Chapter Ten

A cold splash of water struck Esther's face, jolting her back to consciousness. She sputtered and blinked, disoriented, as droplets trickled down her cheeks. The woman towered over her, an icy glare in her eyes.

"Rise and shine," she said sharply. "We've a mess which needs tending to."

Esther's tear-stained face was cold and sticky against her hand, the rough, wooden planks of the porch pressed into her back. As she struggled to sit up, the stench of death invaded her nostrils, and she saw Big Joe sprawled out on the ground in front of her, flies already circling his lifeless body.

Her heart raced as she scrambled to her feet, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she looked at the woman who stood a few yards away, staring blankly across the fields.

The woman wore her dark brown hair, reminiscent of chestnuts, tied back in a simple braid. Her weathered face told of a hard life, one filled with sorrow and struggle. Though she couldn't have been many years over thirty, the lines on her forehead and around her eyes made her appear older. Her piercing green eyes, which likely once held a vibrant light, now seemed dull and weary. She had high cheekbones and a slender frame, evidence she was probably quite beautiful in her youth before life had hardened her. She wore a faded calico dress, practical and well worn, and scuffed leather boots.

Esther sensed she was a woman who did what needed to be done, no matter the cost. There was a hardness to her, but also a deep well of compassion beneath the surface. This woman had seen and endured much in her years on earth.

"Is there someone else coming?" Esther asked, trying to make sense of the situation.

The woman lowered her hand from her brow. "I don't think so, but we can't be sure. They'll come looking for him soon." She kicked at Big Joe's lifeless body with her boot. "First, we need to get rid of him."

Esther's heart raced as she looked around for her horse. "Where's my horse? I need to ride to the marshal."

The woman grabbed Esther's arm tightly. "You're not going anywhere. You'll do what I say."

Feeling powerless, Esther nodded solemnly. "What do you need me to do?"

"The boys have hidden your horse," the woman said, pointing toward a nearby pen. "We need to get rid of the body before anyone finds it."

"How are you going to get rid of it?" Esther asked fearfully, trying not to look at Big Joe.

"Not just me," the woman corrected. "We."

She tied the reins of Big Joe's horse to his boots and motioned for Esther to walk the horse.

The haunting squeals of hogs grew louder as they struggled to drag Big Joe's lifeless body across the muddy yard. The stench of fear and death filled the air, and Esther tried not to retch as she imagined what this woman had in mind.

As they made their way toward the pen, Esther couldn't help but ask about something she had noticed. "He called you Evangeline. Did you know Big Joe?"

The woman's expression hardened. "He must have mistaken me for someone else," she replied curtly. "Evangeline is not my name."

"What should I call you then?"

"I don't want you calling me anything."

Esther looked over her shoulder. "I need to call you something. Whit said you were a widow."

The widow said nothing for a moment. "My name is Sarah Brown."

"Thank you for helping me, Mrs. Brown."

Sighing heavily, Mrs. Brown tapped on the horse's flank to encourage it to move along. "Call me Sarah. I've not helped you yet." She signaled to a young boy, around ten years old, who emerged from the barn. "Get the shovel and clean up the blood," she commanded.

The boy obediently disappeared into the barn and returned with a broom and another boy, slightly older, carrying a shovel. They positioned themselves behind the lifeless body. The older one scraped the blood-soaked dirt while the younger one swept away the evidence of what had transpired.

"Tell me everything you remember about this morning. How many people? Where you were? Do you know how far you are from Flat River? Any landmarks you may recognize?"

Esther swallowed hard, fighting the knot forming in her throat. Her hands trembled as she recounted everything she could remember from the morning. Brodie finding out about Whit's betrayal, the men hurting him, the threats, and finally Big Joe's lifeless form on the ground. She told Sarah as much as she could about the camp and surrounding area.

"There wasn't anything of significance I remember," Esther finally said.

"Of course there was. You just need to think. Were there special trees? Bushes?"

"Nothing really. Just these three large flat stones by the creek. I only remember them because I had to use one to climb on top of the horse."

"That's good." As they dragged Big Joe's lifeless body next to the large pen, Sarah leaned down and started tugging on Big Joe's boots. She pulled them off and tossed them toward the boys. "Once you're done, take those inside and see if they will fit you or your brothers." Tugging Joe's gun belt, she tossed it on top of the boots. "Put it under my bed. I'll deal with it later."

"Yes, Ma," the older boy said, dumping his shovelful of stained dirt in the pen.

"I want you to go in the house, Charlie. Just leave the broom there. I'll take it back to the barn." Charlie leaned his broom against the pen, picked up the boots and gun belt, and ran toward the house.

