A soul killer at best. Never mind the worst.

This would be the last thing he could do for her. He prayed it’d be enough.

A shot zinged past his ear.

“State your business, mister.”

Luke put on his poker face and peered into the brush. He couldn’t see anyone, although tiny movement gave away the man’s position. “A feller over by Fort Concho said you might need an extra gun hand. I came to see if the job is still open.”

“Your name?”

“Up in the Black Hills they call me Texas Kidd. Maybe you heard tell of me? Got a bounty on my hide from here to the Dakotas.”

“Cain’t say I have. What’re you wanted for?”

“Robbing, horse rustling. Held up a bank or two. And stages.”

What credentials did a hardened outlaw need anyhow before they accepted him into their midst? He hoped they’d buy it. For good measure, he adjusted the eye patch a little better. Fire and damnation, the nuisance sure hindered a man’s sight!

“Ever kill anyone?” the man asked.

Luke rested a forearm on the pommel. “Well, not counting the six or seven I planted grass over on purpose, I kinda plugged a few accidental-like.”

“Pass on through and ask for Lefty.”

The jitters quieted a tad. The first hurdle always appeared higher.

“Giddyup, you gotch-eared thing.”

A fine howdy-do for someone who was supposedly an expert horse thief to ride such a sorry animal. He hoped they wouldn’t hold it against him.

Other than jackrabbits and flies, no sign of life moved. The crumbling walls of the old fort hid their secrets well. Luke scratched his head, not relishing the dried mud that came off onto his fingers. He sure wished he could wind this up soon so he could take a bath.

Someone watched. The hair on the back of his neck twitched.

All of a sudden, the dirt floor moved. His one-eyed squint saw the muzzle of a rifle sticking out from the crack of a trapdoor.

“Move a muscle and you won’t have need for breathing.”

“The lookout told me to ride on in. Said to ask for Lefty.”

“Got a name?”

“Texas Kidd. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

“Mebbe.” A man climbed from the hole. “Thought you was dead, Kidd.”

Luke tried to work up enough spit to swallow. For God’s sake, he’d made up the title. What were the chances of a real live one? The game could end before it started if he didn’t resemble the man.

The rifle-toting desperado eyeing him wouldn’t fall for just any cock-and-bull story.