Wild Heart Ranch


Wild Heart Ranch


Wild Heart Ranch

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Sara was in the barn, putting away supplies when a man entered. It wasn’t until he spoke that she realized it was Mr. Cavanaugh. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t mean to sound hostile or angry. Instead, it came out as if her heart had been ripped from her chest and placed in his hands for him to play with at his leisure. And maybe it had.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you. My visit wasn’t planned.” He held up two small leather sacks. “These are just things I thought might help.”

He handed her one of the bags. Inside were several bandages and salves along with some ointments Sara hadn’t seen before. “They’re all very useful,” she said. But what was he trying to say? What did he want from her now? Hadn’t she given enough?

Mr. Cavanaugh smiled. “You’ve helped me more than you know. The ranch is much better off because of your skills and your kind nature.” His gaze seemed to search hers, searching deeper into her soul. When he looked away, she felt like she’d failed him somehow. Then he said, “It’s time we got back to work, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” As soon as they left, she hurried inside the house and shut the door behind them.

As soon as she returned home, Sara changed into dry clothes and sat down at the kitchen table for a moment to rest. Then she took out the note and read it once again. Why hadn’t she known any of these things? Why hadn’t anyone told her about him?

She’d always assumed that if there was trouble on the ranch, Mr. Cavanaugh would be involved somehow. Now it made sense why. He was trying to protect her. And yet, this letter implied that there was nothing to worry about. No harm intended.

Maybe he knew what happened between her and John after the fire and decided not to tell her so she wouldn’t get hurt. Maybe he believed in protecting his people, just as he tried to do with the ranch. Or maybe he had no clue that John had even come close to harming her.

But Sara couldn’t believe it. If he wanted to protect her, he should have done something sooner. She could still picture her lying unconscious in bed; John’s fingers around her throat, strangling her. Was that the extent of his concern? Did he think her injuries would heal themselves without treatment?

When her father came home that evening, he found her sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought. He set their dinner plates on the table and poured her coffee, then seated himself across from her and waited until she spoke.

“We need to go back to the ranch.”

He didn’t react, but he didn’t ask any questions either. She’d known him long enough to know when he was going to speak and when he wasn’t. “The next time he visits, we’ll take care of him. This time, he won’t escape us.”

That was exactly what she expected him to say, so she nodded in agreement. He finished eating first and then rose from the table. “Will you stay here tonight?”

“No, Father. You can handle this yourself.” But he must have heard her tone of voice because he paused. “Father? Please wait a minute.” He went outside and returned a few minutes later. “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

For the first time since she’d met Mr. Cavanaugh, her father’s face betrayed emotion. “Thank you.”

She watched him walk away and wondered how much longer they would be apart. Would he be gone by morning? By noon? Would they never see each other again? The thought caused her throat to constrict. Her eyes burned and she rubbed them, wondering when the tears would stop flowing.

A knock at the door startled her. The person who entered had no business being there unless they lived in the building. It was John.

Her heart thumped loudly against her ribs. A lump formed in her throat. Could he really come all this way, just to torment her? To make sure she knew he was watching her every move?

“Good afternoon, Miss Tanner,” John said.

She stood up and walked toward him slowly. “What do you want, John?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a gun and pointed it at her chest. “This is for my horse.”

Before she could protest or run, he fired. Bullets flew past her face and she screamed as she fell to the ground and curled up on herself.

***

John watched her fall to the floor, writhing in pain, and wished he had the guts to shoot her dead. But the law was clear: He couldn’t harm her, nor could she harm him. There was also another reason he held his fire. He’d promised to leave her alone, which meant he couldn’t kill her. Not yet.

Then he saw her crawl over to the window, grab a rock and throw it down onto the street below. She did it twice more, then crawled back to the chair and lay down. He waited until she fell asleep before leaving quietly.

Sara opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. How many times had she dreamed about being attacked like this? She’d had nightmares about John ever since the fire. When she slept, the dreams would come and go until finally her subconscious decided to let her dream the nightmare over and over again in order to rid herself of it.

