The subject of Jemma was pretty much avoided that evening, although the brothers shared occasional odd glances over the dinner table. If Victoria noticed anything was awry she didn’t mention it. Heath supposed, indeed, hoped, she didn’t know. Even if he had been feeling bitter towards her lately—and just perhaps, he hoped, misplaced bitterness at that—he’d want his mother spared of this whole nasty business.

Thankfully Audra had returned from the orphanage and provided a delightful running commentary that kept the meal from becoming a strained affair. To the Barkley men, her voice was like a sweet chirp, affirming all things clean and protected in the world.

After the meal, Audra was more than pleased to find each of her brothers treating her with what seemed to be extraordinary kindnesses, even for them. Nick gave her a particularly long, protective hug before escorting her into the parlor, and offered her not one sherry, but two (although he snuck the second to her behind Victoria’s back, of course). Although he seemed distracted, Heath allowed her an extra game of chess, and she was almost positive he let her win it. Then, before heading to a corner with a quiet book, he stroked her cheek, his eyes dancing with obvious soft affection for her. And finally, much to her surprise (after Victoria retired for the evening, of course) Jarrod quietly invited her into the study for a surreptitious game of billiards.

“So I can play billiards,” she teased, “but I can’t play poker.”

“Until,” he reaffirmed, chewing lightly on his cigar and clacking a precise shot that sent a solid yellow ball into a pocket, “you decide to pursue that riverboat career you’ve always longed for. Besides, Honey,” he teased back, “I would hardly call what you’re playing ‘Billiards.’ You are, however, playing a delightful game of ‘Scratch.’”

She sighed, but merrily. “Yes, I do believe we’ll have to have this table recovered in the morning. Good thing I can blame it all on you, because heaven knows a LADY would never play billiards.”

They were the last two to head to bed, and Audra fairly floated as her oldest brother escorted her up the staircase.

They were not, however, the last two to go to sleep. Heath sat at the opened window in his room, socks on the sill. He stared out into the seemingly starless night, enjoying the cool reprieve of the late night breeze. This would normally be a simple, blissful moment. But his belly was an aching knot and he was tempted to sneak back downstairs for another shot of Jarrod’s most expensive nerve tonic from some fancy cut crystal decanter. A decanter that cost more than Jemma had ever earned in her lifetime.

He put off the thought—both of the drinking and Jemma—because he had an exceptionally busy day ahead of him. So he sighed, trying to distract himself by ticking off a list of the upcoming tasks he had to complete. He had to head to town in the morning for supplies. Next, his mother had mentioned just before retiring that the cabin for Jemma needed more furniture moved into it. In her opinion, the mattress there was a disgrace. And the girl would certainly need a dresser or a chest to keep her belongings in. Not that, Heath mused, she had anything beyond a bedraggled carpetbag’s worth.

So much for putting off the thought; there he was, already right back to the gnawing pit in his stomach. He hadn’t had word on Jemma since he’d seen Silas that afternoon. He and Nick had made a mutual pact after the discussion in the study about how they would deal with Tapps should he so much as put a toe across a Barkley property line and had left it at that. Silas served the meal in his usual, almost invisible way. But he never saw the girl. There had been no word on Jemma—and for some reason, he couldn’t pull himself from the family’s ritual evening to make inquiries. It felt disrespectful to the Barkleys, which in turn shamed him. Ah well, nothing for it now….

Finally, after much pondering, his eyes lit up. The girl still had but one dress, now torn and bloodied—that and a borrowed apron. There it was, his reason to poke his nose into the guest room down the hall. He stood and moved to his armoire, removed a shirt—it was worn, but it was soft and clean—then crossed over and into the hallway.

Before rapping on her door he paused and let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. A bit of light from under her door assured him he probably wouldn’t be waking her, but then he needn’t wake the whole household either. So when his knuckles met the wood the sound made him jump and he stared, stunned for a second, at his own traitorous hand. When did his damned knuckles get so loud?

There was a beat, then he heard movement; finally the door opened the tiniest crack. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, got to thinkin’… ‘bout the fact that you never would let me dig through Audra’s old stash for a dress for you. Then I got right mad.”

The door swung open wider and she allowed him to satisfy himself with a full gaze at her. Her lip, although still just a bit swollen, looked alright. She had what appeared to be one fat blue thumbprint on her collarbone, but for all Heath knew, he himself, or even Silas, could have left it there in their initial frantic checks of her. Otherwise there she was, Jemma, steadfast and fit and fine. Or at least steadfast. Even her dress was better, obviously stitched and cleaned.

“You…” she quirked an eyebrow, “got right mad at me?”

“Oh, I did. You’re lucky I pulled it together and am standing here so calmly.”

“If I may quote the famous Heath Barkley, do tell?”

“You, Little Girl, forgot to tell me it had been your birthday.”

“It ain’t my birthday.”

“I didn’t say it was your birthday. I said it had BEEN your birthday. Sometime back, am I right?”

“I must confess,” her eyes glinted, “you got me there. You have missed one or two of my most recent fine soirées.”

He held out the shirt. “It’s mine, not Audra’s, but I figured after the day it’s had, your pink dress might want some time off. You can have this to sleep in until you get something better.”

She flashed him a full dimpled grin, reached for the shirt. “G’night, Heath.”

He gave her a nod and turned to leave, but she called quietly after him, “And I don’t think I ever will get somethin’ better than this. This here shirt, it be radiant.”

