“I came as soon as I heard, Callandra West!”
Callie looked up at her sister with a questioning look. Pouring lemonade into two glasses on the front porch, the widow paused as she considered Samantha’s comment. Her sister, with young Willie and Rosemary beside her, had rolled into the West drive a few minutes earlier, and Sam had beelined to the front door, while the children ran out to Noah in the small peach tree orchard.
“Heard what?” Callie asked mildly, placing the glasses on the porch table before seating herself across from her practically vibrating sister. Whatever it was, she knew she was in for a long conversation.
Samantha Peyton leaned forward, eyes widening as she whispered loudly, “You have that gunfighter staying here, that’s what I heard! What are you thinking, little sister? Have you lost your mind? He could kill you in your sleep. Or worse!”
Callie stared at Samantha, unable to believe what she’d just been told. Her gaze cut to the barn, where she knew Sonny McQuade worked at the moment, and then back to her older sibling. The idea of the gunfighter doing anything of the kind was simply preposterous, and she said so.
“Oh, Samantha, quit making my life into one of those dime novels you secretly read. In fact, quit reading those altogether! That man is helping me realize my dream, and you should be thanking him, not vilifying him!”
Samantha stared at Callie, mouth open. Her little sister had never spoken that way to her. She’d always been the quiet one, the biddable one. Samantha had been the one to try her parents’ patience, to go off half-cocked at the slightest inclination. Her husband knew how to handle her, and had toned Sam down considerably over the years. But she had a full head of steam today.
Before she could get started properly, however, the man under discussion stepped out of the shadows of the barn, pausing to accustom his eyes to the bright sunlight. Both women on the porch froze mid- quarrel, staring at Sonny McQuade.
Movement in the orchard snagged the gunfighter’s attention, causing his whole body to tense visibly. Almost instantly he recognized children running amongst the trees, giggling and laughing, and his stance relaxed. Turning his head to take in the wagon, and then the women on the porch, Sonny nodded in acknowledgement, and moved toward the barn once more.
“Ohhh, did you see that look he gave us? My spine positively shivered!” exclaimed Sam dramatically, grabbing her glass and gulping its contents, though her gaze never strayed from the gunslinger’s measured amble across the yard.
Callie shot her sister a disparaging look, smiling to herself as she also watched the man’s long legs cover the ground. Her sister admired a fine-looking man just as much as Callie, only Callie admitted it while Sam pretended otherwise, even to herself.
The two women watched Sonny McQuade stop at the woodpile, study the supply, and then grab up the axe imbedded in one of the over-sized pieces. Immediately he picked up a thick log, placed it on the wood-cutting stump, hefted the axe, and began chopping the block he’d chosen in even, powerful strokes. The women silently watched, mesmerized by the play of muscles beneath the snug shirt and vest the gunfighter wore, the fluid, rhythmic way he moved as he made short work of the wood splitting chore.
“Mama, Mama! Noah gived me a peach!”
“No, he didn’t, Rosie! You stole it! Now give it to me!”
The stomp of childish feet on the porch steps, and the accompanying high-pitched whines of Samantha’s children brought the sisters back to earth from their daydreaming with a resounding thud.
Immediately gaining the porch, both children began running across the boards, an angry game of Keep Away that would most likely end in injury for one or both parties involved.
Irritated with her children and their behavior in the summer heat, as well as with herself for being caught admiring the outlaw, Samantha grabbed her daughter’s arm and hauled her up against her chair, snapping, “Stop teasing your brother this instant! And never take something that isn’t yours! Now, apologize to your Aunt Callie, and maybe she’ll still let you eat it. William, come here, too!”
Rosemary’s face instantly crumbled, tears bubbling out of her eyes as she began to cry, pulling against her mama’s grip even as she sputtered between sobbing hiccups, “S-sorry, Auntie!”
As usual, Callie melted at the sight of the childish tears, and immediately caved by accepting the apology with alacrity.
“Of course, sweetheart! I’m sure Noah didn’t mind.” At her sister’s narrow-eyed look, Callie continued hurriedly, “But next time, ask him to make sure.”
