9781631054617HeLovesMeCole Page 4

  Thick, dark clouds scuttled across the heavens, obliterating the sun. The skies were spitting snow once again. As always, it would be a long, hard winter. Ben turned up his collar, then peered off first toward the east, next to the north. He looked in all directions. Again, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. His imagination was playing tricks, that’s all.

  Damn, he didn’t need to let this get the best of him.

  On the other hand, it didn’t pay to turn a blind eye to trouble. A man had to be alert if he wanted to stay alive. He must be even more cautious to protect those he loved.

  * * * *

  Late that evening, Ben sat alone in the bunkhouse. He’d returned to the farm shortly after noon, in time to partake of the feast Lucille and Della had prepared for the Thanksgiving holiday. Tom had hired Della to take over the kitchen duties a few months earlier as well as help with the cleaning. Lucille had her hands full caring for their three children, Faith, Hope, and Charity.

  After dinner, sated with turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and an overly-generous helping of pumpkin pie, he’d retired for a long afternoon nap. As a result, he was now dreadfully wide-awake.

  Ben grabbed an old deck of playing cards. He’d found them in one of the desk drawers when he’d first moved in. Years before, Joshua and his cousin Cody had taught him a few games. He’d never make much of a gambler, but he’d come to appreciate Klondike, Monte Carlo, and other patience games. Not that he had all that much patience, but there were occasions when the simple actions of matching and arranging helped soothe him. If nothing else, it passed the time.

  Now he played a few games of solitaire but couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts kept returning to Emily and to the stricken look on her face when he’d told her to go away.

  He could have been kinder. Had he been, however, she would have quickly wheedled her way into his arms and he’d have been lost. As much as it hurt—both her and him—he would have to go on pretending not to care a little longer. Surely there would be an end to the troubles soon.

  Ben sighed and set the cards aside. Searching for a distraction from his thoughts, he picked up one of the dime novels Tom had loaned him.

  Two hours later, muttering under his breath, he turned down the wick in the lamp. He wished he’d never let his boss get him hooked on those adventuresome stories. Too often, he stayed up late, turning pages to find out how the hapless hero would survive whatever ordeal he’d found himself in. Worse still, too many nights, even after he settled himself into his bunk, he lay awake with wild stories running through his head.

  A crying shame, really, that authors penned those blood-curdling tales of violence and misfortune. Wasn’t there enough of that in the real world? A good author could make a story come alive, make a man feel all those awful things were actually happening. It made sleep damned near impossible at times.

  A sudden coldness crept over Ben. Although a fire burned in the hearth, its warmth couldn’t dispel the chill nor overcome the strange sense of foreboding he felt.

  The window panes rattled as a gust of wind rose up. The bunkhouse door shook as though someone sought shelter. But who would be out on such a night?

  Needing to reassure himself that no one was lurking outside, Ben got up. He gave his head a shake, laughing off his own jumpiness, and hurried to check the door. As he’d known all along, no one was there when he opened it. For several minutes, he stared out at the quiet, snow-covered landscape. All looked serene. Light from the nearly-full moon made the scene almost as bright as day. An ethereal glow of silver shimmered over the earth.

  Yet despite the peaceful appearance around him, he felt again that awful prickly sensation. Just because a man couldn’t see trouble didn’t mean it wasn’t out there.

  The thought unnerved him.

  He slammed the door shut, latched it, and once again cursed those lurid tales he’d been reading. Time now to put aside gruesome thoughts of savages and murder on the high plains, time to forget about conniving killers and corrupt officials, well past time to turn his thoughts away from those garish dime novels toward something far more pleasant.

  Visions of Emily came swiftly to his mind. As he did on so many lonely nights, he imagined holding her in his arms. Excitement and arousal flickered through his body. If she were there, he would draw her close and whisper sweet words of love. For years he’d dreamed of making Emily his bride.

  Ben stiffened as he heard more noises outside, his sweet reveries of love quickly forgotten.