As Heath headed, grinning, back to his room, he failed to notice, at the far end of the hall, Victoria’s cracked door shut with the tiniest click.

The next morning, as he readied the wagon for his trip to town, Heath was pleasantly surprised to hear her voice calling to him from across the yard. “Why, is that Mister Heath Barkley workin’ there on that fancy wagon?”

He tipped his hat down over his eyes, struck a dangerous leaning pose. “No, Ma’am,” he drawled. “This is Mister Heath Silas.”

“Well, that’s a mighty fine shame. My uncle told me to ask Mister Heath Barkley for a ride into town so’s I could buy me some acceptable gowns and such. But a lady like me would no sooner be seen with one of them Mexico Silases than…”

He promptly straightened, pushing his hat far back on his head, flashing her a crooked grin. “Why, Jemma, is that you? It’s me. Heath Barkley.”

“Whew,” she fanned her face. “I was gettin’ a mite worried about my reputation for a minute there. I thought I saw that other scoundrel around here.”

He lifted her into place then hopped beside her on the seat, took up the reins, and set the team off with a cluck. As they traveled he slid her the occasional sideways glance, glad to note that she looked even better now, in the sunshine, than she had the night before. And she seemed genuinely happy. Maybe yesterday’s scare was behind her for good. Maybe, like his experiences in the war and in Carterson, there was only so much hardship a body could take before most of the details of the lesser horrors stopped impressing themselves on the mind.

They were a ways into the trip and Heath decided he was meeting yet another Jemma. The contentedly quiet one. He could spend a lot of time with that type, or so he’d been told again and again by Nick. Actually, he mused, what Nick had said was that Heath could spend a lot of time riding fence with no more than a biscuit for a partner, given all the talk he was prone to.

Finally she turned to give him a frank gaze. “My Uncle Silas, he always that way?”

“Which way?”

“I swear, someone might wanna remind him that them Presidents and little boy soldiers and such got rid of slavery.” Off Heath’s raised eyebrow she chuckled a touch guiltily. “I know, that be mean.” She paused for a minute to chew on her words.

“It’s jes’… I ‘spected so much of him all the way here. ‘Spected he’d be about nine feet tall, could chew clean through trees to clear a field. Leastways, that’s the story that trickled all the way to Georgia ‘bout him. The story that gave me the gumption to get away from that nasty ole Rosewood.” Her whimsy turned dark. “And I dreamed that he’d be ownin’ a ranch like yours, not just hidin’ in the kitchen of one. Guess that’s what you get for dreamin’.”

Heath understood about giant dreams of invisible men. But he also understood what could happen when one finally had to compare the portrait painted by those dreams to that painted by reality. “Brave men aren’t always big men, just like big men aren’t always brave. Silas is one of the bravest folks I know, I expect, based on what he must have gone through to get here and still be whistling.” He reached over and pinched her ripe earlobe. “Maybe almost as brave as you. Silas set out in desperation, you set out in hope, but you both got here on your own.”

She gave him a thankful smile, processed that statement for awhile. Then her face darkened into a pretty pout.

“Yes, Ma’am?” Heath queried with a laugh.

“Still, I know my dress ain’t fancy, not near even presentable, but I don’t want his damned money to buy no new clothes. It’s wore me good for a long time and waitin’ another week to my own payday ain’t gonna kill nobody. It’s not like I flaunt myself at your table come servin’ time. I keep quiet. ‘Sides, we all know I can’t never be as proper as your sister, but that’s what he seems to ‘spect of me.”

“A lady doesn’t have to be as proper as Audra to be loved. And I think Silas is just trying to love you the only way he knows how. Indeed, he's sure to be bustin' proud to be able to do for you. You're his first living kin on this side of the war.

"Besides,” he whispered, “you oughta see Audra on an off day… like her pinched up face when she comes in after a dance that she wore some new pair of shoes to. Or when she comes up the hall at night, her hair all in rags. Or, lord, after she’s done baking catastrophes in the kitchen…”

“Bet she could scare the black right off a body then!” Off his bark of a laugh she continued, “that’s what one of the old niggers used to say, anyhow.”

“And just look at the mouth on you, Jemma. ‘Damned.’ ‘Niggers.’ What’d I tell you about your words?” In response she shrugged and grinned.

“I’m happy to be ridin’ in a wagon with you, Heath.”

How did she do that, he wondered, hopping all over the place, from one Jemma to another in the blink of an eye. And he was pretty sure he was fond of all of them so far. He chuckled and shook his head.

“But I confess,” she suddenly offered, sadly, “I am sorry for yesterday.”

“You? Sorry?” he barked, pulling the team to a halt. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he’d just sounded like Nick.

“Just been cussin’ myself nine times a fool for fallin’ asleep in that loft. Been here one day and I seem to be forgettin’ all the things that kept me alive for most my life. They might as well change MY name from Jemma to Silly, after poor dumb Momma.”

Heath saw the opening and took it. “So, then, after what you just went through, are you really alright with the idea of staying in a cabin all alone? We can keep thinking on it?”

But she was beaming. “My very own walls. Don’t even have to share ‘em with eight or nine funny smellin’ Sioux.” Again, that laugh flashed in her eye.

“Did you actually call them smelly to their faces?” he quirked her a mischievous eyebrow, starting the team up again.

“You best believe that was the first word I learnt.” She closed her eyes, concentrating. “I can’t even fetch the sound for it now and I musta used it forty times a day back then. Ain’t that queer? But I guess I ain’t been with those folks for well more than a year now. Sad, though.”