"What do you need me to do, Ma?" the older boy asked.

"I need a piece of rope, Justin."

"There's one on his saddle," Esther said, moving to the side to grab it. Tossing it to Sarah, she returned to the front of the horse and put her nose against the animal's muzzle. "Can't we hurry?"

Sarah began tugging at Big Joe's pants. "I'm going as fast as I can."

Esther leaned on the wooden fence, her eyes tracing the outline of the muddy pen.

The hogs snuffled and oinked, their large frames pressing against the walls of their enclosure as they caught a whiff of the rotting scent just beyond their reach. She whipped her head toward Sarah, eyes wide with horror.

"You can't be serious," she exclaimed, her voice thick with concern. She gestured frantically toward Big Joe.

"He will be completely gone within thirty minutes," Sarah replied without emotion, as she tugged on the other pant leg.

Esther hesitated for a moment, swallowing the lump in her throat. She had never imagined her secret longing for excitement would lead her to this grim task.

"It seems you've done this before. What are you doing?"

"I have to burn his clothes."

"Whit is going to die if we don't get help." Esther stomped her foot.

"Whit may already be dead," Sarah countered, glaring at Esther. "It would go faster if you helped me."

"I-I don't think I can."

"You need to draw a map. Inside the barn, there is a table. Justin can show you, and then I need him back out here." She tossed Big Joe's pants aside and used her knife to cut open his shirt, revealing a greasy stained-colored union suit. "In a box, you'll find small pieces of paper and a pencil. Draw from Flat River to where you were camping."

Esther's head was hurting. "I don't know where Flat River is from here."

With a grunt, Sarah pushed Big Joe onto his back and examined his bruised face. "We'll leave him in his grimy union suit," she muttered.

Esther watched from a distance, saying a quick silent prayer for the small blessing of not having to assist with undressing Joe's heavy body. Rolling back on her heels, Sarah stood and pointed in different directions.

"Flat River is five miles that way," she gestured toward the horizon.

"The Chapmans are over there," she pointed toward a distant tree line.

"And the Picketts are in that direction," she motioned toward the nearby creek.

Grabbing the rope Esther tossed her, Sarah tied one end to Joe's ankle and the other to the saddle horn. "You need to go in the barn now, because it is going to get very noisy."

Esther's heart raced as she dropped the lead line and darted into the barn. The sound of squealing hogs filled her ears, making her stomach churn. She tried to push the noise out of her mind as she prayed silently for forgiveness.

With shaky hands, she finished sketching a map of the path from the farmhouse to where she had left Whit as Sarah entered the barn. Justin led Big Joe's horse to one of the empty stalls.

As the boy took care of the horses, Sarah took the hastily drawn map from Esther and carefully wrote out a message in hieroglyphs on the back before rolling it up into a tight scroll.

"What are you doing?" Esther asked.

"Getting help."

"But it looks like gibberish."

"Briggs will know what it means."

Esther was in awe of the woman's determination and composure amid such turmoil. Sarah walked to where a series of cages lined the outside barn wall. She carefully opened a cage and drew out a blue and green pigeon, attaching the map and picture note to its leg. Esther watched intently, her hazel eyes wide with fascination as Sarah pressed a soft kiss to the bird's head before walking it to the barn door and releasing it into the sky.

"Go on now, little one," she whispered to the pigeon. "Find Briggs and have him bring help."

As the bird disappeared over the fields, Esther felt a strange mix of hope and trepidation settle in her chest.

"How long will it take for it to get there?"

"Not long at all. She'll return with a note, or the chamber will be empty."

"What do we do now?"

"We go inside, and we wait."

Esther washed the dirt and blood from her face and changed into a loaned dress. What she would give for a long soak in a steaming tub, but it was a luxury she couldn't afford right now. She didn't know when Marshal Briggs might show up with a word about Whit.

She paced nervously in the sitting room, peering out the window every few minutes for any sign of the messenger pigeon. It had been hours since Sarah had sent the bird to Flat River, and still there was no sign of Marshal Briggs or his men.

She kept replaying the chaotic gunfight from the night before, remembering with vivid horror when Whit had fired at Marshal Briggs. She had seen Briggs go down, though she did not know if he was injured or dead. What if the message never reached him? What if he could not come, or refused to help the man who had shot him?

Esther wrung her hands, murmuring, "Oh Lord, please let Briggs receive the message. Please let him still be alive to come to Whit's aid." She knew Briggs' help was Whit's only chance of survival. Without the marshal's intervention, Brodie's men would surely kill him.