Having done her duty to both the child and her mother, Callie watched Samantha nod in satisfaction, smooth her daughter’s hair, and then let go of her. Willie stood to the side, all elbows and bare feet, waiting for his punishment for tattling.
He was spared his mother’s wrath by Sonny McQuade, who chose that moment to appear at the foot of the porch steps, the newly split wood under one arm. Resting one boot on the bottom step, the man touched his hat brim at Samantha, and then turned his silver gaze onto Callie. It warmed.
“Good afternoon, ladies. Ma’am, I cut the wood for your stove. If you don’t mind me carrying it in, seein’ as young Lawson is busy already, I’ll ready it for your supper.”
Callie found herself slipping once more into the twin pools of his eyes, their steady regard covering her face palpably, like fingers gliding over a map. She knew she needed to answer, but felt hypnotized, riveted, until, blinking rapidly, the widow broke their indefinable connection, sucking in a breath like a swimmer breaking the surface.
Studiously avoiding her sister’s gaze, knowing full well it was fastened on her, Callie concentrated on the gunfighter’s throat above his open collar while replying, “That would be fine, Mr. McQuade. If you could go through the kitchen I’d much appreciate it.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He turned to head around to the back of the house, and then faced the women and children once more. No one else had moved a muscle.
Looking directly at Callie West once more, Sonny said, “Ma’am, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to spruce up these steps some. A few of them are looking mighty rickety, and I’d hate for you, or one of your guests, to fall through some time. I could go into town in the morning for the fixin’s if you’d like.”
Careful not to hold his gaze too long this time, Callie met Sonny’s eyes briefly, then looked at that tanned throat once more while replying.
“I did notice they had some give to them, Mr. McQuade. I would like your help indeed, if you could first see what we have available in the shape of supplies around here.”
“Certainly, Ma’am.” And to Samantha, “Good day, Ma’am.” The gunslinger then moved on with his purposeful stride, while the occupants of the porch watched his exit silently.
Feeling the silence weigh upon the group like an itchy cloak, and feeling off-balance from her reaction to McQuade’s nearness, Callie stood abruptly, thus signaling to her sister it was time for them to go. With the children running back down the steps toward Noah, who was returning from the orchard with his empty water bucket, Sam turned to her younger sister in hopes of pleading her case one more time.
“I know you don’t want to listen to me, Callie, but I worry about you.—“
Hoping to forestall another mini-lecture, Callie interrupted her sibling.
“I know you do, Sam. But, really, Mr. McQuade’s presence actually helps me sleep better at night. I feel much safer with a grown man across the drive, truth be told. He is a perfect gentleman, as you just saw for yourself. Please, don’t worry about me.”
The two women studied each other, the only support group left of the family. Sam looked away first, sighing audibly.
“Ohhh, I worry about you still sis, out here with two men. But I’ll take your word for it. Just, be careful. Sleep with a gun nearby.”
Her older sister’s concern humbled Callie till she threw an arm around Sam and hugged her tight. They only had each other now. Dropping a quick peck on Sam’s cheek, Callie said quickly, “I always do, Sam. I always do.”
Hand in hand and at peace once more, the siblings walked to the wagon while Samantha hollered for her two children, who came reluctantly. Noah, and, in the shadows, Sonny, both looked on. With hugs and kisses dispersed liberally, Callie stood aside and waved good bye to her family as they rolled back down the drive. Disaster in the form of Sam’s high strung temperament had been averted once more.
With a surreptitious glance thrown the gunfighter’s way, Callie gathered the empty glasses and lemonade pitcher in preparation to going back inside. She found herself extremely conscious of his presence, and even retreating inside didn’t change that fact.
##
“I’m callin’ you out, McQuade. It’s your duty to grant my request. Now get your sorry ass out here.”
Sonny leaned against the exterior wall of the saloon, feeling his stomach sink to the tops of his boots. Goddammit, but they were getting younger and younger, these young guns. If this one was eighteen he’d be surprised. And they all wanted their moment in the sun against the notorious gunslinger, Sonny McQuade.
“Hurry it up mister! Otherwise I might just get the notion that you’re a chicken!”