“Not much call to be speaking Sioux around here.”

“Not if you don’t want the President and them folks to send you to a little, tiny scribble of land, you and all your kin, and they kin, and they three legged dogs, AND they one pitiful mule.” She laughed. “One time, I saw a whole tribe—must’ve been near sixty of them—living off of dirt outta a hat box. That was they reservation.”

“A hatbox?” he nodded. “That is a shame.”

She craned her neck to watch a colorful patch of wildflowers pass in the distance, then shrugged. “The way I see it, maybe that man yesterday was a blessing. I forgot for a nice little time what I is, but I ‘spect I won’t forget no more. Besides, when we get home, you can fashion me a lock for that there cabin door. Never had me no lock before neither.”

Bertram, Hiram, and Daniel Tyler watched with seemingly lazy interest from the shaded plank sidewalk as the wagon bearing Heath Barkley and the darky rolled towards them from the far end of town. They’d heard the wildfire tales, embellished a great deal last night by the drunk and angry Wynn Tapps, that the High and Mighty Bastard—the one who “suffered” in the war for his stinkin’ abolitionist heart, the one who sat down with the Barkley’s houseman regular, as if the nigger were kin—that he had finally shown his true colors and taken him a Dusky Sally*.

The Tyler brothers were none-too-pleased. Their own father and Bertram, the oldest, had fought with the Confederacy for the right to keep them slaves in line. Oh, sure, lots of folks claimed lots of other reasons for the war, but for the Tylers it was simple. Their granddad owned a fine and prosperous spread, TylerHome. The old man was like a force—pure life and power—at least to the worshipful eyes of his grandsons. He had lotsa bucks to do his bidding and lotsa high-toned gals to warm his bed.

And the right to kill any one of them animals if they so much as looked at him wrong. But still, Grandpa Tyler had treated them niggers right. Almost like they was human. And that was his one flaw, although only Bertram was allowed to speak of it as such. What had he got for it? Not a legacy to hand on to his son, or to his son’s sons, the three scraggly, job-hopping men, now leaning with their back to the saloon side wall and working slowly on plugs of chaw.

What Granddad had got for his misplaced devotion was a plantation burned to the ground when the damned Yanks—the Heath Barkleys—had swept through. Hiram and Daniel, the two youngest, had sworn to their older brother that the niggers had helped spread the fire that day, all the bucks crossing over to join with the Yanks, and the nigger gals dancing their hoodoo dances around the shot and bleeding form of their granddad.

And then, if it was possible to worsen any of it, their own pa had caught a Yank bullet only four days before the war was over, lost his limb, then finally his spark. He smelled of death so strong that none of the boys would go near him at the end, except Bertram, who didn’t seem to notice. Ultimately, all that had been left of TylerHome was scorched land and graves. The brothers headed on, trying to put the war behind them. But here it was, in front of them again. And this time they were all three men; they would fight this smaller, more holy war and win. This time there would be a purging and righteousness WOULD prevail.

Bertram leaned forward and dribbled a slow glob of spit between his boots. His voice was low. “Daniel, I reckon you best go pull Wynn Tapps from his bottle.”

*”Dusky Sally” was what many of the newspapers and scandal sheets called Thomas Jefferson’s slave mistress, Sally Hemmings, when the news first hit the nation.

Heath hauled on the reins and set the brake as he reached the general store. Hopping down and moving to Jemma’s side, he lifted her from the seat, gave her waist a long, gentle squeeze for comfort because he had felt the growing tension in her as they got closer and closer to town. But, he figured, she was a damned brave girl, and if she was going to live here she was going to learn to move freely here. He’d see to it.

He dipped his head, gave her a steady gaze infused with strength. “I don’t fancy spending any time in that millinery three doors up. Not even Audra can drag me in there. There’s no telling what kinds of doodads you gals buy in places like that. Why, there are probably things in that there store that would plain scorch my eyes.”

She giggled and he could feel her relax just a bit beneath his gentle hands. “So you march right in there, Little Girl, and you shop to your heart’s content. If you get nervous just take a glance out the window.” He gave a mock sigh. “You won’t be able to miss me. I’ll be the lone, handsome cowboy, laboring in the sun like a regular convict to load this here wagon.”

She nodded, headed a few tentative steps away. Then she turned and offered matter-of-factly, “they prob’ly won’t serve me, Heath. You do be knowin’ that, right?”

His brow creased and he nodded. “It’s possible. But I reckon, as feisty as you are, that won’t happen ‘til after you’ve made a mess of the whole place from picking out every little thing you ever thought to want. Then, if they give you lip, you come get me. I’ll suffer the tortures of that store for you, Jemma—just this once. We’ll head in there, arm in arm—just to really make ‘em burn—and you can point to every little doodad you’ve decided on…”

“’Scept the ones that might scorch your eyes…”

“Except those, of course. Why then, we’ll waltz right up to the front of that store, I’ll pay for all that finery, I’ll make them wrap it up just so. Then I’ll promptly cancel the Barkley account and we can waltz back on out.”

“You wouldn’t!”

He knew that she would consider such an act “putting himself out” on her account, that she wouldn’t like it one bit. He backpedaled with a wink. “Audra might just take a steak knife to me in my sleep if I did that. But they will catch seven kinds of hell, that I can promise you.”