"Esther," Sarah called from the table. "I've made some food. You need to eat."

As she gave a last wistful look out the window, Esther shuffled her way to the small wooden table where four boys sat, already armed with their utensils. The aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering stew filled the modest kitchen. Sarah placed a butter crock on the table and slid into an empty seat.

"You can sit next to me," said the youngest boy.

"Thank you." Esther took the seat and put her hands in her lap.

Sarah offered a simple blessing, and the hungry boys began to eat. Despite its inviting appearance, Esther could only pick at her food, her appetite nearly nonexistent after the day's gruesome events.

"You should eat something." The young man at the end of the table looked at her with interest. "You need to keep your strength up."

"That's Flynn," the little boy next to her said. "He's my brother, but not really my brother."

"I'm not sure what ‘brother but not really my brother' means, but brothers are important. I don't have any. Just sisters." Esther took a piece of buttered bread from Flynn and placed it next to her bowl.

"Ma took us in after our actual parents died," he said, buttering another piece of bread and handing it to Sarah.

"Flynn, what did I tell you about saying too much?" Sarah warned.

"Sorry, Ma," he cast his eyes to the side.

"Sorry, Ma," the youngest said.

Esther looked around the table. "I feel like I'm missing something."

"These boys became my sons after they lost their parents." Sarah stirred her stew before dunking her bread in it. "I don't want them getting mixed up with outlaws."

"Outlaws?" Flynn asked. "Are you part of the Richards gang?"

"That's enough, Flynn," Sarah admonished.

Esther's gaze met Flynn's. He appeared to be around the same age as Austin. Austin hoped joining the Richards gang would provide a way for him to support his family. Instead, it led to a brutal and premature end to his life.

"You should stay away from outlaws," she advised, echoing his mother's words.

The clattering of hooves tore Esther's attention away from her plate. She bolted from the table and rushed to the window, her stomach churning with fear. Her face pressed against the cool glass as she saw two riders galloping toward Sarah's house, their horses' nostrils flaring.

One rider held a figure hanging limp on a blanket in front of him. Esther's hand flew to her mouth as a strangled sob escaped her throat.

"It's Whit!" she cried. Tension coiled in Esther's chest as she recognized Marshal Briggs and one of the Pickett boys riding into the yard, carrying a badly beaten Whit between them. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt her heart crack at the sight of him.

"Whit!" she cried, opening the door and rushing off the porch.

Briggs slid off his horse. "Bass, help me get him down and inside."

"No." Sarah held her hands out. "He can't come in here."

"Why not?" Briggs asked. "You were the closest place. You can take care of him."

Esther moved forward, her fingers reaching for the man she loved. "Is he...?" she choked out, unable to finish the question.

"Still alive," Bass Pickett answered gruffly, "but barely. Let's set him down, Marshal."

"Dear God," she yelled at the sky, tears streaming down her face. "Please, don't take him from me."

"Easy now, Esther," Marshal Briggs warned, his face creased with worry as they laid Whit on the ground. He didn't even look like himself. Bruises and blood covered his face. His labored breaths filled the air, each one echoing in Esther's soul like a plea for help. She felt a desperate need to do something, anything, to save him from slipping away.

She turned to look at Sarah. "Why can't he stay here? I can watch him."

Sarah moved to the front of the porch. "I told you I don't want trouble coming to my door. Those outlaws may be on their way here now. This is my land, and I'm telling you to get off it and take him with you."

Briggs' hands trembled as he took off his hat, clenching and unclenching it in his hand. His face contorted in anger, and Esther could see the muscles in his jaw tensing. She worried he might throw his hat onto the ground in a fit of frustration.

Slamming the hat against his leg, he pointed his finger at Sarah. "Sarah, I don't have time to get him home. He can either stay here and you tend to him. Or you hitch your wagon up and get him to the Hartman ranch and let Annamae do it."

Sarah looked at Briggs, her eyes flitting between him and the battered form of Whit on the ground. "I can't," she whispered, the words trembling as they left her lips.

Briggs moved so close to Sarah, Esther had to strain her ears to hear the words he spoke to her. "Vangie, this is beyond you now. Whit needs your help."

"Marshal," Sarah finally replied, her voice low and strained, "my place is here, with these boys. I've made a life for myself, hidden from the world. I can't risk it all by stepping back into the fray."

"Then let me go!" Esther interjected, fire blazing in her eyes. "Let me take Whit to his family. I owe him that much."

"Why is it so important to get him back to the Hartman Ranch?" Sarah asked.

Briggs placed a hand on her arm and paused. Exhaling loudly, he said, "Whit is a Hartman. He's your brother."