  All his senses went on the alert. He knew the sound of the wind, knew how the skeletal limbs of the nearby trees could shake, even break and clatter against the bunkhouse roof.

  These sounds were different.

  That peculiar sensation prickled down his spine again. He held a tight breath. Slowly he crossed the bunkhouse and took down his trusty Henry rifle. He checked the chamber, paused, and listened again.

  He heard nothing.

  Damn, it must be his imagination.

  To hell with those cursed novels. He’d gather them up and throw them in the fire then watch with glee as the flames licked at the pages, curling them, burning them, and utterly destroying the words printed upon them.

  He let out a chuckle, easing the tension from his body. The relief was short-lived. The peculiar feeling returned, spurring him toward the door again. The smart thing, of course, would be to stay right where he was, protected by the thick log walls of the bunkhouse. But he’d been hired to do a job, and if any threat of danger existed, he must check it out.

  With cautious steps, Ben returned to the bunkhouse door, unlatched it, and slowly pushed it open. His finger curved around the trigger as he moved forward into the dark, bitterly-cold night. As before, his gaze scanned the horizon, roved over the yard, searched through the grove of trees, and then returned to the ridge that lay just beyond the property. Nothing moved.

  From somewhere in the darkness to his left came a creaking, groaning sound. Wood slammed against wood.

  Ben whirled around. In the moonlight, he caught sight of the barn door blowing back and forth on its hinges. It wasn’t at all like Tom to leave the door unlatched. Trouble, Ben knew, had come calling.

  His grip tight on the rifle, he started for the barn.

  Chapter Three

  Ben had taken no more than a few steps when someone lunged at him from behind. Before he could react, the rifle was wrenched from his grasp. His arms were twisted and pinned behind his back. Wild, maniacal laughter rang out through the shimmering silver night.

  He knew the laughter. He’d heard it too many times not to recognize it. Even without glancing behind him, he knew who held him.

  “Cut it out, Pa. Let go of me.”

  The laughter came again. “Thought you said nobody could ever get the jump on you, boy.” The strong arms suddenly released him, and he stumbled forward. As he crawled back to his feet, he turned himself about, leveling his gaze on his father. The two had not seen each other in over seven years, not since the old man had been sent off to serve his time. Now, each seemed to be taking the other’s measure, noting the differences the years had brought.

  John Brooks was a big man with a powerful body. Not quite as tall as his son, but broader, more solidly built. His reddish hair had thinned somewhat, and the eyes that once gleamed like molten gold now seemed dull, tarnished perhaps from having seen too many of the painful realities in life.

  “What in hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be locked up behind bars.” Ben cocked his head to get a better look at the figure standing in front of him. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. He wished.

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to be, but things happen, you know.” Beneath a heavy jacket, Brooks wore decent, clean clothes. The shoes looked painfully new. He leaned back, crossed one foot over the other, and stuck his hands deep into the jacket’s fur-lined pockets. “Wipe that accusatory look off your face, Benny. Don’t go thinking I’m on the run. I didn’t spring myself out of the cage.”
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  “I hate it when you call me Benny.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m your father, and I’ll call you whatever I want.”

  “Just tell me what you’re doing here.” Ben reached to the ground and retrieved his rifle. He carefully rubbed the dirt and smudges from the gun’s stock as he waited for his father to speak.

  “How about we step inside first, get ourselves out of the cold?” Without waiting for any invitation or agreement from Ben, the older man sauntered through the yard toward the bunkhouse, moving with that slow, easy grace that always infuriated his son. He walked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Or, perhaps, even more, as if he owned the world—and everybody in it.

  Ben followed him inside then closed the door. As he returned his rifle to its place above the mantel, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’m still waiting for an answer, Pa. How come you’re out?”

  “Here you go, Benny,” he said, pulling a folded paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I was released. Officially.” He shook the paper open and pointed to the signature on the bottom line. “Judge Morse decreed me a free man.”