He stood on the sidewalk, stance wide and hands shoved into his back pockets, watching as she made her delicate way to the door of the millinery. She paused, hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, and then gave him a little wave. He nodded, waited, satisfied that she wasn’t being escorted bodily out within the first few minutes, then he moved into the general store to pick up the Barkleys’ regular order… after adding just a few small personal tweaks to it first.

While Heath and Jemma were busy shopping, the Tylers and Wynn Tapps were splitting forces and getting into position.

Heath came out, dragging a large sack of flour in one hand while his other steadied the second that was perched on a well-muscled shoulder. He was glad—and, indeed, unfortunately more than a bit surprised—to find Jemma still inside. Although the town seemed asleep this morning, he stepped off and went to the rear of the wagon to load there in order not to tie up any potential foot traffic that might trickle along the rough hewn sidewalk.

He was in plain sight of Bertram and Hiram, the eldest of the Tyler boys, positioned across the street. They were tucked several feet back into the shadows of an alley between two buildings, each leaning on an opposing wall.

“Why we just waiting here?” Hiram finally asked his older brother as he watched the Yank crawl up to shove sacks of dry goods far into the front of the wagon.

“I figure this little skirmish of this here war belongs to Tapps. And if Tapps is foolish enough to get caught, our faces ain’t associated with the business a’tall. I aim to keep it that way. Tapps is what we used to call a ‘frontline soldier’. Cannon fodder.”

As they watched, Heath returned into the dark recesses of the store, then headed out again shortly with another arm-straining load—a mass of boxed canned goods this time.

“Besides,” Bertram continued as if he’d never paused, “what we’re doing here, it’s called scouting out the enemy.”

“So why we let Danny go in there?”

“You think I’m gonna let anything happen to Daniel?” Bertram whirled on his brother, who averted his eyes.

Then the older man was back to studying the foe. His voice was low, the voice he used when he would occasionally tell them about his times in the war. Only over quiet campfires and way too many bottles would those tales come out about the darkest times. “Daniel is still too rabbity for this business; he’s the kind that was always choosin’ to lose all sense and rush forward just to fall in all those streams of blood. I figure he needs to test his skills, maybe vent some of that boilin’ of his. But I won’t never let nothin’ happen to the boy…. ‘Sides, I don’t think even Tapps could gum this up.”

“Speaking of,” Hiram spat a final brown dribble, dug a finger in his lip to rid himself of the used chaw. As they watched, Tapps came up the walk behind Barkley, hands deep in his front trouser pockets. He glanced nervously up the alley to his right, then nodded, satisfied that Danny was in place.

“Idjit,” Bertram scowled. “Where’d he think the boy would be? At the opera?”

Finally Tapps seemed to gather his nerve and approached the wagon.

Heath felt the man’s presence before he saw it. Without looking up, he spoke in a threatening growl, “I’ll be leaving your pay at the bank when I’m done here. Walk on.”

It was obvious Tapps intended to push the issue, however. Although the quickest glance showed Heath that he wasn’t packing, the man still moved in dangerously close.

Like testing a bear trap with a big toe, Heath thought darkly. “I ain’t in as much of a killin’ mood today, Tapps, but that could change in a right tiny wink, so I suggest that you step back ‘fore you get thrown back.” He slowly raised his head to offer a dead glare at the man.

Tapps did take one small step back, even seemed a bit frightened. Heath could see it in the blown pupils of his brown eyes. But, curiously, Tapps still wasn’t done. He spoke quietly, nervously, but gleefully. “And I suggest you put that there pistol in your wagon bed and step into that there alley with me… before you get blown in half.” With a grin, Tapps cocked his head towards the alley some feet to their right. There Heath saw a scrawny young man with sweet, crisp features, who looked, ironically, like a white-haired, threadbare angel. No real threat… but for the leering shotgun pointed straight at Heath’s belly. He slowly took in the sawed off barrel, its maw gleaming like a poison smile. The angel grinned and cocked the menacing piece.

Heath reached down, gently plucked his pistol from its holster with his thumb and forefinger, and dropped it into the bed of the wagon. Then he gripped the solid wooden edge in front of him. His racing mind knew that the wagon might prove adequate to cover at least one shot from a bear-ripper like the one the boy had. Just maybe he could scramble forward for the rifle that they always kept strapped under the front seat.

“Don’t think about doing nothin’ Barkley.” Tapps’ face was somehow a mixture of triumph and terror, adrenaline gone wrong. “I got some more friends ‘tween those buildings across the way. Their guns is pointed at your back.” Heath slowly craned his neck in the direction Tapps indicated. Sure enough, he could make out the shapes of two men leaning in the alley across the street. Far from fist range, but definitely close enough to pepper him good and dead.

There was a beat and then Heath sauntered towards the alley, Tapps following and looking as innocent as a priest, all the while sweating like a harlot. Heath stopped once inside the oddly cold shadow of the buildings. The angel boy moved him much further in and away from the street with waves of the shotgun barrel. Then they all three stood for a beat, like awkward suitors at a dance. Heath sighed inwardly. These two fools didn’t even know how to jump a body proper. He decided to start the music. “So you got thrown from a loft for trying to rape a girl…”

“A nigger,” Tapps reminded him.

“And now you’re willing to get strung over it?”

“Oh, I ain’t gonna kill you, Barkley. Just gonna make you wish I had.” Off Tapps trite speech Daniel nodded gleefully, almost dancing from foot to foot. And Heath’s mind shifted into that strange, slowed molasses time of battle.

