The Fire in Ember - DiAnn Mills [58]
“It’s not the money.”
First he called her Ember, then he told her it wasn’t the money. “Then what is it?”
“A woman who needs help.”
Now he called her a woman. “I can manage on my own.”
“If I can catch you, so can whoever is after you.”
John was right, but she’d not give him the satisfaction of confirming it. “I’m not one of your brothers for you to look after.”
He chuckled. “I’ve noticed. You’ve noticed me too. That’s why we fuss so much.”
Bert’s heart leaped. Had she heard right? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Remember the time I reached for the basket of peas and our fingers touched? We both felt a jolt of lightning then.”
“John, I’m not good for you.”
“You haven’t convinced me about that. Climb up behind me and let’s get back to town. I’m hurtin’ and you need sleep. I want to know the truth, but I’m too tired to get it out of you. We’ll sort this out in the morning.” He sighed, and she assumed he was talking out of his head. “We can start by being friends and planting a seed of trust.”
She knew exactly what he meant, and a part of her really wanted what he offered. “You were right the first time you sized me up. I’m trouble.”
“Nothing new there.”
Bert allowed the quiet sounds of night to keep her company while she pondered what to say. John deserved to know what he was up against in order to protect those he loved. Yet the thought of reaching out and grasping a day brimming with hope sounded nearly impossible. And she wanted to believe John could stop Simon, but John was good and cared about folks. Simon cared about no one but himself. “These men are not afraid to use their guns. And I’m worried about what they might do to you or your family.”
“We can talk about all of it.”
If only she could believe for just a little while—like a child’s fantasy where the world was perfect. Yet in the darkness with the bright stars and the sliver of a moon, she’d believe until sunlight brought her back to reality. “What about Evan?”
“We’ll work it out.”
Bert stopped and reached for the saddle, knowing he couldn’t help her up with his wounded arm. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“Neither do I.”
Somehow his admission comforted her, and she allowed herself to lean slightly closer into him. If only for tonight.
John laughed into the black corners of his room at Doc Slader’s home. When he’d returned from chasing down Bert and delivering her back to Bess, the man was asleep in his chair with a book on his lap. The moment the door closed behind him, Doc jumped and snorted. He called every one of his nine sons’ names, demanding what was going on.
“It’s me, John Timmons,” he said. “I’m back and going to finish the night here.”
“Night, my eye. It’s nearly dawn.”
“Sorry to waken you.”
“That’s all right. Are you bleedin'?”
John’s bandage was not spotted with fresh blood, but it sure felt like someone had lit a match to it. “No sir.”
“Do you need a cup of yarrow tea for the pain?”
John wasn’t about to bother a man who needed to be in bed. Besides, the pain had grown worse because of his insistence on going after Bert. “No sir. I’ll be fine.”
“I know better. But suit yourself.”
John bid him good night and made his way into the room that doubled as a patient and guest room. He figured tonight he was both. He laid down, too exhausted to sleep. His mind focused on the shooting and every detail surrounding the unfortunate circumstances that left Leon Wilson in a pool of blood. The posse reacted with no sense at all once John was hit. And yet the idea that Leon had stolen cattle on his own, especially over one hundred head, didn’t seem credible. He lacked the intelligence to put together a clever plan—no disrespect for the man’s intelligence intended. Leon had been working with someone, but who? And the “who” was holed up somewhere with stolen cattle.
The scene just prior to the shooting