  Ben stared at the paper. “That’s not possible.” A tightness started in his chest as his mind raced, searching for answers to all the questions pounding in his head. “You were tried and convicted. You killed a man.”

  His father’s face darkened. “All hearsay. You know better than to believe everything folks rattle on about.”

  “You shot Frank Lundy.”

  “That nasty little incident happened years ago. It was another time, another place.” Words rushed out of his mouth, shooting out like the bullet that had ended Lundy’s life. “When that happened, I wasn’t even accused of the crime.” His mouth curled up in a vicious smirk. “Your good friend, Mr. Barron, served time for it, remember?”

  “And he was exonerated. He was convicted on false testimony.” The truth had finally come out after the prosecution’s key witness recanted her story and admitted she’d been paid to lie on the witness stand.

  Ben’s father gave an indifferent shrug. “No skin off my nose. But my point is, that was Kansas City. That was back in the fine state of Missouri, and here we are in the brand-spanking new state of Colorado. Different laws, you know.”

  Ben scratched his chin. “Murder is murder, Pa. Doesn’t matter what state you’re in.”

  “Back when you and I came out here, Colorado was still a territory. Wasn’t much law to speak of. Things got a bit confused, if you’ll remember back to that day when the damned marshal hauled me off. There were certain irregularities.” He laughed and jabbed a finger at the release papers. “It’s all right there in black and white.” After making a quick glance around the bunkhouse, he headed for the only chair in the place. Settling into it, he let out a slow exhalation. “I hear Sunset’s got its own lawman now. A real, bona fide sheriff, he calls himself.”

  “Sheriff Bryant’s a good man. He won’t put up with anyone making trouble.”

  “I don’t mean to cause any trouble, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Ben turned away, not wanting to listen to the lie. His father caused trouble wherever he went. Right now, there had been trouble enough around the Henderson Horse Farm. Nobody needed more. He jerked his head around, his suspicions suddenly aroused. Had his father, in any way, been responsible for the odd happenings? All the while Ben had felt someone lurking at the edges of his life, had it been his father watching?

  “When did you get out?” he asked.

  “About three days ago.”

  “So,” Ben said, gesturing toward the paper still in the other man’s hand, “what exactly does that say?”

  Brooks held it up, shook it again, and put on an exaggerated, somber face. He cleared his throat. “A lot of legal jargon and big, fancy words. The long and short of it, Benny, is that I’m a free man, and I intend to stay that way.”

  “You’re saying you’re going to go straight? Stay on the right side of the law?” He found it impossible to believe.

  “Don’t give me that look, son. Regardless of your opinion of me, I’m not all bad. And folks can change, you know. Sometimes, all it takes is somebody willing to give them a chance.”

  “Yeah, right.” His father would never change. Ben would bet his life on it. “What are you doing here? What do you want?” He looked around. “How did you get here?”

  “On foot, and it’s a hell of a long way out here, you know. Course, at first, I didn’t even know you were working here.”

  “You went to the Barron’s ranch?” Ben’s eyes narrowed.

  “Hell, no. I suspect Joshua would just as soon shoot me as look at me, and that wife of his probably doesn’t hold me in much esteem, either.” He grinned. “I just been laying low the last couple of days. I saw you in town.”

  “You followed me out here.”

  “More or less. But that’s small talk, Benny. We’ve got more important matters to discuss.”

  “We don’t have anything to discuss.”

  “Listen, I’ve been given a chance, son. Do you understand what that means?”

  “To you, not a damned thing. A chance to hurt somebody else? A chance to end another life?”

  His father hung his head. “I told you, that’s not how it’s going to be. I did a lot of thinking while I was locked up. I learned a lot.” He looked up with fear in his eyes. “I don’t want to go to hell, Benny. I don’t want to burn in eternal damnation. I want to go straight, get the Lord on my side, and do a few good works.”

  Ben wasn’t buying it. Not for a minute.