Across the way, Hiram sighed, fishing for another plug. “Why ain’t Wynn hitting him? Why he talking so much?”

“He’s afraid.”

“Hell, you’d a hit him.”

Bertram’s voice was a frozen ocean. “Nope. I’d a killed him. Yesterday.”

As they watched, Tapps finally hauled back and, with considerable force, threw a blow into Heath’s midsection that almost unsettled the obviously powerful man. Tapps followed with another and Heath actually staggered a bit. But Tapps was already pausing, shaking his fists as if he’d broken something.

“Idjit,” Hiram grunted.

In the millinery Jemma was met with the glares and frowns that she knew she would be. But thankfully there were no customers so the matronly shopkeeper obviously didn’t feel the need to outright toss her. Jemma wasn’t fooled. She didn’t doubt for a second that the woman had already heard that the Barkleys’ houseman had kin in the area. Still, she made it a point of fishing out the bills Silas had forced her to stuff into her dress pocket and then displaying them a bit. With her chin held high, she counted and recounted what was to her a small fortune, pretending as if it were nothing of even the slightest concern. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the shopkeeper stop staring at her so threateningly, and begin to pretend to fluff scarves on the front counter.

Satisfied, she nodded curtly to herself, and began to wander the racks. There were dresses and dresses and dresses. Gold ones, sparkling green ones, red ones even brighter than her own had once been. They were jewels, these dresses, glittering so hard they made her heart hurt. How would a body even pick one? Wear one? The fear of spoiling it would ruin the wearing.

Then she craned her neck to the tables of delicates. Piles of white cotton and satin and muslin, with sweet pastel ribbons, bright winking eyes for hooks. Piles and piles. How many underthings could one gal rightly wear? Oh, she knew in practice. Had dressed many a southern mistress, layer upon layer upon layer. But in reality, what pieces might she, Jemma, wear now that she got to choose? Her first time, very own, store bought choice?

And she couldn’t help but wonder for just a second which ones Heath would fancy. The musing went a touch further and she wondered… would he ever want to see HER in one of those fancy corsets or the soft bloomers bedecked with threaded ribbons? The thought made her stomach jump and she whirled guiltily back to the dresses.

Her eyes were shining with their sumptuous colors… and maybe just a few tears. She sucked in a ragged breath, pulled herself together. She would not be buying anything here today. She knew she dressed up right pretty… too pretty. That’s what her kind was used for. She would not show that slave girl to Heath; couldn't hurt him like that, his heart or his soul. She took graceful steps toward the door, head still held high.

In the alley the beating commenced. Tapps was tentative at first, then—Heath had to give it to him—he finally fell into a rhythm. Heath had been hurt far far worse, but the blows, landing now again and again in the same softened spots, were weakening and tearing the strong stomach muscles he held clenched against them.

Then one wild, flailing fist caught him deep under the ribs and shot savagely up into his belly. Heath felt his gorge shoot into his throat, burning him there, swallowed once convulsively, and in some odd part of his brain found himself amused as his breakfast cannoned all over Tapps’ dusty boots. As he tried to buck the final heaves of the stray fist’s rebound effect, Heath realized that he was, in fact, intimate with the sudden spew on Tapps’ boots because he had somehow ended up on his hands and knees from the force of it all. The boots were in his eyes and he wanted to laugh at how ruined they’d become.

Jemma wandered from the store towards the wagon. The daylight was bright, but not as bright as the white of all those corsets and crinolines, bloomers and blouses. Her friend, the sun glittered, but he was only trying to outdo the jeweled colors of all of those dangerous dresses in there.

Unbeknownst to her, only yards away, a platinum haired boy named Daniel had finally had his fill of missing out on all the fun. He shoved the shotgun at Tapps who stood, weaving from exhaustion and blinking at his soiled boots. “My turn,” Heath heard the angel sing.

Daniel grabbed Heath by the hair and with a strength that Tapps could have never shown, hauled him up to his feet and shoved him bodily backwards so that the wall would stabilize him for the licks to come. Heath was fully muzzy now, and that wry part of his brain still observing this show found the whole thing odd. The angel was half the size of Tapps, but was no doubt about to do double the harm. Heath slid sideways eyes at Tapps, saw that he was having trouble making his rapidly swelling knuckles work with the gun.

That was the help he needed, but not yet. His instinct told him not yet, and that was probably the only part of him working right just now. So he listened to it.

Jemma waited at the wagon for a beat, saw that there were only a few packed items there, was going to go into the store to see if she could help him with the loading, then paused, her head cocked. Heath’s gun had been tossed casually into the bed, far away from the well packed sundries. She hadn’t known Heath long, but her heart told her that she knew him as well as she’d ever known anybody. That tiny detail was deadly wrong. She was suddenly rabbit scared again, but just this once the fear didn’t have to be about herself. Where was Heath?

And then she heard the sounds of scuffling in the alley. She snatched the gun in a deft movement, and, quivering, quickly hid it in the folds of her skirt, unconsciously moaning a mantra that she had known from babyhood. “Niggers get hung. Niggers get hung. Niggers get hung. Niggers get hung.” She couldn’t shoot an enemy because Niggers get hung. But Heath, her Heath! She stepped towards the sound, her head jolting in recoil at the sight.

