woodstove.
“I’ll get that,” Josiah said, shaking off the rain.
He was soaked to the bone. If his boot had been full of blood earlier, then it certainly had washed away by now. Still, he felt cold and shriveled. The heat from a hot stove would be a welcome development.
Billie ignored Josiah’s offer and slid a healthy piece of wood into the stove. Orange embers filled the bottom of the stove, and the heat rushed out into the small interior, filling it comfortably. The wood caught fire immediately, the crackle of it the first happy sound Josiah had heard in nearly a day.
“There’s a trunk in the next room. You’ll find some britches and socks there. Help yourself,” Billie said.
“I can just stand by the stove and dry out.”
“This ain’t no time to be nice, Ranger,” Billie said, pausing, a curious look passing across her face. “What’s your name, anyways?”
“Josiah. Josiah Wolfe.”
“I’m Billie.”
“Billie Webb,” Josiah said, nodding his head.
“Guess you already figured that out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A slight smile replaced the curious look on Billie’s face. “Been a while since anyone’s called me ma’am. I haven’t been out much since Charlie . . .” She stopped, cut the sentence off with a tongue sharp as a knife, then turned away from Josiah and threw another log into the stove. “Well, go on now, don’t just stand there like there’s nothin’ to do. Get out of those clothes so I can take a look at your leg. I don’t figure we have much time to get you cared for.”
The inside of the two-room house was just as unkempt as the outside. Clothes were tossed about on the floor like rugs kicked in fury, and the bed in the other room looked like Billie had just rolled out of it. The floor had not seen the touch of a broom in a good while, and cobwebs in the corners certainly held insect nests, they were so thick. It was a welcome environment for scorpions and spiders, among other creatures that could cause the girl harm.
The trunk Josiah had been instructed to open was easily found sitting in a corner undisturbed, and the inside was as neat as any military locker Josiah had ever seen.
For a matter of privacy, Josiah slid against the wall, propping himself up as he peeled off his wet clothes.
The wind outside found its way through the walls and wrapped itself around Josiah’s ankles. A chill ran up his leg and didn’t stop until it reached his ears.
His leg was bloody, and the wound was still seeping, the wetness preventing complete clotting. Josiah touched the graze, pressed it, and slid his finger around the upper edge just to make sure there wasn’t any lead to be found inside. He didn’t think so, even though it hurt like hell, almost as much as the stab wound in his shoulder.
There was no question he needed to be bandaged. All things considered, his whole body hurt. He caught the first whiff of coffee boiling on the stove and realized how hungry he was, too. He quickly discarded the rest of his clothes and found a pair of trousers, socks, and a simple tan cotton twill shirt. He dried himself with a wool shirt that had been eaten up by a cadre of unseen moths, and changed into the clothes. They fit like they had been made for him.
When Josiah walked back into the room, Billie was standing over the stove with her back to him. She was frying up some bread and bacon. She must have heard him come in. She turned to say something, but the words caught in her throat. Nothing came out of her mouth but a surprised cry, followed by tears bursting out of her eyes, cascading down her full cheeks as if a dam had been breached after a devastating storm.
CHAPTER 10
“For a second, I saw Charlie standing there,” Billie said, wiping her face dry. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Josiah stood a good ten feet from Billie, across the room, and had his own visions of ghosts. There was no way Josiah could not have thought of his wife, Lily, silhouetted against the window, her stomach swollen with child. They’d had four children together. He was no stranger to the beauty of pregnancy—and the tragedy of it, too. “I take it Charlie Webb was the one John Wesley Hardin killed in the spring,” he said.
“Shot him in the back is what he did. The coward.” Billie hesitated, scowled, and looked away, fighting back even more tears. “Don’t ever mention that man’s name in this here house again, you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. But I won’t rest till I hear tell that son of a bitch is dead and buried. I’d’ve gone after him myself if I’d been able, but I’d figured out that me and Charlie was gonna have a young’un to look after right before then.” She exhaled heavily. “It’s not your problem.”
“You don’t have a family to go to, I take it? No one to help you out?”
“None that’s worth the powder and lead to blow to hell. Charlie was my family. All we ever wanted was a little piece of land and a family to look after. He took to bein’ Roy’s deputy to make a little extra money. I never figured he’d get kilt.”
“I’ve questions about the sheriff.”
Billie let out a quick laugh that originated deep in her chest. “That man’s scared of his own shadow. My guess is he let the fools into the jail that pulled out Hardin’s brother and started all this meanness. Look at what it’s done. Nobody feels safe. You’re a Ranger, can’t you do something?”
Now it was Josiah’s turn to exhale. “The county sheriff pretty much has authority over all of the Rangers. He’s got to ask us for help, and we’re not lawmen. Not in the sense that the sheriff is. Jurisdiction is a topic best left to Governor Coke and the men in Austin who make the laws. They don’t want us to wear badges or interfere in county business. There’s not much any Ranger could do. Especially one who’s just been shot and chased after like he’s an outlaw himself.”
“Well those stuffed shirts ought to get out of the city more often.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
The room was warm and the smell of bacon strong, carried about on the drafts that were poking in all through the house as the storm carried on without any sign of letting up outside.
Billie had set two plates on a small wood table. A cup of steaming coffee sat waiting for Josiah—but he didn’t move. His feet were suddenly frozen to the floor. He was afraid of what he was walking into, certain that if he sat down at the table, leaving would become difficult, if not nearly impossible. And he had to leave. He just had to—and soon.
“Let me take a look at that leg.” Billie slid a piece of fried bread onto a plate and set it on the table along with a small bowl of beans.
Josiah still didn’t move. He just stared at her, uncertain of what would be next. He understood Billie’s bitterness and pain more than he could say. It had taken him nearly two years to pick himself back up after burying Lily and his three little girls. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like for a woman left to fend for herself, at the worst possible time in her life, pregnant, her husband shot in the back by a heartless outlaw set on making a name for himself.
“Well?” Billie said, a questioning look falling across her face. “You surely ain’t bashful, are you?”
“No, no.” Josiah stepped forward, remembered the pain, and limped over to the chair, pushing any thought of his family—living and dead—as far away from his mind as possible.
Billie rolled up his pant leg. “It needs cleanin’ out and bandaging up real tight-like. I got some salve that Charlie brought back from the war that ought to stop the infection from spreadin’, if’n it shows up. Don’t look to be too much trouble. You’re a good healer, Josiah.”