She tried to sit up, but couldn’t move. Her arms were numb from the blood loss. With great effort, she forced herself to roll over and lie flat on the floor. Pain shot through her side where one bullet had ripped into her flesh, causing her to cry out. Blood covered her clothing and dripped on the hardwood floorboards.

After a while, her head stopped throbbing. She reached for the lamp on the nightstand and clicked it on, hoping to see a doctor. No such luck. Only a dark room. Then, she felt something wet drip on her cheek and realized it was blood. Her clothes were stained red and sticky on her body. She wiped at her cheek and noticed the wound was healing already. What else had healed overnight?

Was it possible that after only three months, all the wounds from the fire had vanished? She glanced at the window and saw the curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze. In the dim light, she studied the walls and floor carefully and found nothing unusual. Nothing that would explain how she recovered so quickly from such serious injuries.

There were two ways she could get answers. First, she could tell her father about the dream and hope he believed her. Or second, she could find a way to contact her mother again. That would be difficult, but not impossible.

It would have been easier if her parents hadn’t died in the fire along with the rest of their family. If they hadn’t, she might still believe that her mother could heal anyone who needed it. As far as she knew, her mother’s ability to help others was real, even though she’d refused to talk about it for years.

But now was not the time to dwell on what her mother once did for a living. Sara got up and made her way to the bathroom. The tub was full of hot water, just the way she liked it. She stripped off her dress and stepped inside, turning the faucet higher and waiting for the tub to fill.

“You know what they say, ‘If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,'” she muttered to herself. She dunked her head under the water, forcing it to rush over her face and into her ears. When she emerged, she grabbed the soap dish and scrubbed at her body vigorously.

She washed her hair and rinsed it thoroughly. The whole process took less than five minutes. It was almost embarrassing how fast she worked, yet no one seemed to mind or comment.

She left the bathtub and dried herself, using the towel to clean the blood from her clothing. She slipped on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt instead of underwear. Then, she went to the closet, grabbed her saddlebags and stuffed them into her satchel before heading downstairs.

Outside, John waited by the carriage house. He held a pistol in his hand.

“I’m ready,” she called to him. She’d told him where to meet her, but she wanted to be sure he wasn’t following her.

When she climbed into the carriage, she saw his gun was gone.

“Where’s your horse?” she asked.

“In the barn.”

She smiled. “That will make it easy to find me, won’t it? I’ll give you a call tomorrow morning to let you know when I’ve decided whether to take the case or not.”

He nodded but didn’t speak.

They drove away slowly, neither speaking. At least until they reached the city limits.

“Do you really think we can stop him?” he finally said.

She glanced at him and realized he was looking straight ahead. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

***

“The man with the scarred face is my target,” Sara said.

A tall, thin black woman stood next to a desk in an office crowded with other desks and files. Her short, neatly curled hair and dark complexion gave her the look of a gypsy and made her appear to be younger than her twenty-five years. But she didn’t seem like any ordinary black woman to Sara. There was a confidence and air about her that screamed she was more than what most people assumed her to be.

“How do you know?” asked a man sitting behind another large desk. His thick glasses magnified the wrinkles around his blue eyes, which also gave him a scholarly appearance. He was dressed in khakis and a gray button-down shirt and wore a name tag that read, Dr. William Withers, professor and chair of sociology department at Western University.

“His family owned the ranch we stayed at last month. We were attacked during our visit.”

Dr. Withers leaned back in his chair, his lips forming a slight frown. “What kind of attack?”

Sara hesitated before answering. “My sister was kidnapped by a band of Indians—a group that includes this man. I was shot by one of his men while rescuing her.”

“And that’s why you want to kill him? You want revenge?”

“No, it’s not about revenge. It’s about justice.”

“Justice for whom?”

“For everyone,” Sara replied. “I don’t care if he killed my mother and brother. What happened is wrong, and no one should suffer because of it.”

Withers tapped his pencil on the edge of his desk. “Let me guess. This isn’t the first time you’ve had reason to seek vengeance.”