Across the street, Bertram and Hiram watched the darky pause for a bit at the wagon and then approach the scene. They decided to put an end to the day’s skirmish. The real battle still needed to be planned. Besides, Bertram had seen all he’d wanted to. They backed their way out of their alley and headed casually towards the first rendezvous that they had set up with Daniel… but not with Tapps. If Tapps failed the test here they would have simply moved on without him, so he had been informed of a different rendezvous, later. But if he passed today’s test—and based on Bertram’s expression, Hiram figured that he had, although barely—they would use him to help negotiate the Barkley spread, perhaps as early as this evening.

The angel landed the first and only punch to Heath’s face, thankfully missing both fragile chin and tender mouth. His fist just sort of mashed against jawbone, and that watching part of Heath’s brain was glad to know it must have hurt the boy too, strong bone against bending knuckle, because as far as Heath was concerned he’d just been kicked by a bee-stung mule. He tried to blink against the involuntary sudden tearing of his eyes so that he could still keep sight of Tapps and his fumbles with the shotgun. Then the angel boy laid into his ribs with quick colt-jump punches that made Heath wonder if breathing weren’t a learned skill after all; he’d certainly seemed to have forgotten how.

And the pain, which had thus far stayed mostly at bay, was now gathering itself together, weaving itself into one enraged being inside his belly, eager to make itself known. It started the introduction by punching it’s stiletto sharp fingernails through him from the inside out. He wouldn’t have been surprised to look down and see tiny knives protruding out from the hot insides of him. Instead, Heath’s head lolled involuntarily to the side as Angel Boy took more jabs, grunting away from the slowing effort.

Heath blinked. With an almost audible snap he was suddenly fully distanced from the pain monster in his gut, from the final few blows… because he was suddenly staring into the wide, black eyes of Jemma, standing only ten feet away from this disaster.

With gunmen, no doubt, still at her back.

He jerked his head back forward, his focus narrowed onto one thing, the fact that Wynn Tapps, hands throbbing, had come to the idiot conclusion that he only needed to cradle the shotgun in his arms to pose a threat.

Jemma’s body wanted to shut down, go limp, but as it had so many times before, her living mind shot to working, crisp as the cracking air after an ice storm. She stumbled back to the edge of the wagon, eyes still on Heath, who seemed to have acknowledged her presence with a pained but focused glance. Yes, he had seen her. He knew she would help. A frantic check told her that there were smatterings of town’s folk doing daily things some distance away. So she pulled in all of herself and hollered out with a voice as loud as she had ever mustered, “Heath Barkley, what those men be doin’ to you in that alley!” And even if Niggers be hanged, she cocked the pistol under her skirt.

Tapps reared up, confused at the girl’s bellow, and the sudden sound of imagined foes trampling in from all directions. Heath barreled suddenly forward, using an energy that his instinct must have reserved for just this moment, stunning Angel Boy and then tackling Tapps. The shotgun went sliding and spinning away in the crunch of bodies, just as Angel Boy, finally scowling in actual anger, righted himself and grabbed for Heath again. Tapps, however, never paused to retrieve the shotgun. A stumbling run was, right now, a better way to survive.

Heath found himself somehow renewed with the teeth chittering, sweet hum of adrenaline. Jemma was in between the wagon and the two faceless men across the way. He had to get to her, which meant he had to get rid of Angel Boy. He pulled a hand back, solid and hard, brought it forward with a lock on his elbow to ensure its success. He swore time, already dragging and wonky, slowed to a muddy nothing as he watched Angel Boy startle, and then almost resignedly accept Heath’s bone-crunching fist to the nose. Heath watched, oddly fascinated, as the boy was thrown backwards, thick burgundy blood spraying from his nose in a pretty wide plume, and wondered for only a moment if he’d jammed some part of that nose into the boy’s brain and killed him.

It didn’t matter now. Time picked up its regular pace. He had to get to Jemma. He staggered forward, one foot forced to follow another, and fairly fell into her trembling arms. But there were no men in the alley across the way. Not now, anyhow. When he craned his head backwards, the alley behind him was clear as well, but for a spray of blood, his own vomit, and a shotgun.

He collapsed to the ground in the shade of his wagon, shaking violently, and vomited once more, there between his legs. Jemma knelt beside him; she pressed the pistol into his quavering hand, but she was his eyes. Her coal orbs flitted in every direction at once until they were both satisfied that the danger was over… until the sheriff was roused and an unsuccessful investigation begun.

Fred Madden paced in front of Heath and the girl, who were both perched on the back of the Barkley wagon. Fred’s last deputy had just checked in, reporting that there was still nothing to be found of the four culprits. They’d gotten probable descriptions from the bartender of the two men Heath couldn’t identify and collected the battered shotgun, but it was a wide territory and a thin start.

Fred took in the full sight of the pair before him, silently reviewed their tale. It was also, he sighed to himself, an even thinner crime. When Fred had first gotten there he’d been truly concerned about the blond cowboy, but Heath waved away all of his efforts except to allow Fred to help him up and keep him steady. Now Heath looked merely frayed; he held himself casually, too casually, and there was a careful arm always stretched across his belly. But any blood Fred could find, beyond perhaps a bit tongue, must have belonged to one of the other guys. And Heath’s drawled tale had been too low and steady to indicate any true injuries. The man was tough, Fred would allow, but then he’d long known that.

The girl, she was a flower in a whirlpool. Although her posture was almost regal, she trembled in occasional wracking bursts and her black eyes were nothing but pupil. She clutched convulsively at the worn shawl around her shoulders and refused to ever meet the sheriff’s eyes. This however, Fred assumed, was due more from her simple terror of the presence of the law than any trauma from the events themselves. He’d seen it before in negroes, Chinese, even Mexicans. If any crime had been committed, they were afraid of taking the blame… even if they were the victim.

