Nobody's Darling

Billy’s attention shifted to Bartholomew. Esmerelda didn’t have to see Billy’s eyes to know they’d narrowed in unspoken warning. She held her breath as her brother straightened his head the best he could, swallowing against the strangling tension of the rope. He glanced briefly at Billy, then defiantly shifted his gaze to Esmerelda.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

As Esmerelda gazed into his tear-glazed eyes, she knew he truly was. Perhaps for the first time in his life. A sob caught in her throat as her heart surged with love and pride. She had her brother back. The one who’d slipped his little hand into hers each Sunday afternoon when they went to put flowers on their parents’ graves. The one who’d written startlingly eloquent poems about his mama playing her violin with the other angels in heaven. The one who had wrapped his chubby arms around her waist whenever he sensed she was tired or lonely or afraid.

She didn’t understand the reason for the terrible resignation in those eyes until Jasper hooted. “You’re sorry, all right! A sorrier sonofabitch I never saw.” Before any of them could react, he let go of the reins, smacked the horse on the rump, and shouted, “Yee-haw!”

Esmerelda screamed. Flinging her aside, Billy dropped to one knee and fired six times in rapid succession, cocking the hammer and squeezing the trigger so fast his hand was nothing more than a blur.

He might have severed the rope. He might have saved Bartholomew’s life. But he didn’t have to. For at that precise moment, a mighty shotgun blast struck the oak, shattering the rotten wood and sending the branch and Bartholomew sprawling to the ground in a cloud of dust.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Esmerelda’s ears were still ringing when Zoe Darling came swaggering down from the porch with Sadie marching along behind her. The flared muzzle of her shotgun was still smoking, as was the pipe clamped between her teeth.

Her long strides carried her right past where Billy still knelt in the dirt; past Virgil, who looked as if he was quaking in his boots; and past Jasper, who paled as if he’d seen a ghost.

She didn’t stop until she reached Bartholomew. He blinked up in astonishment at the massive Amazon towering over him, shotgun in hand.

“You all right, son?” she asked.

He slowly sat up, massaging the angry rope burns that had seared his throat. “I think so,” he rasped. He had to swallow several times, his bruised Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, before he could squeak out, “Th-th-thank you, ma’am, for saving my life.”

Esmerelda beamed with pride. At least he hadn’t forgotten his manners.

Zoe gave him a kindly smile. “Consider it my pleasure. I never did care much for public lynchins‘. Especially in my own front yard.”

As she swung around, her smile darkened to a thunderous scowl. She took a long draw on the pipe, sending smoke roiling from her nostrils. Jasper flinched. Virgil began to tiptoe toward his horse. Esmerelda groped for Billy’s hand.

But the first blast of Zoe’s wrath was directed at the two men huddled together on the seat of the wagon. “Git down from there this instant, you yellow-bellied curs.”

Enos and Sam exchanged a fearful glance, then scrambled down from the wagon as if afraid their mother just might empty that second barrel into their hides.

She shook a finger in their sallow faces. “I ought to tan your sorry behinds for bein‘ a party to mischief such as this.”

“But, Ma,” they whined in unison. “Virgil made us do it.”

“And you!” She turned on Virgil, freezing him just as he was reaching for the bridle of his horse. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Why, you’re the oldest! Just what kind of example have you been settin‘ for these poor, feebleminded children?”

Virgil ducked his head and kicked at the dirt like a chastened six-year-old. “I’m sorry, Ma. I’ll do better next time.” He shot her a hopeful look from beneath his sandy brows. “Honest, I will!”

Esmerelda shook her head, utterly bemused. Who would have thought one cranky old woman could reduce the infamous Darling gang to sniveling shame?

Seemingly satisfied with Virgil’s promise, Zoe strode over to Jasper. He stared straight ahead, as sulky and defiant as ever. Until his mother reached up and smacked his hat clean off his head.

“You know better than to leave your hat on in your ma’s presence. Didn’t I teach you better manners than that?”

“Yeah, I reckon you did,” he drawled.

“It’s ‘Yes, ma’am,”“ she corrected sternly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he meekly echoed, his bottom lip starting to quiver.

Esmerelda might have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t just tried to murder her brother in cold blood.

Zoe settled her shotgun in the crook of her arm and surveyed the lot of them. It was apparent from their hangdog expressions that they were just waiting for her to order them off her land.

She shook her head in exasperation. “It looks like you haven’t had a decent bath or meal between the four of you in fourteen years. Git inside and I’ll boil you some water and rustle you up some grub.”

Their faces brightened, making them look less like vicious outlaws and more like prodigal sons, glad to be home after a long stint of wallowing with the pigs.

“Don’t you sass me none, either. I can still lick every one of you if I have to, and don’t think I cain’t.” As they filed past with Zoe herding them along like some ill-tempered sheepdog, Esmerelda realized that Billy had not been included in the invitation.

He was already climbing to his feet and holstering his pistol, his face unreadable. Esmerelda might have thrown herself into his arms then and there if a hoarse cough hadn’t reminded her that she had a prodigal of her own to welcome home.

She scrambled over to Bartholomew, dropping to her knees beside him. He gave her a look of such abject shame that she couldn’t resist opening her arms to him. Instead of ducking out of her embrace as he had so many times in the recent past, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her bosom, his shoulders heaving with emotion.

While Esmerelda was stroking Bartholomew’s hair and crooning words of comfort, Billy turned his head to squint at the horizon. The man was her brother, for God’s sake. There was no need for him to feel such an ugly stab of jealousy. But Esmerelda’s gentle murmur and the nagging cadence of his ma’s voice telling Virgil to take off those filthy boots of his before he tracked up her clean dirt floor made him feel as if he were the only man alive on that windswept plateau.

To escape the sting of the wind, Billy moseyed on over to the buckboard and peered into the back. He whistled beneath his breath as he got his first clear look at its cargo.

Bart must have sensed his sardonic glance. Hastily extracting himself from his sister’s arms, he scrambled to his feet, giving his nose a surreptitious swipe. He and Billy eyed each other warily.

Bart finally nodded toward the bandage wrapped around Billy’s shoulder. “I really am sorry about that. I never shot anyone before.” A faint shudder raked him. “It’s not an experience I would care to repeat.”

Billy simply nodded. “I’ll live.” He jerked a thumb toward the back of the wagon. “But you might not, if we don’t figure out what to do with this.”

“The treasury gold?” Bart stole a nervous glance at the house before lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “I think your brothers are planning to keep it for themselves.”

Billy shook his head. “I’m afraid that just won’t do.”

Bart brightened. “You think I should keep it?”

Billy rolled his eyes and shook his head again. Esmerelda climbed to her feet, her nightgown whipping in the wind. Billy wished he was wearing a shirt he could take off and wrap around her.

She gave the wagon a despairing look. “Oh, Bartholomew, what were you thinking?”