The kid had balls, Sonny had to give him credit. Two bad his brain wasn’t as big. Rolling a cigarette leisurely to buy the kid some time to come to his senses, the gunslinger watched from under his hat brim as the townspeople scurried off the street. Shit! Here went his afternoon of smokin’ and drinkin’ and whorin’.
Striking a match off his boot heel, McQuade took a drag as he finally raised his head to study the newest challenger. Like a fire-breathing dragon, plumes of smoke left his mouth and nose while his eyes pierced through the fog as he considered the youth down in the street, hands twitching beside his double gun belt as he faced the older man. Well, hell, he’d better get this done quick-like. The kid was so nervous he’d probably shoot himself in the foot if Sonny didn’t make a move soon.
Heaving a beleaguered sigh, the older gunfighter pushed himself away from the wall, tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the dusty road, and then slowly made his way down the wood steps and into the street, spurs jingling ominously. He took his place opposite the kid with the shakes, all humor dissipating like a drenched campfire. God, he hated these confrontations. Unless Sonny got his gun out fast enough to wing the poor bastard, another son would be sent home to his mama in a pine box. The gunfighter wearied of these altercations, a sign that he needed to get out of the business. But would anyone let him?...
“…Say a prayer, gunfighter. I’m gonna be the one to take the mighty McQuade down today. Mark my words!”
An eerie calm stole over the street, seeping into the bones of Sonny McQuade and rendering him motionless. It was as if he was cut from stone. Only his silver, snake’s eyes moved, honing in on the kid before him, reading him like a first grade primer. He could sense excitement, anxiety, rolling off his opponent. And fear. Lots of fear. That made Sonny pause. He didn’t want some frightened kid’s death on his conscience.
With that thought on his mind, Sonny made one last attempt for sanity. Glaring against the sun and into the shadowed face of the boy, the gunfighter said lowly, “It doesn’t have to be this way, son. Just walk away. No harm done. No one will think less of you. Please.”
Practically before the words left his lips Sonny heard the kid bark a tight laugh. His heart sank. This was not going to end well.
“Gettin’ gutless, huh, McQuade? Figured as much. Nah, the only way I’m leavin’ this here street today will be after I shoot you dead and claim your title!”
Once more they squared off, and Sonny reluctantly knew that the time for convincing otherwise was gone. The kid was going down, by his own choosing, and Sonny McQuade was his weapon of choice. So the gunfighter widened his stance, squared his shoulders, loosened his fingers, and locked eyes on the face of his opponent. His chest barely rose and fell, he breathed so slowly. Time ticked by in metronome intervals as Sonny waited for the kid to make the first move.
There it was: the tell. A last wiggling of fingers as they hovered over his guns, and then the kid was going for his weapons. But before his guns could even clear their holsters, Sonny McQuade’s was free and firing, the shot true and deadly. As Sonny spun his gun and returned it to his hip, he watched his opponent fly backwards on a shocked cry, landing on his back in the dirt, hat flying off. A bloom of blood spread high on the left side of his chest.
Aww, shit! Sonny thought resignedly, jadedly, as he realized another kid’s death lay on his doorstep. Why couldn’t these boys just leave him be? Didn’t he already have enough nails in his own coffin? Wasn’t he already going to be Lucifer’s right-hand man? Why did he have to face this travesty everywhere he went? What did God, or Satan, gain by using him as an instrument of death? Did they want him to just stand still and let himself be killed? Was that what he was doing wrong?
Anger and sadness crowded Sonny’s mind and heart as he strode the distance to the youth lying still in the street. The poor bastard never had a chance; probably was the fastest at shooting cans off a fence rail back home, Sonny mused darkly as he stopped and stared down at the dead kid. As he glanced down into the boy’s face, a cold, numbing horror stole over Sonny, creeping up his limbs and clutching at his heart. He couldn’t breathe; his blood pounded in his ears, amplifying till it seemed to come from outside of his body, surrounding him, choking him, flooding his sight with a thick, red coating as he stared down into the dead youth’s face. He recognized this boy.
It was Noah Lawson.