“Looks like all we can do has been done for now,” Madden finally spoke, but he kept his voice soft. “I just need you to come to the office and sign a statement about all this, Heath. We’ll do all we can and the minute we get a lead you’ll be the first to know.”

“We’ll be there directly. Gotta finish loading this wagon first and running a few errands.”

Fred started to protest but Heath gave the man a careful look, slid pointed eyes towards the trembling girl. “We’ll get there, promise. And Jarrod mentioned that he’d be in this afternoon to talk to you more about Jemma’s run-in with Tapps yesterday.“

Fred gave him a slow, steady gaze, finally blew out a nostril flaring sigh. “Alright… but no more than an hour or I’ll come and hunt you up. And I gotta say it again. I know that Doc’s at the Lander’s place, but I still think you shoul.…” Heath’s dark sigh shut him up.

As the sheriff shrugged and started off, Heath called after him, fishing in his shirt pocket. “Oh, this here’s Tapps wages. Was gonna leave them at the bank, but now I figure he might wind up in your fine establishment first. See that he gets it. Might need it to post his own bail.”

Fred grinned, nodded. “Bail you say? Maybe I’ll just forget to mention you put this here money in my safekeeping. For a time at least, anyhow.”

After the sheriff was gone, Heath reached out a gentling arm, rested it low around the girl’s waist. She slid a little closer to him, allowing the comfort, even though they were in the middle of the street in the middle of the day. She caught him flinch at some tug or another.

“That sheriff, he afraid of you, but I ain’t. I’m thinkin’ we should drive you straight to that doctor’s place and wait for him to get back.”

“I’ll go to the doctor if you will,” Heath parried, then chuckled when Jemma wrinkled her nose.

“I been to a doctor’s office one time. It smelt all wrong, like a still.”

“And you wanna tell me how you know what a still smells like?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“I’ll tell you after you go to the doctor,” she shrugged, then hopped off the wagon and headed into the store. “You stay there while I dribble bits of stuff in this wagon, or I’ll bust you in them ribs myself.”

“Nope,” he hopped off himself, but gingerly. “Because, as far as I can tell, you haven’t finished your job for the day. Not a dress in sight.”

“Aw, Heath. I can’t even know what to pick in there.” But his stance was unbending, his gaze impassive.

“Make you a deal,” she tried after a beat, her eyes taking on a merry fire. “YOU pick out the dress while I finish loadin’ this here wagon.”

Then they both slowly grinned. It was on!

On the way home she kept wiggling like a child. “I can’t bear it, Heath. When do I get to see my doodads?”

“Not ‘til we get home.” He pretended amusement, but was embarrassed, wanting to put off the unwrapping as long as possible. The journey into that store was like a trip into some odd, colorful, soft hell. His cheeks were blazing by the time he was done, and he felt like he needed four beers and a shot. But at least it took his mind off of his bodily discomfort for a time.

He worried his lip over the two dresses he’d settled between. The colors seemed right for her, and the fit. But what the hell was he DOING? He’d have to plain leave the ranch if Nick ever got word of it. And then when it came to… the eye scorchers... well, he’d cranked up a whole ‘nother shade of red and just handed the lady a bundle of bills, mumbling something about “adding some of them whites to the pile as well.” Meanwhile, Jemma had done her part admirably. By the time he burst into the sunshine, clawing at the neck of his shirt, she had the wagon loaded and was perched there, swinging her long legs and sucking on a stick of penny candy.

He shifted and clucked the team again, reviewing the battle in the alley, the eternal battle that somehow took only moments. How had he allowed himself to be caught so easily? Maybe he, too, had been comfortable for too long… had forgotten what he was. He could take a lesson from Jemma.

She broke the silence. “That man, Tapps, he be a disgrace.”

"To all of mankind.”

Mostly to fightin'.” Jemma shook her head disgustedly. “He barely dented me yesterday, and he hardly didn’t even break your skin today.” She gave him a slow sideways glance. “Not that I can see nohow.”

“Nope,” he agreed as he flexed his jaw.

“And I don’t think he broke none of your bones?”

Heath grinned, catching onto her casual ploy to check him over. He pressed a few fingers into the more sensitive areas of his own ribcage, controlling any hint of a wince. “Nope.”

“Who the one with the gun? And them others?”

“Well, Jemma, I don’t rightly know.” On that thought he leaned down—although slowly and with careful attention to the bending of his torso—and pulled the rifle from its mooring beneath the seat. “But do you know how to shoot one of these?”

“A bit. I once got to walk behind a wagon train for three whole weeks. Since I was bringin' up the rear, a nice family loant me one. In exchange they said I could share any game I caught. I blew a poor little rabbit clean up. Thought it was a rabbit. Mighta been a possum. We had fluff stew for supper that night.” He chuckled, gave her an admiring glance. Such a dark life, treated so brightly.

She gave him back a sweet grin, then tried, slyly, “I can also drive me a team.”

“Is that so?”

“Prob’ly lots better than I can shoot one of these.”

Heath laughed, stopped the team, and traded with her, reins for rifle. Then he settled his aching self back against the seat, rifle draped carefully across his knees, and took a much needed rest. Jemma hummed sweet mournful spirituals to the horses and the flowers and Heath and the sun the whole way home.