“Not exactly. I’m here to help someone else get even with him.” She looked at Dr. Withers. “This is Miss Lillian Wright, the niece of the victim whose life this man ruined. She wants to hire me to help her kill him.”

“Yes,” Dr. Withers answered after glancing down at the file he held in front of him. “She has a history of violence. Is she capable of pulling this off without hurting others in the process?”

“We’re trying to avoid that,” Sara said, “but she may have to use some force in order to reach my target.”

“Why?”

“Because if it weren’t for these so-called ‘friends’ of mine, we would’ve never found my sister.”

Dr. Withers looked up at her, then nodded as he studied her face intently for a long minute before speaking again.

“All right, Ms. McBride, you have a deal. We’ll work together on this.”

***

“I’m sorry,” John said when he reached the house.

“Don’t be. You did nothing wrong. I knew there was something different about you before you even started talking.”

“Different how?” he asked as he entered the house and handed her the satchel of saddlebags.

“I felt you watching me. I thought maybe you were a thief.”

She laughed, surprising him, since laughter was rare for her. “It happens sometimes. I just can’t explain it. Maybe because I was born and raised in Texas and traveled much farther south.”

“That must be it. Why are you laughing?”

“You’re not used to people staring at you like that. Most of them probably think I’m a whore.” She glanced at the closed door that led to the bedroom, where her uncle and nephew were sleeping. “Actually, they think I’m a white woman who has stolen black blood from my ancestors. They say that makes me part Indian—or at least half, anyway.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Is that true?”

She shrugged and turned toward the living room. “I grew up with Indians in the area, so maybe I am part Indian or whatever they call it.”

She walked into the parlor and stopped short at the sight of the portrait of a young woman painted on the wall above the fireplace mantel. The painting wasn’t old — it appeared to be fresh and vibrant. And yet there was an odd feeling about the entire portrait.

For the past few hours, she’d sensed something dark and foreboding hanging over the room. But now it seemed to be coming alive… moving.

The woman in the picture moved slightly on her own. Or she might’ve been caught in a gust of wind, but Sara saw nothing outside except the window. She watched the movement for several seconds longer until she was certain it hadn’t been caused by a breeze. Then she noticed that the hair on one side of the woman’s face had fallen to the floor, leaving her exposed.

“Who painted that?” she called out to John.

He came inside and stood next to her. “Your aunt, I assume?” He pointed to the painting. “I’ve seen that same look in your eyes. She looks very sad, too.”

Sara stared at the painting, trying to determine what made it seem so familiar to her. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “she’s crying because her husband died.”

John nodded, then took her hand and led her away from the painting. She tried to shake the feeling that the painting had somehow drawn her to it, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling any more than she could dismiss her other sensations of being watched or followed.

A short time later, John helped her unload the bags from his horse and brought them back inside. After setting them aside, he returned to the kitchen and began washing dishes in the sink. “Do you want some coffee? My nephew likes it when I make it.”

“No thanks. I’ve only been awake a short time. I should go back upstairs soon and let Uncle Henry sleep.”

She glanced up at John, surprised that he’d offered such an invitation without knowing anything about her. Not that he needed to know; it was obvious he didn’t care much about her race or background. It seemed strange, since most men usually wanted to find out every detail they could about a woman before asking her out.

Yet she suspected John wasn’t interested in any of those details himself. He was just trying to be nice.

When she finished washing the dishes, she put them away and headed for the stairs. “I’m going to lie down,” she told him. “And I need to get dressed, too.”

He nodded, then went back to his chore. After putting on her clothes, Sara went to the parlor, which also served as the dining room, and opened a closet door. When she spotted her uncle’s coat, she pulled it off its hanger, then hung it back up.

While waiting for the front of her cotton dress to dry, she slipped out of her shoes and socks and slid on a pair of boots. She would have liked to take a bath, but she doubted it would happen anytime soon. So instead, she took a comb to her wet hair, then twisted it into a bun on top of her head. Finally, she donned her hat and stepped outside.

The End

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