and simple style as Josiah’s. The houses stood close to each other, and most shared space for tool sheds, gardens, outhouses, and chicken coops. It could be a noisy area, even more so when the train was moving through. It was like living on top of a thundercloud most of the time.
Lyle hardly moved at the sound of the closing window. There was nothing to see in the alleyway, so Josiah backed out of the room easily, as certain as he could be that the boy was safely tucked into bed.
He lit a coal oil lamp that sat on the table where most of the meals were shared when he was home. Ofelia usually sat on a stool that was tucked in the corner—on her own accord—rarely sitting at the table with Josiah and Lyle. It was like she felt out of place, though Josiah had never considered such a thing until now.
The room immediately came alive in the light.
Josiah flicked his eyes, adjusting again to the brightness. As he’d thought, the room was empty, and he immediately allowed himself to relax. He could hardly believe he was home. It seemed like he had been gone a lifetime, when in fact it had only been a few days.
He took off the gun belt that had once belonged to Charlie Webb, gave its origin very little thought, and set it on the table.
All he wanted to do was pull his boots off, clean himself up the best he could at the moment, have a bite to eat, and sleep under a roof that was familiar and safe.
It looked like he was going to be able to do just that. He had one boot completely off and the other halfway, when he head footsteps approach outside the door and climb up the porch steps.
Josiah froze for a second, listened for voices, for more than one set of footsteps, then stumbled back over to the table and unholstered the Colt.
The door slowly pushed open, the hinges protesting slightly, the creak drawn out by the deliberateness of the person opening the door.
“If you want to live to take another breath, I would suggest you stop right where you are,” Josiah said. He was standing flat-footed now, the six-shooter aimed squarely at the door, the hammer cocked, his finger firmly on the trigger.
The movement of the door stopped.
“Don’t shoot, Senor Wolfe. It is me. Juan Carlos. Juan Carlos Montegne.”
Josiah took a deep breath, took his finger off the trigger, and headed for the door. He’d been through way too much in his life to be completely relieved. There was no way to tell if Juan Carlos was totally alone. For all Josiah knew, his friend had a gun to his back, and someone was using their friendship as a ruse.
“Are you alone, Juan Carlos?” Josiah stopped at the door and stood off to the side.
“
Josiah wedged the barrel of the Colt into the crack of the door, then swung the door open with all of his might—catching it with his other hand, so it would not slam into the wall and wake up Lyle.
The color had drained from Juan Carlos’s face. In the dim light, it was easy to see that Josiah’s actions had frightened the old man.
Juan Carlos was only half-Mexican, but his skin was still dark, leathery from years spent under the sun. He had deep wrinkles in his face, crevices that looked like limestone cut by the wind and water. His hair was white as a cloud and just as thick as cotton. He was skin and bones, spindly, like his half brother, Captain Fikes.
“I am serious, senor. I am alone.” Juan Carlos put up his hands.
Josiah swept out of the doorway, his eyes searching for any sign of movement on the street that would indicate Juan Carlos was lying. Satisfied, he grabbed the old man by the shoulder, pulled him inside, and locked the door quickly.
“What is the matter, senor? What have I done?”
“Nothing.” Josiah edged over to the window, pushed the curtain back slightly, and checked again to make sure the street was quiet. “It is good to see you, old friend.”
Juan Carlos cocked his eyebrow. “How come I do not believe you,
“You don’t know?” Josiah asked, pulling back from the window, facing Juan Carlos fully for the first time.
“No, senor, I don’t. We have much to talk about.”
“Yes, we do,” Josiah said. “Yes, we do.”
CHAPTER 22
The two men sat facing each other, waiting for a pot of Arbuckle’s to come to a boil on the small woodstove in the corner. For a long moment, the two of them said nothing. Josiah was glad for the company, glad to see his friend, and even gladder that Juan Carlos was alone. One more confrontation would have likely done him in. He would have fought to the death to protect his house, and Lyle.
It did not take long for the comforting aroma of the coffee to complete the task of relaxing Josiah. Hopefully any kind of confrontation would wait until another day.
The ride into Austin had been long and finding Pearl standing on his porch an uncomfortable surprise. He wondered what had become of Scrap, but didn’t dwell on the boy’s whereabouts too much. Scrap had gone off in a hotheaded rage more than once since they had been riding together, and would turn up sooner or later with some wild tale to bestow on Josiah’s unwilling ears.
The rest of Josiah’s concerns—Pete Feders’s luck and accomplishments in Comanche and the fate of the company—were distant at best. Now that he was home, all in one piece, his own life a matter of uncertainty, he wasn’t about to venture too far, too soon.
“Do you have news of Ofelia?” Josiah said, getting up from the table to pour two cups of coffee.
“She is well. From what I understand, she is on her way back here,” Juan Carlos said.
“Her daughter has recovered?”
Juan Carlos shook his head no. “She is bringing her with her, along with the rest of the family that remained east. There is a place for them in Little Mexico and she wants to be close to your boy.”
“She’s moving her entire family here?”
“
Josiah poured the coffee and handed a steaming cup to Juan Carlos. “How do you know this?” he asked. He felt a moment of relief, but knowing that Ofelia was heading back to Austin changed nothing. Josiah knew now that he could not depend on her forever, not any longer.
The old Mexican stared at Josiah and smiled, taking the coffee, refusing to answer the question or reveal his source of knowledge.
“I am more concerned with your adventures,” Juan Carlos said, taking a silver flask from his pocket and emptying a healthy finger of whiskey into the coffee.
“I would not call the last few days an adventure.”
Juan Carlos had been eyeing Josiah carefully, watching every move he made. “You have a limp. Are you all right?”
“It’s just a graze. Happened in Comanche.”
Juan Carlos nodded and started to say something, but Josiah cut him off before he could get a word out of his mouth.
“I wish you would have left Pearl out of this,” Josiah said.
His tone was hard, harsh. He was in no mood to rehash the events of the last few days at the moment. He was still reeling from being in Pearl’s presence, from having her in his house, watching over Lyle, realizing that he had left his son in peril, in the company of strangers.
“I had no choice, senor. What was I to do? Take the boy with me? You were missing. I thought you were a dead man.”
Josiah glared at Juan Carlos. “Lyle doesn’t belong with Pearl.”
“Do not be angry at me. I was fearful. Pearl is my niece. I know her heart, how she longs for . . .” Juan Carlos stopped talking, drew his thin mouth tight, and looked away from Josiah.