He didn’t know he’d fallen asleep until she stopped the wagon at the expansive gateway to the ranch. He stretched carefully, and moved to trade tasks again. But instead of driving the wagon up to the barn, as Jemma expected, Heath clucked it on and crossed the back pasture, finally stopping at the cabin that she was going to be calling home.

She frowned curiously. “Silas ‘spects me to do some work today.”

“Yeah, well my mother expects you to be settled in here by tonight. Besides I have a few housewarming gifts for you.” She cocked an eyebrow at him as he lifted her off the seat.

He rifled through the wagon as she opened the door, then the windows to air out the place. He came into the small, one room cabin, ducking under the low frame, arms laden with packages. A quick look around showed him that someone, probably Nick, had already delivered Victoria’s required list of items.

She threw herself on the mattress. “This be right fine.” Then she sat up, patted beside her for him to sit. “So what you got in them there packages?”

He set the packages from the millinery behind them. “These are for later. I expect there might be some eye scorchers in there so I best be out of the room when you open them. What I got you is just little, from the general store.” He paused, finding a blush creeping up his neck, then abruptly proceeded. “First of all…” he fished through the bundle to produce a new doorplate, replete with shining glass knobs and a keyhole.

She clapped her hands. “That fancy thing be for my door? Why, it looks jes’ like a big ole diamond!”

“A big old diamond that locks,” he affirmed, dangling a pair of skeleton keys. “Even though you’ve got your heart set on this place, I still don’t have to like it.”

She was Jemma the child, near bursting with her excitement while pretending not to want to see what else was in the small bundle from the general store. He fished around again. “That was for the cabin and you, so for your now. I also have something for your past and something for your future.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Which do you want first?”

“Um,” she squirmed, “my past.” He produced a mason jar, sealed and labeled. “It’s honey!” she exclaimed. “I do love me some honey!”

“I remember,” he smiled softly.

“Don’t you think the bubbles in honey look jes’ like sweet little stars? What else, what else?”

“Calm down, Little Girl,” he laughed. “It’s just something small.”

“If it’s for my future it can’t be small.”

He produced a hardbound book with a green leather binding. “It’s The Count of Monte Christo,” Heath said and handed it to her. She took in a breath, cracked the binding carefully, ran her finger over several pages in awe. “The writer was a negro,” Heath added softly.

“And he wrote all these here words? I be.”

Health halted, then plunged forward with it. “I didn’t know if you could read or not…”

“Some,” she smiled.

“Well, I figured this would be for your future because even if you couldn’t read any, we’d read it together.”

She reached for his strong hand, pulled it into her lap. His head was already hung and he watched, mesmerized, as she danced stray fingers across the lightly bruised knuckles. But Heath knew his heart was racing just a little too quickly at this “friendly” contact. He slowly rose up, took in her full view. Her pulse was fluttering like the tiniest bird in her long neck and she was flushed a pretty pink. She looked away.

She whispered darkly “You best walk out that door right now. You in for no good with a gal like me.”

He raised his hand, pulling hers with it, pressed his lips to her palm, and then he stood to take his leave. Before he ducked out the door he cleared his throat. “I’m a grown man, Jemma, and I think I can decide what’s good for me. Been doin’ it all this time and I expect to do it for a long time more.”

She sat on the bed, her head still turned away. He bunched the brim of his hat, twisted it once, and then ducked out into the shining afternoon.

Heath glanced at a crooked piece of mirror that someone had mounted, probably years ago, near the door of the tack room. The men often argued over it on Saturday nights when the mirror in the bunkhouse was too full of the shiny images of pruning cowboys. Yup, there was a nice bit of bruising right next to his mouth. His chest he could easily hide, but not this one telltale broad, mottled mark. He squinted, craning his head this way and that. Might even have a hint or two of Angel Boy’s knuckles. He whistled, glad that, as Jemma had deftly put it, Wynn truly was a disgrace with his fists.

He was not in the mood for explanations and questionings and codlings; the day would round out easier if he simply avoided his family for the rest of it. So Heath made himself scarce. He unloaded the supplies, but made sure Nick was off on the range before doing so. He installed the new doorplate on the door to Jemma’s now-empty cabin. He worked on some solo tasks, including a bit of roof patching that needed to done high up on the barn. Finally, as it neared dinner time, he snuck into the kitchen and, after assuring himself that Silas was momentarily elsewhere, cocked a beckoning head at Jemma. She wiped her hands off on her apron, met him outside.

He blushed when she stepped out into the light. She lowered her head, dark hair forming a gorgeous drape, and blushed herself. He broke the moment. “That’s a right pretty dress you got on, Jemma.” And it was; a sweet peach color like her lips, it brought out the sparks in her hair.

“I thank you. And that’s a right pretty mark you got sittin’ next to your mouf there, Heath.”

“Whatever you’re cooking, it smells mighty fine. Wouldn’t expect you had anything ready I could pack up and take out to the range with me? Got a lot of daylight still; thought I’d ride a few fences.”

“Coward,” she laughed, but she quickly went in, coming out a few minutes later with a sturdy bundle. Then she gave a quick glance around for witnesses, stood up on tiptoes, and pressed a feather kiss to the bruise just beside his mouth.

After she’d gone in Heath touched a finger to the spot she’d just kissed. His bruise somehow meant all that his heart was suddenly struggling with: death and mottled blood and feather kisses that smelled like shortbread and sweet coffee.

...Continued