##
Sonny McQuade shot upright in the dark of the bunkhouse, held tight in the clutches of the realistic dream. Gasping for breath like a spent runner, Sonny wildly cast a look to the bunk across the room. Noah’s bunk. Thankfully, the usual lump filled the center of the bed. Sonny heaved a sigh, running shaking fingers over his face, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes as the nightmare at last receded.
Unable to shake the dream completely from his thoughts, Sonny threw back the covers and rose on unsteady legs to pad over to the Lawson boy’s bunk, just to make sure. It was indeed the boy, and his steady breathing relieved the gunslinger. Standing in the dark by the bunk, the milky moonlight bathing the room with a ghostly reassurance, Sonny wiped his face one more time, the kaleidoscope of the dead at his hands superimposing itself on his memory. He had to get out of the stuffy, closed room; to escape the company of his thoughts.
Throwing a shirt on and pulling on the Levi Strauss dungarees he was wont to wear on a daily basis, Sonny headed for the door, but the thought of stepping on a wayward scorpion had him pausing to stomp into his boots.
The rustling sounds he made woke the sleeping youth, who called out blearily, “Mr. McQuade? Izzat you?”
“Sshh, son. It’s me. Just gettin’ some air, and a smoke.”
The kid grunted, rolling over and returning to the land of Nod.
Grabbing the makings of some smokes, Sonny strode out of the stifling bunkhouse into the marginally cooler night air, pulling the door to silently.
Leaving the porch to stand in the moonlight of the ranch yard, Sonny raised his face to the sky, wordlessly pleading to an absent God to release him from his guilt-ridden existence, to show him some absolution.
Only the silence of the wide Texas prairie met Sonny’s silent plea.
With the residual of the nightmare accompanying him here in the hot, summer night, Sonny rolled a cigarette, ignoring the slight tremor of his hands as he did so. Who was he kidding, Sonny thought derisively. God wasn’t going to answer him, a hired killer with the blood of a hundred men on his hands. No, the good Lord was going to give Sonny McQuade a little taste of Hell right here on earth, just so that he was absolutely sure of what awaited him in the hereafter.
As a bitter taste of bile rose up into his throat, Sonny chose to chase it away with tobacco, cupping his hands around the rolled cigarette and lighting up silently, sucking in the smoke deeply before releasing the breath on a sigh. But still the faces swam before him, the young, the foolish, the dead, with Noah’s being the last and most frightening of all…
“Jesus!” Sonny exclaimed hoarsely, turning around as if hoping the rotation would spin the dead back to where they belonged…
“Who’s out there?”
The gunfighter’s head snapped about at the feminine demand, followed by the distinctive click of a shot gun being readied. Immediately he raised his hands, speaking around the cigarette hanging between his lips.
“It’s me; Sonny McQuade, Ma’am.”
Shit! The gunfighter breathed shallowly, wishing he could be alone and hoping the nervous widow didn’t blow a hole in him by accident. He stayed where he was, making himself as unthreatening as possible. He heard her on the porch, moving forward cautiously, so Sonny raised his face to the moonlight in order to be seen more easily.
“Mr. McQuade? What are you doing out here?”
“May I put my arms down, Ma’am?” He queried, meeting her eyes for the first time, though he’d taken in her appearance with one quick sweep of his eyes. Callie had obviously not expected anyone outside, for she stood in her nightgown in the sultry night air, arms now crossed to cover her chest, though the cradled shotgun was a good enough deterrent by itself.
Eyes adjusting to the half-light, Sonny watched the widow nod, so he lowered his hands on an expelled breath he hadn’t known he’d held. Slowly he moved to the bottom of the steps, noting how Miz West stepped back a pace at his advance.
Snagging her wary gaze with his troubled one Sonny said, “I’m sorry I startled you, Ma’am. I’ll head back inside—“
“Don’t.”
The cigarette fell from his mouth, forgotten, as Sonny narrowed his eyes on Callie West.