  “Speak your piece, Pa.”

  “I want a job. A real job. I heard Henderson might be hiring on out here, folks in town were talking about those damned, lazy-ass Mexicans he had working for him. Heard they packed up and high-tailed it back to Mexico.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t head that way, too.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of doing exactly that, but I’m not running from anything, son. I’m here. I’m not as young as I once was, but I’m still a strong man, I can do a good job. All I’m asking is that you put in a word for me.” He lifted his hand as though in supplication. “I swear, I’m not here to cause trouble for you or anybody. I want a chance. Please, let me have it.”

  Keeping a wary eye on him, Ben nodded. “All right. I’ll talk to Tom, but I can’t guarantee he’ll let you stay.”

  But then again, maybe having his father close by would be for the best. At least Ben could keep his eye on him. The rational part of his brain insisted his father had to be connected in some way to the recent spate of troubles, but that damned release paper said otherwise. What was he supposed to believe? Some crazy, peculiar feeling he’d gotten into his head? Or a legal document, signed and sealed by Judge William Howard Morse himself?

  “You got any grub around this place? I could go with a cup of hot coffee too.”

  Ben rose. “Hang on. I’ll ask Della to rustle something up for you. She’s the cook here,” he explained. “Might be she’ll even have a few bites left over from Thanksgiving dinner.”

  * * * *

  “Prison’s not so awful, really, Benny, my boy. It all depends on how well you play the game, you know.” John Brooks forked another morsel of quail into his mouth, then washed it down with a noisy slurp of coffee.

  “Game? Prison?” Ben scoffed.

  His father put a serious look on his face and waved the fork toward his son. “It’s all a game. Life. Death. Love. You roll the dice, you take your chances, and if you’re smart, you figure out ways to beat the odds, whatever circumstances you’re in.” The man leaned back and studied his son with appraising eyes. “I don’t reckon you’ve learned those lessons, though. Sorry I wasn’t around to teach you about life during your formative years.”

  “I’ve done all right.” To his way of thinking, he’d been better off without his old man’s malevolent presence around. Life was difficult enough. Influence rubbed off too easily, ev
en when a man tried to turn away from it. Even if a man did turn away, there would still be plenty of folks ready to paint him with the same broad brush simply by virtue of association. Being the son of a man imprisoned for murder had been reason enough for some folks around Sunset to look upon him with questioning glances. People were often reluctant to trust him—at least, not until they got to know him better and realized he wasn’t at all like his father. Benjamin Brooks had no evil in his heart or soul.

  Which made him all the more thankful for men like Joshua Barron, Cody Bradford, and Tom Henderson—men who had accepted him, guided him, taught him, and who never saw him as anything less than the decent, honorable, and wholly law-abiding young fellow he was.

  Not interested in hearing anything more his father might have to say, Ben turned his back. Still, the older man’s voice droned on in its sing-song tone.

  “Put me in a cell with another killer, they did. A good thing, really. You know, those of us who are bold enough to commit murder don’t much care to be confined with the lesser sort of folk. Puny cowards, whimpering pups, scared of their own shadows. But me and Chester, that was his name, it was, well, we got on real good together. Sure was sorry to see ol’ Chet go.”

  Ben pretended not to be listening, but he heard every word. Despite himself, he turned. “Judge Morse released him, too?” What in hell was going on? A sense of relief washed over Ben when his father shook his head.

  “Nah, Chet took sick. He up and died about six weeks past. Real shame. Sure enough, he did his wife in, and he got himself caught for it, but a nicer fellow you’d never hope to meet, Benny. Just because a fellow’s done a dastardly deed, that doesn’t make him a bad sort, really. Sometimes that’s the hand life deals you. Like I said, it’s a game, Benny, all a game.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d rather not play your game,” he muttered, pulling down the covers of his bunk. He tossed a pillow and blanket toward his father. “We’ve got rules around here. If you plan to stay, you’ll have to toe the line.”