Walking up to the small door on the side of the huge gate, Wes pounded. Once. Twice. No one came.
With a shove he forced open the door that had been locked but not barred. Inside the compound, the night was black. Shadows closed upon shadows, making the blackness complete.
‘‘Hello!’’ he yelled. ‘‘Gideon! Hello!’’
A light flickered on from the second floor, then another in the servants’ quarters. Footsteps echoed. A door opened somewhere in the blackness.
‘‘Gideon, it’s Wes McLain. I brought Sheriff Hardy. He’s wounded.’’ Wes waited for an answer.
In the inky blackness, he thought he heard someone tapping down the stairs with a cane.
‘‘Mr. McLain?’’ A whispered voice drifted around him.
Wes reached for his gun then paused. The voice was only a few feet away.
‘‘Miss Victoria?’’
The soft sound of aging laughter drifted to him. ‘‘You can’t see me? But I can hear your breathing as loud as a drum.’’
‘‘Where are you?’’ Wes asked in the general direction of the voice. ‘‘It’s black as midnight out here.’’
‘‘It’s always black midnight to me.’’ A thin hand touched his sleeve. ‘‘Will you take me to Maxwell? I heard you say he was wounded.’’
Wes helped her through the door. As they walked to the wagon, he tried to explain what had happened.
Victoria held up her hand. ‘‘I wish to touch his chest first.’’
Allie took the woman’s withered hand and placed it over Maxwell’s heart. ‘‘He’s still alive.’’ Allie knew the blind woman was testing to make sure.
Victoria smiled as she felt a heartbeat then moved her hands to his face. ‘‘He’s burning up with fever and long past drunk, from the smell of him. Gideon!’’
The stout man appeared at the door, still trying to dress himself. ‘‘I’m here, Miss Victoria,’’ he mumbled.
‘‘Of course you are. I heard you coming from the time your feet hit the floor by your bed. Now, unlock the gate. Send a man to town for that quack who calls himself a doctor, and order him to bring plenty of medicine. And tell Katherine to get the study ready to use as a sickroom. Maxwell will be easier to take care of on the first floor.’’
Gideon looked flustered. ‘‘All at once?’’
‘‘All at once and right now! I’ve no time to waste being questioned or repeating myself. This is Maxwell Hardy we have here.’’
Wes almost laughed out loud. Blind and old, she was still quite a woman.
‘‘And you, Mr. McLain, pull the wagon carefully to the main door.’’ She grabbed Maxwell’s hand. ‘‘And don’t you worry, Sheriff, I’m not turning loose of you until I see you cared for.’’
The place turned into an ant bed of activity. Gideon was shouting orders and pushing everyone who got near him to hurry them along. Torches and lanterns were everywhere, lighting the courtyard and the steps bright as day. Only the wagon moved slowly to the door with Victoria Catlin walking beside it.
Wes lifted Maxwell from the wagon with Jason holding his leg straight out. The sheriff moaned in pain, but he was drowned out by Victoria’s rapid fire of endless orders.
They were halfway up the steps when Katherine appeared before them, blocking the doorway like an aging Amazon warrior.
‘‘These are the people who-’’
Victoria’s cane struck her, none too accidentally, midthigh. ‘‘Hush, Katherine and get out of the way. I know who these people are, but all that concerns me right now is that Maxwell is hurt. Now you can help or remove yourself from the area. I don’t care which.’’
Katherine took one look at the sheriff’s blood-covered leg and ran for the stairs.
Victoria walked into her house without using the cane. ‘‘Put him in the first room, Mr. McLain. And be careful when you pass through the door.’’
As Allie followed, Victoria grabbed her arm with strong, bone-thin fingers. ‘‘Did you bandage the sheriff and set the leg?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Allie answered. ‘‘With Jason’s help. We did the best we could.’’
‘‘Good, then you’ll be my eyes.’’ She pulled Allie along the hall. ‘‘We’re going to take the bandages off and check the wound. I don’t want someone fainting on me while I do my doctoring. If you’ve seen it once, the wound will be nothing new to you.’’
‘‘You’ve doctored people?’’ Jason asked from just behind Victoria.
‘‘I have. I doctored all my husbands through gunfights, steer-gouging, and every other ailment you can think of.’’
‘‘Your husbands?’’ Jason asked. ‘‘They’re all dead, ain’t they?’’
Victoria held her chin a fraction higher. ‘‘That’s beside the point. They all had cleaned wounds when they passed on into the hereafter.’’
TWENTY
BY DAWN, VICTORIA HAD LEARNED EVERYONE’Sname and the sounds they made when they moved, so that she was never surprised with where they were in the room. She kept Allie by her side, making Allie tell what she saw and often asking to feel the stitches or Maxwell’s forehead.
The servants stood just outside the door, waiting to be called. And call them Victoria did. She constantly wanted clean water, or more bandages, or wood added to the fire. Once she even demanded a full meal of steak and eggs, then ordered Wes and Jason to eat.
Wes found himself of little help in the makeshift hospital. Instead, he walked the perimeter of the headquarters. Checking for perfect vantage points along the wall. Wes quickly fell back into his military thinking. For the length of the war, all he’d thought about was staying alive. Several times, his preparation had saved not only his life, but the lives of his men.
The headquarters had been built by a military mind, there was no doubt. Thick walls formed a square, with only two openings large enough for a horse and rider to pass. The front gate was barred with an oak log. The other opening could be easily seen and defended from any spot inside the compound.
Wes understood why Sheriff Hardy insisted on this place. A few men could hold off an army.
Gideon silently relinquished his command of security to Wes, seemingly glad to have the younger man’s advice. Keeping an eye on two old women was one thing, protecting a fort from attack with only a handful of servants was another. It didn’t take long for Wes to realize Gideon saw himself more as doorman than defender. His chain of command had been from Victoria to the kitchen help, no further.
By midmorning men started arriving, slowly filling the courtyard like migrant birds returning after a hard winter. Old men. Aging fighters who’d fought for the Republic and maybe served a few tours as Rangers during Indian trouble. None looked young enough to have fought for Texas in the War Between the States.
‘‘Who are they, Gideon?’’ Wes asked as the two men watched thirty visitors milling around below, setting up camp, apparently planning to stay a while.
‘‘Victoria’s army. They must have gotten word when we sent for the doctor,’’ Gideon answered calmly, as if his words made sense. ‘‘For years, Victoria’s ranch has been a place men knew they could come and, no matter how old or stove up, still be treated like a full man. Back in the ’30s and ’40s Texas was packed with Indian fighters and fortune hunters, outlaws and worn-out lawmen looking for that last time to stand tall.’’
Gideon looked over the gathering. ‘‘As time passed, they either lost what family they had or never married. What’s a man to do who’s no longer strong in a land where only the strong survive?’’
Wes studied the men more closely. A few wore tattered parts of uniforms with pride. Most still carried single- shot rifles and handguns made generations before the Colt. But they stood proud. A waiting army a day away from the grave.
Gideon continued, ‘‘A few were Catlin’s men from his Army days, others Victoria met over the years. One by one they showed up at the gate, and she insisted on treating them like returning heroes. A few were so down on their luck, they walked through the gate without a horse. Victoria would have a great dinner for them and, in her way, beg them to stay on to protect the ranch. She’d offer a house on the land and a full hand’s pay in exchange for