“I mean, you obviously came out here to get cool, just like I did. The upstairs is so hot I’ve been sleeping on the sofa in the parlor. Please, have a seat.” As if to show her good intentions, Callie leaned the shotgun against the wall and moved to one of the porch chairs. Sonny stared around, wishing he could be anywhere but here, with a beautiful, wounded, half-dressed woman who arrested his attention like no other ever had before. And that was why he wanted to retreat; Sonny McQuade had no business with such a pure, moral, God-believing woman such as the widow West. He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her. Yet here he was, drawn against his will, against his better judgment…
Sliding his hands into his rear pockets, untucked shirt straining across his chest, Sonny replied, “I’m not the best company tonight, beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am.”
“I don’t need to be entertained, Mr. McQuade. Just cool off here with me a moment.”
Holding her gaze with his, Sonny climbed the steps and warily proceeded to the rocker in the shadows of the corner of the porch. She thought he’d cool off around her? She’d certainly been married to a jackass if she thought any man could cool off in her presence! With that golden, unbound hair, that shapely body hinted at through the plain cotton nightgown, even those bare feet she tried to hide under the hem of her gown, the woman called men to her like the most seductive siren. And just like one of those ships led to rocky shores, Sonny felt himself drawn toward her presence as if entranced.
He had to say one thing about tonight’s turn of events, however; they certainly had eradicated the unsettling thoughts he’d harbored just scant minutes before. In their place milled emotions the gunfighter wasn’t even sure he wanted to confront. He had no right to see Miz Callie West as a desirable woman. Her type didn’t stoop to gunslingers. She was meant for kind, gentle, reliable farmers who worked long, hard hours and who planted seeds of bouncing babies within her at regular intervals. Just because she’d been kind to him didn’t mean she wanted him in that way, so Sonny just had to disavow himself of those thoughts.
Easier said than done.
The rocker creaked as he gingerly lowered himself into it, using his legendary patience to wait until the lovely widow spoke first. He didn’t have long to wait.
“What has made you poor company tonight, Mr. McQuade?”
They sat at right angles, so in order to look Miz West in the eye she had to be facing him, which she wasn’t. Sonny just raised his head and gazed at her profile, searching for the proper words to describe his failure at life so that a woman like her wouldn’t go all compassionate on him. No proper expressions came to mind, however.
“My life choices, Ma’am. They have a habit of popping up in the middle of the night, and won’t be denied my picking at them like a scab.”
Callie sat quietly, studying the man from the corner of her eye, barely turning her head for fear he would stop talking. He seemed extremely perturbed tonight, and that was not something the widow was used to seeing in the gunfighter. McQuade usually appeared calm and philosophical; no problem too large or too small for him to tackle. So for his sleep to be disturbed by bad dreams, well, Callie wanted to find out why. Cautiously she began to probe.
“Well, Mr. McQuade,” she began, “I’m no stranger to poor choices myself, I dare say. I don’t think anyone can say they aren’t.—“
“Yes, but have you killed innocent people? Children, practically?”
She turned toward the distraught gunfighter; came face to face with his tortured past writ upon his countenance. Her heart tightened at the obvious distress.
“I can’t say I have, Mr. McQuade,” Callie began lowly. “But did you go searching for those people you’ve killed? Did you hunt them down and put a bullet through their backs while they ran from you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Only the chorus of whirring cicadas broke the silence enfolding them like a cocoon of confession.
Abruptly the gunfighter surged to his feet, pacing down the length of the porch, vibrating with tension as he replied savagely, “No, I did not, Mrs. West! Nor did I walk away from a challenge, the many challenges! Every kid, every mother’s child who faced me down the length of all those streets, I picked them off like the Great Executioner! They never had a chance! And I didn’t let them! They became just another notch in my belt, another bragging right to my reputation!”
At the widow’s stare, which had nothing to do with the information he imparted but everything to do with his guilt, Sonny strode back toward Callie, stopping so close to her chair she had to bend her head backward to look up into his shadowed, tormented visage. Normally a man this close frightened Callie, sent her into a panic. Perhaps that was what McQuade was attempting by his imposing proximity. Surprisingly she only felt sympathy. Sensing her lack of fear, Sonny continued, attempting to drive the point home that he was a bad man.
“Do you realize, Ma’am, that I have cold-bloodedly killed nigh on a hundred men and boys during my life so far? That I have made widows, I have made childless parents, I have made children fatherless, or orphaned? All by my hand?”
