"Anything else I can do, Doc?"
She smiled. "Yes, ask Elmo at the trading post if he knows where this kid can find regular work, and tell Daniel Torry to get his Bible out”
Sage spent most of the day teaching Phoebe to hold and care for her babies while the new father slept.
That evening, Bradford returned alone with all the supplies he could fit into the buggy. Apparently, Elmo got the word out, and several mothers, no longer needing cribs, donated all the things the babies would need.
Sage gave Fred both the babies and helped bring in the supplies.
She heard Bradford say to the young father. "I brought twenty pounds of potatoes. You know how to make the soup, so make it every night when Phoebe is too busy or too tired. Before you run out of the potatoes, I'll be over to teach you how to do stew. A man, even one with a wife, needs to know how to cook a few things to survive.”
Fred nodded. "Thanks. Mr. Summerfield."
"You can call me Brad. You're a man now."
Sage smiled all the way home. As they climbed out of the buggy, she had to ask, "Where did Bonnie find such a wise man?"
He tipped his hat at the compliment and answered simply, "She kidnapped me."
Sage ate a few bites, then went upstairs to her little room. Someone, probably Bradford, she guessed, had collected her things from the hotel. In among them was Drummond's shirt.
She slipped into it and crawled into bed. He'd been gone two days, and she'd survived. If she was going to love him, she had to accept what he did for a living. Closing her eyes, she slept without dreams. She'd save the dreams until she was back with her man.
CHAPTER 47
DRUM RODE AS HARD AS HE COULD PUSH SATAN OVER land cold and dead with winter. When he did stop for a few hours' rest, he forced himself to think only of the count and the danger the boys were in. The memory of Will and Andy's mother all beaten and broken would have made him volunteer for the job, even if Hanover wasn't a threat to Sage. Knowing he was left no question of what had to be done.
When Drum reached the mission at Goliad, a Ranger, sleeping down by the Guadalupe River, was waiting for him. Captain Harmon had sent him with word that the guard, Luther Waddell, was released for lack of evidence. No witness could put him at or near either the raid on the Smith place or the robbery at Shelley's gambling house. Just being a guard for Hanover wasn't a crime.
"Cap had him followed," the Ranger reported to Roak. "He was seen walking into Shelley Lander's place. Then he disappeared. He's either still there, or he somehow slipped out after dark by boat."
"Why'd you ride so far to tell me this?" Drum asked as they walked along the outside of the mission chapel. Hundreds of men, fighting for Texas independence, had died here, shot by a firing squad. The McMurrays had told him once that their father was among the dead. His body lay in the mass grave beyond the mission walls.
Drum swore he could feel the ghosts walking beside him, even though it had been more than twenty years since the Alamo and Goliad missions fell.
“The cap thought you might stop here to spend a night or two. He wanted you to know Luther was free."
He didn't have to say more. This was a frequent relay point for Rangers, a place where they could pass messages without worry, a place where they could rest up if hurt or hide out if running from trouble. No one spoke of it, but Drum figured the Rangers considered themselves protected or at least watched over by the spirits of the brave buried here.
Pulling out a scrap of paper, Drum wrote three words on it. "Give this to no one but Captain Harmon. Tell him it's from me."
The Ranger glanced at the paper. "'I'm going in,'" he read. "That's the message?"
Drum nodded and stepped into the shadows of the mission. The young Ranger was still asking questions when Drum crossed the yard and rode away unseen.
He rode all night and slept in places where no one would find him. As he moved, he planned. Drum hated it, but he'd have to leave Satan and go in the back way. The horse was lucky to have made it once down the steep incline without breaking a leg; he'd never make it up. On foot it would mean an extra day, but he'd risk it. He'd also have to travel light: less guns, less supplies, less prepared.
By the time he reached the foot of the incline, he'd planned every detail. He slept off and on until sundown and then began the journey up the incline and through the caves to the outskirts of the outlaw camp.
It was almost dawn when he reached the edge of the back pasture. He knew he couldn't make it across before sunup. So he climbed into a tree and found a secure place to sleep until dark.
He almost laughed, remembering how he'd fallen out of trees a few times before he perfected this sleeping method. It wasn't comfortable, but it was definitely safer. Men hunting him tended to study the ground. He made a habit of leaving footprints heading away from the tree. The dried leaves still hanging to the branches offered him some cover, but the ones on the ground offered him an alarm system if anyone walked near.
Drum slept. In his dreams he couldn't push Sage to the back of his mind. She was with him, cuddled against his side.
The wind kicked up in late afternoon, and the air turned to freezing. Drum barely noticed the cold. His mind was full of what he had to do. He slipped silently down from the tree and moved as a shadow across the pasture.
When he reached the dark side of the barn, he stood and listened as he watched the house Daniel Torry had said looked as if it could be where Luther's wife and child might be staying.
Nothing. Not a sound. If she and the boy were inside, they'd gone to bed before dark.
Drum waited until all sounds died in the village, then he walked the shadows toward the big house. The count's house.
A guard sat on the corner of the front porch railing, his gun over his leg as he smoked.
Moving around back, Drum wasn't surprised to find the second guard asleep by the back door.
Silently, he slipped to the side of the house and climbed up to the second floor. People often lock their doors and windows on the first floor but rarely on the second. The third window he tried opened easily.
He slipped into the room, which was cold and dark. Furniture was scattered about among boxes. Crossing carefully, he opened the door and saw a lamp burning low outside the last door.
He walked down the hallway and opened the last door. The smell of a sickroom floated on the stale air as he looked in. A man, thin and pale, lay in the middle of a big bed. He looked asleep, but even awake, he didn't look strong enough to fight.
Drum slipped his gun from its holster and moved inside.
Candles burned on both sides of the man, but the rest of the room was dark. A fire crackled in the corner fireplace. A teapot, giving off the smell of burned berries, sat on the bricks of the hearth.
Drum moved to the bed, knowing what he had to do.
"If you shoot him.” a voice came from the shadows, "half the men in town will be waiting for you when you step out of this place.”
Drum fought the urge to fire into the darkness. "Who are you?"
"I'm Myron, the count's butler.” He took a deep breath. "And I'm a prisoner here, Mr. Roak, just as you will be unless we are both very careful.”
A short, chubby man moved into the light. His clothes were worn but clean, and Drum noticed bruises fading on his face. He'd been beaten recently.
Myron must have known what Drum saw, for the man raised his head slightly. "He's been too weak to beat me for a week. He's left orders that I'm to be killed when he dies as if I'm not more than a pet to him.”
"How do you know who I am?" Drum remembered Sage speaking of Myron. She'd said he'd tried to help her. That fact was all that was keeping the butler alive right now.
"Luther told me you'd be coming." Myron smiled. "How is the little doctor?"
Drum wasn't here to pass the time of day. "If you know who I am, you know I've come here to kill him. Arresting him and getting him out of here would be impossible."