"Can you try not to hit every rock?" Esther grabbed her back as the buggy bumped along the road toward the Hartman ranch.

"I apologize if the ride isn't smooth enough for you," Sarah called over her shoulder. "How is he?"

Esther pressed a cool hand against Whit's forehead. "He's still not awake, and he feels very hot."

"It could be because there are three of us tucked into the seat." Sarah glanced over at Esther, who was trying to hold Whit up in the middle of the bench. "We'll be there shortly. Gee!" A crack of the whip snapped through the night as the buggy raced down the road.

They pulled in front of the Hartman homestead, and the door swung open. Rex Hartman stepped out, followed by Annamae holding a rifle. His eyes widened as he recognized Esther stepping out of the buggy.

"Whit's hurt bad," Esther said urgently. "We need help."

"Why did you bring him here?" Rex demanded. "I saw both of you in the clearing two nights ago."

"Briggs told us to bring him here," Sarah said, walking around the buggy. "He's at the Chapmans, and they need as many men as possible. The Richards gang are going to get retribution for the Chapmans hiding a little boy."

"Let's get him inside." Rex stepped back, allowing them to carry Whit inside the warm interior of the Hartman home. Rex carried his torso, while Esther carried one leg and Sarah carried the other.

"Rex, what's going on?" Annamae asked, handing him the rifle.

She looked at Whit and rushed over to him; her hands gently brushing against Whit's bruised face. "His room is the second door."

With careful coordination, the three of them hoisted Whit's limp body and carried him into the bedroom. As they gently laid him on the bed, Whit let out a soft moan, causing Esther to jump back in surprise.

"I need to get back home," Sarah said. "I hope he heals."

"Wait," Esther moved from the bed and put her arms around Sarah's shoulders. "Thank you for helping us."

Sarah nodded and left the room. Annamae ran to get water and linen strips as Rex prepared to gather men to send to the Chapmans' before riding over to Baxter's house.

"Where did the other woman go?" Annamae asked as she returned, putting the bowl on the table next to the bed.

"She left to go home."

"I didn't even learn her name." Annamae tore a piece of cloth and dunked it in water before handing it to Esther.

"Sarah Brown." Esther started wiping away the blood and dirt from Whit's face. "Big Joe and Marshal Briggs called her different names."

"What were those?"

"Marshal called her Vangie, and Joe called her Evangeline." Esther shrugged. "Then Briggs mentioned something about Whit being her brother. Once he mentioned that, she brought him here. I don't know anything else. Today was all very confusing."

Annamae's hand slipped on the edge of the bowl, causing the water to spill on the floor. "Are you sure that's what they said?"

"I'm pretty sure."

Annamae sat the bowl aside and bolted out the door. A few minutes later, she returned, her face pale, and her eyes downcast. She quietly closed the door behind her and slumped against it. "She's gone."

"I'm sorry, Annamae."

"Let me help get him cleaned up and then you can sit with him. There's hot coffee in the kitchen."

As Annamae carefully tended to Whit's wounds, Esther's nerves were on edge. She paced back and forth, wearing a hole in the rug with her anxious steps. Despite her worry about Whit's well-being, she couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that weighed heavily on her conscience. She shouldn't have left him; and now he might die.

The door snicked open, and Annamae came into the hallway.

"Can I go in now?" Esther asked.

"For a bit. I'll fix you a bed in one of the other rooms."

Esther's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she nodded in response. She couldn't bear the thought of being separated from Whit, her protector and comforter. As he lay on the bed, his once tan skin now a sickly pale color, she vowed to protect him while he healed. She reached out to caress his cheek, feeling the coldness of his skin against hers.

Slipping off her boots, she crawled on top of the covers next to him. "Dear Lord," she whispered, her hand resting on Whit's chest. "Please guide us through this darkness and bring us into the light. Thank you, Father," she breathed, her heart swelling with gratitude. "I know You are with us, even in our darkest hour. I ask for complete healing for my pretend husband, and may he know how much I truly love him."

With her prayer complete, Esther opened her eyes and looked at Whit's profile.

She watched the gentle movement of his lips as he breathed, each exhale a small sigh. She took his hand in hers, feeling the warmth and strength of his fingers against her skin. Leaning closer, she rested her head on his shoulder, familiar with the comfort of being near him. As she held him, she couldn't help but think of all the times he had protected her from harm. Now it was her turn to protect him as he healed.

With tears in her eyes, she whispered, "I love you, Whit Hartman," and begged him not to leave her. The only response was the sound of his soft breathing and the slight curl of his fingers around hers.