He swung away, extending his arms like a revival preacher on opening night, calling upon God’s attention and saving grace. Only Sonny knew God, Callie’s God, had forsaken him years ago.
“That is the man you allow to live on your ranch, to work for you, to break bread with you, to breathe the same air as you! Is that who you want to surround yourself with, to be associated with? A hired killer sentenced to eternal damnation, starting right here on earth?”
Pain, hopelessness, anguish engraved the gunfighter’s face in the summer moonlight, his echoing words painting him as one of Dante’s lost souls.
Callie rose slowly, instinctively realizing now was her moment, her time to absolve this agonized man of the sins he perceived he had committed. Standing in front of her chair, watching the gunslinger watch her, the widow took a deep breath, searching her mind for the words to bring him back from the edge he teetered upon. And still they stared at each other, he daring her to console his inconsolable mind, she daring herself to reach out to him, a man she barely knew, a man with a violent past…
“I would stare too, Miz West, if I’d just realized I’d hired a child killer. You didn’t know that, did you, Ma’am? That I killed boys as young as Noah? Did you?”
He was so tall, Callie thought absently as his words slid over her with little effect. He blocked the moonlight, his face in shadow, a menacing silhouette. But though a part of her shrank from being alone with this near stranger, Callie knew she could trust him, had been trusting him, with her life, with her livelihood, with her mind. And now it was time to tell him so.
Squaring her shoulders, Callie stepped closer to the gunfighter, till she was looking up into his obscured countenance. She felt the tension rolling off him in waves, saw his chest rise and fall, yet still they did not speak. Her body trembled, for the last time she’d been this near a man he’d thrown her across the room. But this man was different, and she needed to tell him so. Now.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, Callie spoke softly, slowly raising her eyes to his as she did so.
“You’re right; I did not know you shot people quite that young. I can’t picture that, nor can I feel the pain you must live with knowing you’ve done so. But, did you know I married a man that hit me when I disagreed with him? That hit me if he was in a bad temper, or if he didn’t like the meal, or the way his clothes had been washed? I bet you didn’t know he practically yanked my hair out by the roots, or that I hid in the house with black eyes, or bruised ribs, or puffy lips.”
Callie inhaled shakily, body quivering from the memories, eyes searching the silver ones above her for distaste, for revulsion. Instead she found a sinking pity, a shock, a short shake of his head in an attempt to stem the nasty flow pouring from her mouth. Yet she plowed on.
“I can tell by your reaction you didn’t take any of this into consideration when you took the job from me. I didn’t tell you this to get your pity, Mr. McQuade. I don’t need it from you, or anyone else. I’m telling you this to show you that everyone has nasty little secrets, things they are ashamed of revealing. Did I respect myself so little that I accepted abuse? Isn’t that a sin? Will I go to hell?—“
Sonny reached out two fingers against Callie’s lips, stopping her wind up as he held her gaze with snapping silver fire and said deliberately, “Enough. I get it. Though why compare yourself to me, I don’t understand. Your husband? Yes, he and I might share the same Circle of Hell, but you? You’re an angel, Miz West, and don’t think different. You saved yourself, your ranch, that boy back there, and you’re workin’ on me now. But I get what you’re sayin’, Ma’am, I truly do. It’s not enough to save me, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Here the gunfighter actually attempted a smile, but it fell as Callie stepped back from him, eyes searching his.
“You may believe that now, Mr. McQuade. I can certainly see where you get that opinion. But I’m entitled to mine as well. And I see you differently. You can’t change the past; that’s a fact. But that is what has made you the man you are today, the man I admire. You still have the present. And the future is not yet writ.
“Be the man you want to be, the type of man you admire. Starting now. I think you’ll see you already are that person, Mr. McQuade. I can already see him; it’s up to you now to open your eyes. Good night.”
Callie shook off the desire to wrap her arms around the gunfighter, and instead turned to reenter her house, shutting the door quietly without looking back.
Sonny McQuade stared after the female soothsayer for nearly five minutes, rooted to the porch by her words, by the strength of her emotion, and by her obvious, unshakable faith in him. The widow had certainly given him plenty to think about.